Itwaseverthus’ Weblog

The Vatican has updated the list of Seven Deadly Sins by adding seven more. The BBC has helpfully advised us that this may in time result in edicts such as “thou shalt not carry out morally dubious scientific experiments” or “thou shalt not pollute the earth” being added to the Ten Commandments. Rumour has it that the Ten Commandments were the commandments of God revealed to Moses and carved by him* on two tablets of stone, so not sure of His views on sequels, but leaving that aside I attach the original and new lists for your edification.  [*I should not be too hard on the BBC in fairness as I cannot recall if God did the carving or, if he dictated and Moses carved]

The original top seven:

Pride

Envy

Gluttony

Lust

Anger

Greed

Sloth

The new seven:

Environmental pollution

Genetic manipulation

Accumulating excessive wealth

Inflicting poverty

Drug trafficking and consumption

Morally debatable experiments

Violation of fundamental rights of human nature

One was of course hoping for a reductive approach to sins given a number of what might be perceived transgressions (indeed combinations thereof) on one’s part in the old category.  I find, the older category had a certain obviousness in its approach and failing that clarity you could always rely on the Catholic catch all position that, if it feels good, it’s probably bad. The new list is quite ambiguous in parts. On environmental pollution, for example, are we talking about not reusing my Sainsbury bags or flushing out the holds of my oil tanker mid ocean? Is inflicting poverty on myself wrong – a sort of fiscal self abuse? I had to google genetic manipulation as it sounded a bit racy but, frankly, I’m a bit disappointed not to mention entirely blameless. I accumulate excessive financial wealth but its on behalf of the Evil One so really that’s a win win situation for me if it sends that b****** to hell (Doh! Anger!). Having become expert on genetic manipulation I cannot help but feel we have wasted a category in having morally debatable experiments – I suppose it’s a bit like gluttony and greed overlapping to some extent so perhaps kudos for balance at the Vatican. I suspect though they are not big on karmic balance - I cannot see too many dream catchers over Ratzinger’s bed.

Violations of fundamental rights of human nature: Well, the cheap shot would be to say physician-heal-thyself but I guess that deliberate phrasing of “rights of human nature” as opposed to “human rights” points us towards a catholic (in the narrowest sense) interpretation of rights rather than what might be found in the Universal Declaration. Wouldn’t want them damn liberals getting notions.

The Guardian today was also quite taxed about the story of some Australian drivers who had a seat belt around their beer but not a rather young child. I share the outrage if the beer in question was Peroni, which clearly should have been in the baby seat.

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I was watching the UK version of the Apprentice recently. I had never actually watched the show cover to cover and I will not be watching it again. It was a bear pit of youngish, ambitious and over aggressive types who seemed to lack the intelligence for, or have smothered through overbearing self confidence, any self awareness. The only sociologically interesting point was that the presence of the cameras revealed occasionally the fragility behind those egos.   It was depressing to watch.  

Worse than that was Alan Sugar presiding over this, his rudeness and aggression are presumably meant to indicate the flight paths to success. If that’s how it works (and sadly it seems to be) he’s welcome to it. At one point he cut one of the young tycoons some slack for some misdemeanour as excusable on the basis of youth. Apparently this sparked a memory in Sugar of when he was young, reckless perhaps, and that age. That recollection sparked my own memory of my barman days, endlessly bored on listless afternoons by the wisdom of older barflys sharing their vision of my future. (One did tell me, mind, to use my youth and looks for as long as I had them which was damn fine advice, if almost out of date now) (had I not listened would I now be enjoying life as a regualr guest at the vicarage?). I have no doubt Sugar worked hard, is tenacious and all but how many people are those things and just did not achieve his level of success? How many little decisions are time proven momentous? – would he be parading himself around like a grumpy Father Christmas/Angela Lansbury cross, had he not turned his back on the personal computer world at a time when even bigger fortunes were to be made? Does he wake in the middle of the night and say “Alan, Alan, you muppet”? Would it not be more interesting, more human to see a weaker side? Am I sounding middle aged enough yet? The futile hope that everything would be better if everyone was just a little bit nicer? 

I know too many people – and the City is full of them – who proclaim themselves self made men, wear their aggression as badges of honour and ignore their comfortable upbringings, their fine educations and the uncloseable gap between them and those they despise, that headstart brings. Don’t get me wrong, I am not exactly wearing flowers in my hair, banging a tambourine and singing “ A little love” (it is quite an arresting image though, no?) but I despair a little that the stereotype the Apprentice perpetuates fosters the most unpleasant working environment possible. 

The sad thing is that when you are young, ambitious and ready to do anything for “the one thing Sir Alan I want more than anything in my life” (this at 23?), you might just tolerate and you will over time perpetuate this behaviour.

Like I said, depressing. 

I curse that damn programme “Brothers and Sisters”. Recovering Monday from a weekend of excess I thought what could be nicer than a round of Sally Fields hate, courtesy of box set series one, via my good friend Tubs who was born to loll on sofas and overeat. Armed with cups of teas and bars of Green and Blacks (no slouch there I), I settled in. Sally is her usual annoying self with her one face fits all acting. Its all anguish and head tilts, an eye lock and tight smile for motherly sincerity, tears and fist clenching for raw emotion and hair flicks and heightened articulation for anger. Throughout this gamut of emotion (“from A to B” to bitchily misquote someone) she has that same anguished yet vulnerable look that, bluntly, makes one want to thump her. I could never understand how Forrest Gump didn’t euthanase her with a pillow. The other reason to view the programme is of course to see how Balthazar Getty is coming along. I was frankly disappointed – he is past his prime. One expects more of the oil rich.

I used enjoy – if that is the word – watching the TV show “Seventh Heaven” just to see how long I could bear it. I never made it through a full episode – usually one of those obnoxious child actors would do something purportedly adorable and I would have to leave the room – but it seemed to me a programme designed for and yet sadly missing Sally.

It was with considerable annoyance therefore that I found myself addicted to B&S and wasting a gloriously fine day watching a good chunk of series one. I could argue that notwithstanding the excessive schmaltz, the improbable premises and the fact that the children are somewhat past the age of cutting the apron strings, there is the kernel of a good story that could develop over time. Or I could argue that the programme cynically exploited a vulnerable older man with visions of mortality, a sugar high and last night’s champagne coursing through his veins. I know which version I prefer.

On family dinners I went to dinner to Cruse9 on Halliford Street in Islington last Saturday. It is an interesting glass box style restaurant in a Georgian conservation area but alas, in my view doomed to fail. The front of house service could not be faulted, with a keenness, sharpened perhaps by the fact that the bills must be mounting, but at its source a genuine interest in foods, wines and hospitality. The wait staff were a little less assured and one surly one in particular might have needed reminding that we were the nine person table of a total sitting of three tables, so the long martyred, worked-off-my-feet “who’s having the chicken” mutters might have been avoided.  Overall the restaurant aspires to high class dining in a residential neighbourhood yet neither the venue nor the food is good enough to make a diversion too. I am prejudiced in this regard I admit as high end dining bores me but I see a reincarnation as a more casual place and simpler menu or a long shuttered future history.

On local casual places, The Lord Clyde on Essex Road has reopened some months now. It was a place that one used pass clutching one’s pearls and holding a lavender handkerchief to one’s mouth to avoid the ragamuffins that used congregate around its doors smoking cigarette and probably dreaming of White Lightning.

I went there with Tubs recently and the owner/manager was high octane attentive - -I like to think he ran screaming into the kitchen screaming “the gays a’ comin, the gays a’ comin”. For, verily, wherever two or more gays gather, you can be sure, gay others will follow. It’s in the bible, near the back, just before the index.

The LC is now dangerously close to supplanting the Northgate as the local bar of choice (OH can you BEAR the tension?). It is decidedly not a gastro pub and that’s no bad thing as the gastro pub backlash has started. The first distant rumbles of change were in the falling of the food towers and fiddly sauce squiggles and the move to the revival of good old British cooking. Now I’m not British (remember it in context Doc, CONTEXT!) but there is a certain moist eyedness in some food writers, men of a certain age generally, whenever the “great British food revival” is mentioned. I suspect they hope it harbingers high tea with Nanny, diapers and perhaps a light smacking with firm words. The gastropubs are firmly in the lead on this revival but it is hard to escape the view that in too many cases you are sitting on your battered leather sofa at a low table, eating food too close to mini-vacumn-the-tablecloth-inter-course prices. The Lord Clyde escapes this – simple high quality bar food as it should be, at reasonable prices and excellent chilled pints of Heineken. Not Peroni admittedly but if you want to be a pretentious arse there are no shortage of gastro pubs in the area.

“Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.”

Pretentious perhaps but I am incapable of speech let alone writing…..

Well the local elections seem to have delivered a bloody nose to Labour, the Liberal Democrats remain as ever dead in the water and the Tories are in the ascendant.

Thank God it was only the local elections. I think Labour needed a wake up call but its a pity people did not register their annoyance by voting Liberal Democrat who frankly need a bit of practice just in case they ever make government. And that will only happen if there is a hung parliament and they can force through proportional representation.

On the other hand the fear of Tory resurgence might make the self harming wing of Labour cop themselves on.

The London Mayoral election was run on the PR system so one was able to vote first preference for no hoper but nice Paddick and then hold one’s nose and vote for Ken. He is an odious little man but the alternative is a nasty bigoted, racist, homphobe with bad hair.

He also looks set to be the next Mayor of London.

I had an option last year to move to Hong Kong and a slighter possibility to move to Bahrain. The latter I declined on the likely basis I would, in best case scenario, be stoned out of town. On days like today I think a lot of the path not chosen.

Permit me a reminiscence. One of my earliest memories was standing at the front door of my parent’s house on a beautiful clear day as early morning traffic went by and my mother telling me it was the start of Summer – which for those not overly taxed by planetary movements et al was considered in our house to be May Day. I must have been very young and I am not sure why the memory stuck so vividly – perhaps it was the first consciousness of my birthday too which falls in early May.

The 4th to be precise but, please, no fuss.

The earliest memory I can put an age to was three years old, standing at our kitchen window, screaming my head off as the brother headed off to school with his red satchel. I like to think I was screaming because red is such an unforgiving colour against Celtic skin but more likely because he was getting to go somewhere I was not allowed to be and where he, the other brothers and my mother were.

I remember too the same brothers and I being rescued and towed to shore when we were helpless and adrift on the boating lakes at Tramore. Years later I was disappointed to revisit these fabled lakes which are waist deep, the size of about the average living room and entirely free of sea monsters.

Stranger’s memories like recounted night time dreams are best kept as individual pleasures so, if not too glib, to begin on a mayday, to end on a mayday I will leave you in peace. Happy Summer. 

I was entertaining at home last night and due to the inclement weather and some football match (from the state of my work colleagues last night it was a big deal – they were jumping on the furniture and doing little widdles on the carpet) the pizza delivery was almost an hour late. Now I know pizza is hardly lavish entertainment but significantly better than one’s home offerings and this was a Basilico pizza which is North London’s finest (and yes as you ask they do deliver Peroni beer too).

Unfortunately this upset to the schedule – I did mention my OCD yes? – meant that the conclusion of entertainments was after midnight. Way best your writer’s midweek bedtime. Part of the evening’s entertainment and worth waiting for included the movie “The History Boys” which is truly excellent. The dialogue is cracking if you can suspend belief that some group of northern England schoolboys could be almost equally articulate at that young an age – travelling the buses and trains tells you that Catherine Tate has more an ear than Alan Bennett for teenage speaking patterns but, for stop you in your tracks pithy comments, Bennett is hard to best – “History, its just one fucking thing after another”.

The movie introduced me to Bennett and his work and for a short period I was touting him about as the latest discovery until my friend Tubs pointed out that he has been a large figure in current literary circles for years and, given his age and recent precarious health, is close to National Treasure status. A timely save from what could have been a North London dinner party disaster – intimate knowledge of radio plays being a huge gap in my commentariat credentials.

The movie led me to his diaries which he published in a remarkably frank manner for someone who strikes me as a relatively private man. Indeed, he acknowledges this fact and it was only the then likelihood of his imminent death that lead to that frankness in preparing versions for publication. He has a dry and deliberate style and is a master of subtle sarcasm. In his diaries he writes of the public reaction following the death of Princess Diana and accurately, but obliquely, reflects then the excessive reaction that met her tragic death. He refers to the Queen being forced to do a “mournabout” and the great comfort the young royal princes would derive from the various books of condolences being signed. In referring to how the BBC delivered this latter point you can sense his slight disapproval at the slip in journalistic standards – its as if your elderly aunt has finally put out at a teenage party. At best, he notes that the books of condolence would allow future sociologists to conduct regional analyses of grieving.

From there to “An Uncommon Reader” where he writes a fictional account of the Queen becoming an avid reader. Given that slight premise it is still a wonderful book and notwithstanding his clear republican credential you can sense, and it instilled in this equally republican reader, sympathy for her and her life in that, admittedly gilded, cage.

My kind mind has a habit when I go to bed late of waking me early to remind me how tired I am going to be and so from 5.30 onward I was sleeping fitfully and dreaming I could hear the alarm clock. In Alan Bennett fashion I have become a bit of a BBC Radio 4 fan (I know, I know, I know some of you have now hurled your laptops against the wall but I have always admitted I am that Guardian cliché) and in particular the Today programme is a lovely way to start the day – what nicer than John Humphreys in your ear in the morning though its not exactly a silky whisper and a promise of early morning sex.

In recent times, and at an early hour this morning, even this pleasure is denied as all they can bang on about is the falling property market. The property market is only interesting when it is going up! Otherwise shut up – especially when some people have got a final notice to complete on a transaction for which they still do not have funding. My lovely solicitor sent me an email – concluding “Kind Regards” - in which she advised that failure to complete would result in deposit forfeiture, interest claims, breach of contract actions and being dragged down Moorgate by my genitals.

The butterfly effect continued this morning so that I was 15 minutes later than usual at the bus stop and it is a whole different world. Clamours of people trying to get on the bus (though for some reason Southgate Road bus stop has the last orderly bus queue in England - perhaps its the sea air?) and no seat when you get on so my fascinating reportage of the nautically themed house names of Southgate Road will have to wait another day. When I got to Mangiare at London Wall the nice lady who serves me my coffee is now dealing with crowds and is a flustered harridan, my morning croissants have sold out. I get to work and before I even plug in my laptop I am fending off calls and chats. Did you ever wish you could rewind your day?

Anyway, the whole point of this exercise was to tell you that due to the breakdown of carefully laid plans, the last victim would be this blog as I have nothing to say today.

I seem to have said this over several hundred words but at least I’m not banging on about religion…..

One of my gentle readers has commented on my last post and, to paraphrase, refers to his choice of atheism over agnosticism, queries the point of engaging with religion and admits the latter view may be hubristic.

I do not think to meaningfully engage in a considered response could ever lead to an accusation of hubris. It is mildly amusing though to think that if he got it wrong and it turns out there is after all a God, and a vengeful one at that, he may experience the fun of nemesis.

I thought too it interesting to refer to “choice” in terms of a belief or rather non belief. My first, simplistic, consideration was to refute and say well if you can choose atheism why not choose agnosticism or belief? Is a belief or non belief not inherent to the person? On reflection I think the latter is incorrect - I think we consciously or unconsciously choose, admittedly influenced by how we are socialised, our attitude to, amongst other things, belief. I think our struggles with faith (and this is hardly ground breaking) arise from our consciousness and more particularly our understanding that that consciousness can and will be extinguished. I am watching an addictive programme about tigers at the moment where hidden cameras record them at amazingly close detail. There are wonderful sequences of them hunting, as they leap from hiding at startled gazelles. You can almost see the gazelle’s reaction of “Fucking hell, that’s a fucking tiger!” (or is it just me that loves the idea of a potty mouthed gazelle?). As often as not the attack fails and very quickly the animals return to their quiet contemplation which of course facilitates the next attack. The point I see relevant to this discussion though is the fact that the animal has no concept (apparently) of its mortality beyond the immediate moment and even then a survival instinct is hardly consciousness - even in humans the fight or flight mode is an automatic override of any rational response (see a gay bar clear when the lights come on). Religion springs from consciousness and more particularly the need for meaning. The meaning bit is the get out clause because it allows belief in an afterlife, or another life, depending on your subscription.

Again, there is nothing new in what I say – James Michener in “The Source” captures well, primitives man’s unease as he hovers at the edge of consciousness and high on the agenda, once that consciousness is achieved, is to worship a ruddy great stone. A stone we continue to pray at.

We need something to believe in because we cannot accept that THIS might just be it. And the crappier the THIS, the more we want a place where we get a second chance and the bad guys get punished.The exercise in freewill is to choose either explicitly or effectively, through an inherent acceptance or non acceptance of faith, whether or not to believe. Perhaps, the atheist is more evolved because he is at the place where rather than struggling with the answer he sees the question as pointless. The religious might see the creator’s hand in the fact of consciousness itself. Which, I suppose rounds us to the whole point where faith and reason diverge: the questions that cannot be answered versus the questions that need not be asked.

 From navel gazing to star gazing to bread breaking, I was at a dinner party in North London Saturday night. Finchley, to be precise where the streets are wide and it all feels quite suburban. It’s a Jewish neighbourhood although our host has renounced her beliefs (fear not I’m done with the God bit) and is a Buddhist, from Liverpool. Her saying “Buddha” with a ‘pool accent as if he’s Irish John what runs the local bookies makes me giggle (in a manly way).

During dinner I went out for some fresh air as I was having my usual spicy food meltdown. The garden backs down to a railway line and every few minutes a train would go by, brightly lit and standing out in the darkness I do not associate with London. It was very Railway Children. I was about to do a little enormity of the sky musing (lots of Peroni to wash the spices away) when, skyward looking, I walked into some wind chimes (yes, that kind of house) and had some very non peace and light mutterings quickly followed by a demonstrably non Buddha, surreptitious, retaliatory bitch slap when her cat bit me (this is one gazelle you don’t fuck with matey). I tell you the country is a dangerous place.

My date Friday night was a country lover and I was happily imagining weekends in the cottage down Devon way, maybe judging the best jam at the local fetes, exchanging cut out patterns with that nice vicar’s wife and generally being a weekend pillar of the community. My date, alas, was clearly not as advertised and while a thoroughly pleasant hour was had it was not to be. I returned home and contemplated what mischief might come my way. Some hours later, while trudging home, again, in the beautiful morning light, the light that washes away our sins, I thought perhaps my days at the Vicarage were numbered, the doorbolts drawn against me before I even had my feet beneath the table.     

My personal experience and engaging with organised religion would need the most liberal of churches. I, choose then, to continue my occasional missives to “dearest him, that lives, alas, away”, unintermediated.