I was looking at old toys yesterday and picked up a long forgotten (but not really) computer game. It was published in 1983 and on the cassette inlay card it said, 'if you have problems with the game loading please write to the address provided.' I immediately wondered if the company building where this address pointed to still existed, and a image was quickly assembled in my mind of a warehouse still somehow stuck in the 1980's operating in 2009.
Everything else was in todays time but this building, complete with flowers on the window sills and retro 80's digital style name, stood in defiance of time as if a dinosaur had dropped through a gap in space.
Memory plays funny tricks on the mind, and perhaps when one adds the yearning for a particular decade then the results can be potent. So potent that for a few minutes I let myself believe that this company of the 80's still did buisness in that era whilst all around was 2009. Current newspapers and mail was delivered to surrounding shops and houses but this building recieved nothing but news of twenty years ago, and old Heineken 'follow the bear' adverts sailed from within.
Picasso has nothing on the mind artist when imagination takes hold.
It isn't the only time when nostalgia fuels strange scenes either. Whenever I visit Porthcawl in South Wales a similar experience unfolds in my brain. There is a nightclub near to the entrance to the funfair and for some inexplicable reason, when I look at the curtains of the second floors my mind wanders to the 1960's, a time before I was born even. I imagine a 60's disco going on behind those curtains and women cavorting in mini skirts, while on the outside children of this decade are enjoying the fair rides.
And it doesn't end there for my Porthcawl adventures. On the beach front there is another club called The Buccaneer and this too brings to life a vivid picture of a long dead decade. Still the 60's and still the partying going on inside whenever I look at place. Its like if I stepped inside I would be instantly in the middle of the Swinging Sixties complete with dark eyeliner and bowls of speed pills.
Of course if I did actually enter inside I know it is todays date, music and fashions I would encounter. But I never do take a peek beyond the door, I do not want to ruin the illusion.
Monday 31 August 2009
Love (The Great All End)
Love. The healer of misery. A banquet for couples to feast upon daily, a life so better lived when people find and share Love. And not the simple love spelt with a small L which is suitable for statements like 'I love fish and chips' or 'I love the taste of beer', but real Love, spelt with a capitol L to signify its pomp and importance.
As Shakespeare said, “So long as I can breathe or I can see, so long lives your love which gives life to me.”
Love, real Love, is a splendid thing indeed! If handled well and treated carefully Love is divine, a blissful shelter from pain. But even this great elixir has its moments for while Love does indeed possess an awesome power and makes misery and ills disappear, at least for a time, it also antagonises Happiness. (Yes the capitol H Happiness).
How often have entwined couples been strolling along a canal side, no apparent care in the world, when suddenly bam! Something turns up out of nowhere to trip them up, leaving everything shattered.
There are forces in this world we are not aware of. Forces with their own rules and justice, plots and agendas. As humans we quickly get lured by Love, eager to bask in the euphoria it creates but doing so we leave ourselves open to other emotions and powers such as Hate and its minions: envy, anger, spite, selfishness, ignorance and deciet.
We should be careful when visited by Love that we do not discard everything else in life for such is its power it regularly dissolves other things which are outside of its charming circle.
Friendship is often one of the first to go under Loves spell. It is merciless in its destroyer of friendship, and does it in many different ways. All too often people caught in a whirlwind of romance ignore friends whose importance seem to melt away as the deafening roar of Cupids arrows fall around the afflicteds ears and heart.
Bitterness and resentment on the part of those left out as the selfish rollercoaster of Love speeds on. Its not a set law of what happens but that it happens at all proves that Love has sharp edges. And those edges stretch further if the siamese hearts ever decide to beat apart again when things turn sour. And they usually do.
Suddenly what used to be a wonderful friendship turns into an ugly parting of ways, leaving sores to fester. Love enhances friendship so long as Love is whole. When two lovers fall out of their private 'spirit world' the bond shatters like a glass heart in a vice. As soon as the circle of friends and lovers is infected by Love only to then succumb to negative forces (jealousy, distrust, ect) then all is doomed.
For all its marvellous intentions, Love has the ability to destroy everything with leaving utter desolation in its ruins. Two people can remain close after an unsuccessful relationship but only if they've been in love, not Love.
As Shakespeare said, “So long as I can breathe or I can see, so long lives your love which gives life to me.”
Love, real Love, is a splendid thing indeed! If handled well and treated carefully Love is divine, a blissful shelter from pain. But even this great elixir has its moments for while Love does indeed possess an awesome power and makes misery and ills disappear, at least for a time, it also antagonises Happiness. (Yes the capitol H Happiness).
How often have entwined couples been strolling along a canal side, no apparent care in the world, when suddenly bam! Something turns up out of nowhere to trip them up, leaving everything shattered.
There are forces in this world we are not aware of. Forces with their own rules and justice, plots and agendas. As humans we quickly get lured by Love, eager to bask in the euphoria it creates but doing so we leave ourselves open to other emotions and powers such as Hate and its minions: envy, anger, spite, selfishness, ignorance and deciet.
We should be careful when visited by Love that we do not discard everything else in life for such is its power it regularly dissolves other things which are outside of its charming circle.
Friendship is often one of the first to go under Loves spell. It is merciless in its destroyer of friendship, and does it in many different ways. All too often people caught in a whirlwind of romance ignore friends whose importance seem to melt away as the deafening roar of Cupids arrows fall around the afflicteds ears and heart.
Bitterness and resentment on the part of those left out as the selfish rollercoaster of Love speeds on. Its not a set law of what happens but that it happens at all proves that Love has sharp edges. And those edges stretch further if the siamese hearts ever decide to beat apart again when things turn sour. And they usually do.
Suddenly what used to be a wonderful friendship turns into an ugly parting of ways, leaving sores to fester. Love enhances friendship so long as Love is whole. When two lovers fall out of their private 'spirit world' the bond shatters like a glass heart in a vice. As soon as the circle of friends and lovers is infected by Love only to then succumb to negative forces (jealousy, distrust, ect) then all is doomed.
For all its marvellous intentions, Love has the ability to destroy everything with leaving utter desolation in its ruins. Two people can remain close after an unsuccessful relationship but only if they've been in love, not Love.
Thursday 27 August 2009
Unholy Storms At 3:47a.m.
The quiet of night has knocked sleep out of me. Im wide awake after devouring 334 pages of a book I am too tired to recall but not enough to close my eyes. Pints of chamomile tea haven't helped, and also I suspect a lack of alcohol because yesterday I was too bloated to drink so I resisted the usual indulgence. Sobriety is lethal for me, it spins too many cogs in my mind and allows uncomfortable pauses for thought.
So what is pressing into my ribs at such a wretched hour? What son of a bitch subject pisses me off before a bird has even stirred? A few. As always.
Fame for one and how cheap its got these days. Used to be only a gift, talent, call it whatever which propelled one into the nations living rooms, inspiring awe into the audiences. Sport, music, acting, painting, writing, if you were good at it and rose above the herd then halls of fame rightly beckoned.
Today its a different deal. In this cyber age where every nut has the means to broadcast through the internet, anything can earn celebrity status: swearing, spitting, suicide attempts, screwing, eating dog shit, its all legitimate art baby. Mass media has reduced the shining star of forgotten decades to the glint of a marble left in the sun.
Fame means nothing anymore, even less than nothing because any dolt can get it. Look at reality television and soft core porn magazines aimed at teenagers for proof. Empty headed wannabes without a single shred of difference (or dignity) between them. The new crew are the last crew and the next crew after these. Same songs, same poses, a gruesome bottleneck jamming stage doors.
I could get hard assed drunk right now and film myself naked on Youtube reciting crude poetry while spewing bile and grab myself a few headlines. It really is that simple.
Where the hell have all the unique guys got to? Bars used to be full of them.
Another subject to keep me from the throne of sleep is mortality. Im more fearful of dying at 3am than in the afternoon when the sun is in the sky. Death always feels closer during the dawn hours, like a mere hic-up could toss me into the grave. Tiny pangs become major life threatening drama, at times I can almost feel Death's skeletal hand brush my cheeks.
I lie in bed petrified, convinced doom is upon me. Of course when im drunk the problem doesn't rear its morbid face, and I gladly fall into the arms of sleep but sober with full attention to wits I look for the reaper under my pillow. Darkness must of course contribute to my irrational fear, and silence also will feed a restless mind but I also believe the early morning hours to be favorable with the Hooded One. Surely more souls are harvested at this time than any other? its like a done deal before the dawn. Reap spirits of the slumbering before they have their wits about them.
Executions should always be done in the early mornings, as bodies tend to give up life easier than at tea time.
Its a different kind of trip lying in bed believing every breath is your last but this always happens when I awake too early. My eyes roam the walls as morning light slowly bring them to life, whilst I search for last words and prayers beneath the blankets. On few occasions I have even begun planning funeral hymns, so convinced was I that as I swung my leg out of bed it would surely hit a coffin that had mysteriously appeared next to the bed. Of course there never is a coffin there and the hymns are never played but its a better shock than caffiene will ever be.
Sobriety is another kerb I stub my toe on when I come around, especially if Ive had a rare drink free evening. Its nice not having the rust of alcohol linger from a tasty session, and the spring in ones step from having a lighter stomach can be exremely liberating but I could never dedicate my life to abstinence. A few sober days along the way is all fine and well but its hard work for a devout tornado of frustration like myself. Days are long without beer and after 2 or 3 days im raring to go again, raging from sobriety's grip like a hunters bullet thirsty for blood.
I turn my head toward the bedside clock and wonder of a life without my sauce. Seconds click from 5 to 10, which is exactly how long it takes to empty the idea out of my head.
So what is pressing into my ribs at such a wretched hour? What son of a bitch subject pisses me off before a bird has even stirred? A few. As always.
Fame for one and how cheap its got these days. Used to be only a gift, talent, call it whatever which propelled one into the nations living rooms, inspiring awe into the audiences. Sport, music, acting, painting, writing, if you were good at it and rose above the herd then halls of fame rightly beckoned.
Today its a different deal. In this cyber age where every nut has the means to broadcast through the internet, anything can earn celebrity status: swearing, spitting, suicide attempts, screwing, eating dog shit, its all legitimate art baby. Mass media has reduced the shining star of forgotten decades to the glint of a marble left in the sun.
Fame means nothing anymore, even less than nothing because any dolt can get it. Look at reality television and soft core porn magazines aimed at teenagers for proof. Empty headed wannabes without a single shred of difference (or dignity) between them. The new crew are the last crew and the next crew after these. Same songs, same poses, a gruesome bottleneck jamming stage doors.
I could get hard assed drunk right now and film myself naked on Youtube reciting crude poetry while spewing bile and grab myself a few headlines. It really is that simple.
Where the hell have all the unique guys got to? Bars used to be full of them.
Another subject to keep me from the throne of sleep is mortality. Im more fearful of dying at 3am than in the afternoon when the sun is in the sky. Death always feels closer during the dawn hours, like a mere hic-up could toss me into the grave. Tiny pangs become major life threatening drama, at times I can almost feel Death's skeletal hand brush my cheeks.
I lie in bed petrified, convinced doom is upon me. Of course when im drunk the problem doesn't rear its morbid face, and I gladly fall into the arms of sleep but sober with full attention to wits I look for the reaper under my pillow. Darkness must of course contribute to my irrational fear, and silence also will feed a restless mind but I also believe the early morning hours to be favorable with the Hooded One. Surely more souls are harvested at this time than any other? its like a done deal before the dawn. Reap spirits of the slumbering before they have their wits about them.
Executions should always be done in the early mornings, as bodies tend to give up life easier than at tea time.
Its a different kind of trip lying in bed believing every breath is your last but this always happens when I awake too early. My eyes roam the walls as morning light slowly bring them to life, whilst I search for last words and prayers beneath the blankets. On few occasions I have even begun planning funeral hymns, so convinced was I that as I swung my leg out of bed it would surely hit a coffin that had mysteriously appeared next to the bed. Of course there never is a coffin there and the hymns are never played but its a better shock than caffiene will ever be.
Sobriety is another kerb I stub my toe on when I come around, especially if Ive had a rare drink free evening. Its nice not having the rust of alcohol linger from a tasty session, and the spring in ones step from having a lighter stomach can be exremely liberating but I could never dedicate my life to abstinence. A few sober days along the way is all fine and well but its hard work for a devout tornado of frustration like myself. Days are long without beer and after 2 or 3 days im raring to go again, raging from sobriety's grip like a hunters bullet thirsty for blood.
I turn my head toward the bedside clock and wonder of a life without my sauce. Seconds click from 5 to 10, which is exactly how long it takes to empty the idea out of my head.
Wednesday 26 August 2009
Weekend Saints Following The Pews
Organised religion is evil to the core. If there is a bigger collection of hypocrites and rogues to be had then I am glad to have never met them. Church dwellers were terrible enough for me, and I have dined with thieves and addicts. In all my dealings with afternoon cocktail vagabonds I have seldom come across bigger sinners than those who frequent the church.
A real motley crew of cold hearts and back stabbing, where pride is applauded and envy bred in abundance. Here is where the spiteful gather, to gossip and dine on others misfortune. Miserable creatures to sing for the poor in voice only, never the soul, ignoring charity wherever it is needed most.
They walk like zombies hypnotised by a deluded self importance, headlong into a world that compassion has long since fled. Giving all to a man made faith. Church to these people is not a place of worship at all, its simply a building that for an hour every Sunday they can show others how good they are, how decent they can be. But its all a terrible act, lies spilling over more lies.
I could find more sincere humans in a prison than church. I could see wealthier gutter kids, because the spirit in organised religion is corrupt to its dastardly bone. There is no kindness there, good deeds require too much effort. These weekend saints are much obssessed with reward, not honour.
Empty prayer is hopeless.
I have seen no good intentions in the vestry, only handfuls of like minded sheep discussing local news and cursing drunks and louts, who in fact far from being below them as these social nitwits seem to believe are actually a hell of a lot better than them. There is more vulgarity in a churches stomach than outside on the street. Purple cloth hides bitterness so well.
With my own eyes Ive watched these odious people step over the homeless and heard them speak ill of the sick. Hardly signs of a genorous heart.
Family too is disposable. What should be a sacred institution is largely ignored. I have felt this at first hand, and know how cruel a parent can be who is lost on his unholy crusade. Im not without sin but my sins carry less burden and truth is a cockroach would be a better father.
Organised religion is thoroughly spiteful and pious. Every minion from deepest hell would be pressed to match the wickedness of the church.
A real motley crew of cold hearts and back stabbing, where pride is applauded and envy bred in abundance. Here is where the spiteful gather, to gossip and dine on others misfortune. Miserable creatures to sing for the poor in voice only, never the soul, ignoring charity wherever it is needed most.
They walk like zombies hypnotised by a deluded self importance, headlong into a world that compassion has long since fled. Giving all to a man made faith. Church to these people is not a place of worship at all, its simply a building that for an hour every Sunday they can show others how good they are, how decent they can be. But its all a terrible act, lies spilling over more lies.
I could find more sincere humans in a prison than church. I could see wealthier gutter kids, because the spirit in organised religion is corrupt to its dastardly bone. There is no kindness there, good deeds require too much effort. These weekend saints are much obssessed with reward, not honour.
Empty prayer is hopeless.
I have seen no good intentions in the vestry, only handfuls of like minded sheep discussing local news and cursing drunks and louts, who in fact far from being below them as these social nitwits seem to believe are actually a hell of a lot better than them. There is more vulgarity in a churches stomach than outside on the street. Purple cloth hides bitterness so well.
With my own eyes Ive watched these odious people step over the homeless and heard them speak ill of the sick. Hardly signs of a genorous heart.
Family too is disposable. What should be a sacred institution is largely ignored. I have felt this at first hand, and know how cruel a parent can be who is lost on his unholy crusade. Im not without sin but my sins carry less burden and truth is a cockroach would be a better father.
Organised religion is thoroughly spiteful and pious. Every minion from deepest hell would be pressed to match the wickedness of the church.
Frenemies: Beware the Old Tiger
Friendships are forged in both good times and hard, but the strongest always in the bad. Times like those breed brotherhood whereas friendship flowered in a garden of happy sunshine has roots as soft as daisies. There is no real substance in that relationship, no chains of anguish have dragged anyone deep into miserable mud. Harsh times create strong friendships.
Consider POW camps in war, where unbreakable bonds are made. Shared pain and trouble are very fertile grounds for kinship. Those who live under the lash become brothers, reborn together through agony and adversity.
On the other side playground friendships hardly ever last. The sobriety of youth does not lend itself well to lasting relationships. Too much innocence clouds judgment, and while bonds can be made they are usually cracked by the heavy weight of years. Time adds thicker layers to our flesh and minds, different avenues open up and school yard pals melt away to be forgotten.
It is on the plains of famine, on waves of wild seas that brotherhood forms. Endure torture with someone, and they become as close as the scabs on broken skin.
Consider POW camps in war, where unbreakable bonds are made. Shared pain and trouble are very fertile grounds for kinship. Those who live under the lash become brothers, reborn together through agony and adversity.
On the other side playground friendships hardly ever last. The sobriety of youth does not lend itself well to lasting relationships. Too much innocence clouds judgment, and while bonds can be made they are usually cracked by the heavy weight of years. Time adds thicker layers to our flesh and minds, different avenues open up and school yard pals melt away to be forgotten.
It is on the plains of famine, on waves of wild seas that brotherhood forms. Endure torture with someone, and they become as close as the scabs on broken skin.
Wednesday 19 August 2009
A Fanfare for Dying
People love death. We are obssessed with closing our eyes and sailing into immortality. It has a buzz like no other mainly because for the most part we all have different ideas on what happens when the pulse runs out, and no sensible person can mock because nobody has returned from its dark realms to prove what is there and what isn't. Also because of this mystery we like to paint glamorous pictures of the afterlife to halt any doubts that death could be a nightmare. We need to keep being inspired by death, telling ourselves its fine, that mortal step is cool.
In fact it ought to be a topic for coffee mornings and schoolyards (Dead. Death. Dying.) because constant talk breeds familiarity and in that there is warm comfort. Funerals should be ceremonies of fun and children encouraged to take part. Whats to fear? Tomorrow is unknown but we don't fear it.
Artists love death be they poets, painters, musicians or any other creative lunk. A deathbed is a giant blank page on which to pour ballads and colour onto. Raise a tune from mourning waves, wring pretty dirges from sickly bed clothes. Death sells big time, arenas of teenage dolls fall in love to it. Its hip to be mental or morbid, and five minute idols fan ever increasing flames.
The reaper is everywhere: in our drinks, diets, tee shirts, fridge magnets, tattoos, album covers. A very cool, dominant icon of death watching over us before a visit.
In fact it ought to be a topic for coffee mornings and schoolyards (Dead. Death. Dying.) because constant talk breeds familiarity and in that there is warm comfort. Funerals should be ceremonies of fun and children encouraged to take part. Whats to fear? Tomorrow is unknown but we don't fear it.
Artists love death be they poets, painters, musicians or any other creative lunk. A deathbed is a giant blank page on which to pour ballads and colour onto. Raise a tune from mourning waves, wring pretty dirges from sickly bed clothes. Death sells big time, arenas of teenage dolls fall in love to it. Its hip to be mental or morbid, and five minute idols fan ever increasing flames.
The reaper is everywhere: in our drinks, diets, tee shirts, fridge magnets, tattoos, album covers. A very cool, dominant icon of death watching over us before a visit.
Sunday 16 August 2009
God Is In The Neon Light
I am a big demon sent to devour smaller demons. My sins make theirs look like Easter bunnies with triple gin in the cream. Their teeth ladle wasters into the guts whilst these fangs have skin upon the plaque. A good man, and decent, parading in the fur of a fiend. Too sick for a vampire. Especially the darling movie type. And if I were I would hang in ribcages of kind folk not flap around flabby throats of the idle. Drunk really. Looking for a cooler name than 'drunk'. Soul sucking has such disco. Piss artists love drama and havoc suits us well.
In truth, in bald light, all I am is a gentle spirit walking on the daggers edge. Yes there are lions and rape, robbery and vice, but always at a bottles end as the cork goes rolling into the sea. It is calm when bubbles hit. Its never dark in the puddles. I carry a bottle like a gunslinger carries his six shooter. Always loaded, and always ready to kill the things that should not be.
Sober breasted people do not care for extremes. They enjoy their comfortable nests among their own in suburbia. The stable and in its own way poisoned career, new car, childrens tea parties, holidays in the sun, letterbox spewing bill upon bill like a dope sick poet. Routine. This is their God. Every day the ritual is the same, from first cup of tea to books at bedtime, and they revel in it. (Or act like they do).
The pub on weekends and chip shop suppers, chapels to the family and rightly where they belong.
But I would catch my death in such environments. In fields of kind words and moderation I would wilt, there is no Life for me there. In peals of light there are no shadows in which to lurk, no place to hide vice from disgusted looks and little understanding of mortuary cloth humour. Everything is sane and orderly and I need excess. I crave unholy passions, my scent is of pigs bloated with gin, primed for the butchers cradle. The machete hangs like the sword of Damocles, fantastic to dance under, the skin crawls alive under threat:
In Crayon: Cemetery
And the chaos beats you to it
cobwebbed pictures make it real.
Deathly dying and the dead
there’s a defiance to it
falling into soil.
Graveyard summer
holiday of worms,
there is fever in the bones tonight
we sick,
we merry sick…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Life must have a morbid flavour for me to live comfortably. It must be swilled with rum and nails, I am not a patron to moderation. I enjoy my lusts served raw. There is melody between folds of wretched gluttony, never so high is one so wasted. Terror angels watch falling stardust land on earth but it will never seed on sober ground. Only whiskey palaces and mayhem can nurture such glamorous plants. The timid seldom have power to raise war babies and rockstars.
Im a f**king wildman, running through emotion like a bull, knocking common sense sideways and growing disease under my breastbone. Most find God in church or through personal troubles but I see Him everywhere: in gutters, pubs, alleyways, orgies, even in the trailing lights of speeding traffic on a wet night. Determination to know the universe peels my eyes back so far my eyeball looks like a marble in the middle of a mouth. I look for the hope in labyrinths of doom, and cities thriving beneath the seas.
There is no hope for me in sunlit afternoons. I belong sedated, or else I run rampant using fist or emotion to satisfy my energy. A savage ghoul thrilled at the thought of broken things.
In truth, in bald light, all I am is a gentle spirit walking on the daggers edge. Yes there are lions and rape, robbery and vice, but always at a bottles end as the cork goes rolling into the sea. It is calm when bubbles hit. Its never dark in the puddles. I carry a bottle like a gunslinger carries his six shooter. Always loaded, and always ready to kill the things that should not be.
Sober breasted people do not care for extremes. They enjoy their comfortable nests among their own in suburbia. The stable and in its own way poisoned career, new car, childrens tea parties, holidays in the sun, letterbox spewing bill upon bill like a dope sick poet. Routine. This is their God. Every day the ritual is the same, from first cup of tea to books at bedtime, and they revel in it. (Or act like they do).
The pub on weekends and chip shop suppers, chapels to the family and rightly where they belong.
But I would catch my death in such environments. In fields of kind words and moderation I would wilt, there is no Life for me there. In peals of light there are no shadows in which to lurk, no place to hide vice from disgusted looks and little understanding of mortuary cloth humour. Everything is sane and orderly and I need excess. I crave unholy passions, my scent is of pigs bloated with gin, primed for the butchers cradle. The machete hangs like the sword of Damocles, fantastic to dance under, the skin crawls alive under threat:
In Crayon: Cemetery
And the chaos beats you to it
cobwebbed pictures make it real.
Deathly dying and the dead
there’s a defiance to it
falling into soil.
Graveyard summer
holiday of worms,
there is fever in the bones tonight
we sick,
we merry sick…
@Steven Francis poems 2009
Life must have a morbid flavour for me to live comfortably. It must be swilled with rum and nails, I am not a patron to moderation. I enjoy my lusts served raw. There is melody between folds of wretched gluttony, never so high is one so wasted. Terror angels watch falling stardust land on earth but it will never seed on sober ground. Only whiskey palaces and mayhem can nurture such glamorous plants. The timid seldom have power to raise war babies and rockstars.
Im a f**king wildman, running through emotion like a bull, knocking common sense sideways and growing disease under my breastbone. Most find God in church or through personal troubles but I see Him everywhere: in gutters, pubs, alleyways, orgies, even in the trailing lights of speeding traffic on a wet night. Determination to know the universe peels my eyes back so far my eyeball looks like a marble in the middle of a mouth. I look for the hope in labyrinths of doom, and cities thriving beneath the seas.
There is no hope for me in sunlit afternoons. I belong sedated, or else I run rampant using fist or emotion to satisfy my energy. A savage ghoul thrilled at the thought of broken things.
Thursday 13 August 2009
Raw Wounds for a Warhorse
I believe I have been blessed with good fortune, one which has enabled me to avoid confrontation and physical fights and even allows me to detect the change in moods and atmosphere. Some would say Im simply good at reading people and situations and this might well true but however one looks at it it is grand.
But the scales have occasionaly tipped into shadows as must be the case for every voyage we sail upon. No wave can bring never ending blessings, and as humans we cannot fail to be lured by vice and get caught in its sticky tentacles. Nor can we prevent having disaster visit when the seas appear calm for however great ones lucky talisman is doom will always find a way. No shelter is completely bomb proof.
During my twenties I was a ogre with an insatiable thirst for beer and sin, I left heavy footprints where ever I went, usually a pub or pill house. This was an open invite to calamity but some force or other was gentle with me. I could be carrying ugly scars from trips into what I like to call the Everworld, however it is said that fortune favours the brave. It sometimes favours the ghoul also.
One has to remember that if you flirt with danger you have to learn where the Exits are, and be sure when to use them.
I was a master at abusing myself, both mentally and physically, and I knew where to find even more horror and chaos whilst I was under the influence of my own. Its not hard to miss when one is a walking emblem for destruction. Trouble knows its kin and never misses the opportunity to shine. It is never satisfied with a pinch and always pushes the delinquent further in, attracting more and more bad vibrations.
But beneath the skull images I was also part clown and within the clown I had a heart. It anchored me to realty whilst I was being wreckless. It was my shield from total oblivion.
And having that human touch helped the cocktail be less potent, I was able to sample excess and be around dirt but there was a kind side to it. A side which didn't provoke anything. I could lie in a nest of junkie vipers and not get stung. I could walk through a bar room brawl and no punches would land on me. I was more f**ked up than anyone yet I was able to maintain my wits.
Anyone can run with the ghouls and street kids and be part of the circus but you must be careful not to become a sacrifice. Every circle of fiends needs to bare their fangs and snarl at those who remain sober in their world of paying taxes and washing cars on Sunday, and with the snarl there comes a fall. You gotta look out for it because its the weak who break.
Id walk from pub to pub, dropping in on random conversations: the job cutting back, wife screwing around, kids doing drugs, there are pretty messy lives outside the safety of the local Inn and I would run among the stories like a pigeon looking for the thorniest group. There are plenty to choose on a wet weekday when jobs are scarce and pubs thrive. Man could be broke but still find quids for beer.
Others are not so lucky in the rebel stampede. They trip up on ego and skid into the ever open arms of death, usually young, always brave beyond their means. Those lucky enough to not have their youth kill them have invaluable advice. Just a shame the dead can't hear.
I have known boys killed in bar fights, having their skulls smashed against walls and I have had friends die on the side of roads, holding their liver in their hands after testing dangerous boundaries on motorbikes. People I have drank and shared ink with have keeled over into early, cold graves from too much booze and heroin. Children believing themselves immortal and getting the big sleep for their naive ways.
Three things saved me from burning too fast in a gutter: 1. a streak of light in an otherwise dark mind, 2. respect for things more toxic than myself, and 3. pure luck. Now the third you either have it or you don't but ignore the first two at your peril because toss those aside and you become a blindman groping in a valley of flesh hungry rats and blood is everywhere.
There is safety in a tattooed mob, even honour if there's enough booze and chalk but stray too far from the bond, or try to become louder and there is hell to pay. Sharks soon turn if they feel a weak link in the chain. Of course ones biggest enemy is himself. Only so many shots of liquor or lines of speed will impress, after that its down to human mechanics. Hospitals are full of dead engines.
There's no glamour to living fast and dying young, no corpse ever looked good enough to eat. That is just a rock fable, music can make most things sound good but reality is different when the audience go home. Dying young means only missing out on more of the party and no ghoul or rebel ever seriously wants that.
But the scales have occasionaly tipped into shadows as must be the case for every voyage we sail upon. No wave can bring never ending blessings, and as humans we cannot fail to be lured by vice and get caught in its sticky tentacles. Nor can we prevent having disaster visit when the seas appear calm for however great ones lucky talisman is doom will always find a way. No shelter is completely bomb proof.
During my twenties I was a ogre with an insatiable thirst for beer and sin, I left heavy footprints where ever I went, usually a pub or pill house. This was an open invite to calamity but some force or other was gentle with me. I could be carrying ugly scars from trips into what I like to call the Everworld, however it is said that fortune favours the brave. It sometimes favours the ghoul also.
One has to remember that if you flirt with danger you have to learn where the Exits are, and be sure when to use them.
I was a master at abusing myself, both mentally and physically, and I knew where to find even more horror and chaos whilst I was under the influence of my own. Its not hard to miss when one is a walking emblem for destruction. Trouble knows its kin and never misses the opportunity to shine. It is never satisfied with a pinch and always pushes the delinquent further in, attracting more and more bad vibrations.
But beneath the skull images I was also part clown and within the clown I had a heart. It anchored me to realty whilst I was being wreckless. It was my shield from total oblivion.
And having that human touch helped the cocktail be less potent, I was able to sample excess and be around dirt but there was a kind side to it. A side which didn't provoke anything. I could lie in a nest of junkie vipers and not get stung. I could walk through a bar room brawl and no punches would land on me. I was more f**ked up than anyone yet I was able to maintain my wits.
Anyone can run with the ghouls and street kids and be part of the circus but you must be careful not to become a sacrifice. Every circle of fiends needs to bare their fangs and snarl at those who remain sober in their world of paying taxes and washing cars on Sunday, and with the snarl there comes a fall. You gotta look out for it because its the weak who break.
Id walk from pub to pub, dropping in on random conversations: the job cutting back, wife screwing around, kids doing drugs, there are pretty messy lives outside the safety of the local Inn and I would run among the stories like a pigeon looking for the thorniest group. There are plenty to choose on a wet weekday when jobs are scarce and pubs thrive. Man could be broke but still find quids for beer.
Others are not so lucky in the rebel stampede. They trip up on ego and skid into the ever open arms of death, usually young, always brave beyond their means. Those lucky enough to not have their youth kill them have invaluable advice. Just a shame the dead can't hear.
I have known boys killed in bar fights, having their skulls smashed against walls and I have had friends die on the side of roads, holding their liver in their hands after testing dangerous boundaries on motorbikes. People I have drank and shared ink with have keeled over into early, cold graves from too much booze and heroin. Children believing themselves immortal and getting the big sleep for their naive ways.
Three things saved me from burning too fast in a gutter: 1. a streak of light in an otherwise dark mind, 2. respect for things more toxic than myself, and 3. pure luck. Now the third you either have it or you don't but ignore the first two at your peril because toss those aside and you become a blindman groping in a valley of flesh hungry rats and blood is everywhere.
There is safety in a tattooed mob, even honour if there's enough booze and chalk but stray too far from the bond, or try to become louder and there is hell to pay. Sharks soon turn if they feel a weak link in the chain. Of course ones biggest enemy is himself. Only so many shots of liquor or lines of speed will impress, after that its down to human mechanics. Hospitals are full of dead engines.
There's no glamour to living fast and dying young, no corpse ever looked good enough to eat. That is just a rock fable, music can make most things sound good but reality is different when the audience go home. Dying young means only missing out on more of the party and no ghoul or rebel ever seriously wants that.
Tuesday 11 August 2009
The Redneck Salon - Blood Theory
The death penalty: one of Mans oldest punishments for murder, which when applied makes no room for reversal or appeal. One that demands a killer pay with his or her life for a terrible crime. An eye for an eye as the old testament says, and my eyes are death obssessed.
I believe blood should follow blood, and that every murderer, not just the raging maniacs and child molesters, should be executed after one review of the case has run its course. No endless parade of appeals or petitions, no 15 year wait on death row. Just a cell with a radio and book to pass the time until that dawn walk to the gallows.
Death on the streets is becoming more common as life gets cheaper by the day, and people are quick to thrust blades into anothers heart. On the feral estates in parts of Britain murder has gotten trendy and gangs of youths hanging around in shadowy corners are not just rowdy teenagers with a bit of backchat anymore. They have lost all respect for authority and in doing so have turned into vicious rattlesnakes, ready to strike fatally at passers by.
Life can be short on the wildside even for peaceful pedestrians walking by, and life in the courts of justice has become equally as short. A 20 year old killer today will be free by the time he is 30, sometimes before.
So what price life? Death, it has to be.
The death penalty is not about revenge and neither is it a deterrant. The eye for an eye in the old testament was talking about justice, a fitting price to pay. And so it must be that every single murderer in prison today has earned death. They ought not to be drawing breath at this very moment, they should not be playing videogames in heated cells. They should not be getting meals, post, visits, medication, water, television, soap, kisses at visiting times, or any other of lifes pleasantries. Killers should be dead. At the end of their story. In a pine box with a broken neck. They deserve nothing. This is what they have given their victims.
There will be no more birthdays for them. No specially prepared meals on anniversaries or travels to foreign lands. No gold at their rainbows end. Innocent victims of murder did no wrong. Were simply going about their buisness, often helping others as they went, when suddenly life is cruelly cut short in a merciless act. It is the ultimate betrayal of all that is decent. To not only rob a person of their goods and money but to steal the very breath in their lungs. To take away everything. There can be nothing more wretched and the death of innocence demands a fitting retribution. Skin for skin, bone for bone, blood for blood.
We should be ashamed to let killers walk free after comitting murder. The victims graveyard is forever swelling whilst sentences are shrinking. Justice? Definately not. Anyone who forgives this heinous act is not more human but less.
It was a sorry time when Britain (and others) abolished the death penalty. As a whole we became the killers friend, and a lot less kinder to innocence. And make no mistake we shall be rewarded for discarding the noose as punishment, only the rewards will not be sweetness and roses. It will be more death, more diseased actions from the hooded and many many freshly dug graves looking like scars across the country, reminding us that forgiveness pays in coffins.
It is not revenge to execute a killer. Revenge is a lot harsher than dying on the gallows. Nor is death a deterrant because life in solitary could deter just as well. Having the death penalty is simply punishment, you kill and you will be served with what you deserve; death. No more, no less.
Life in prison is no justice; in the lofty realms of the scheme of things a jail sentence for murder does nothing. The killer lives and spits in the eye of the victim. Its a terrible injustice but most cannot see it, they are ignorant to foul play. I can almost hear the victims weeping in their caskets.
Shame on us for allowing it to happen. Emotion has found a way into laws when none should exist. We cower in fear from cold justice and one day we will mourn the hemp rope. When all we have are killers and victims, the hand of death shall rise again upon savage hearts. There are not enough jails and murder is getting easier. Punishment can only go two ways of course: we can get more lenient or more severe. Worryingly mankind has opted for the latter option in todays cotton livered attitudes but time WILL turn again. As peoples fear grows so too will their frustrations, and murder will no longer be tolerated. Everything is cyclical and whether it takes 50 years or 500 the gallows will return to despatch swift and deserved punishment.
And let the scaffold stand alone as a method of execution. America muddied the waters by trying to find more humane methods with the electric chair and lethal injection. New doubts were expressed on efficiency, new problems occurred from voltage and chemicals. These all contributed to people taking their eyes off the main goal: punishing murderers. In Britain hanging was nailed down to a fine art, a science, and murderers were put to death with remarkable speed. As little as 10 seconds from cell to trapdoor. No fanfare or fuss. And definately no media interviews on television a few days before.
It should be reinstated with haste before we slide into brutal wastelands where good people hide from the lash of a blade or stray bullet. We will save a lot more than money by having the death penalty brought back. If we were halfway decent we would admit defeat regarding the pathetic sentences passed for murder, and instead of trying to find good in the killer we should honour the good that was in the victim. Giving a 8 to 12 year term isn't justice or punishment enough, in fact it is yet another strike to the victim. That we should be content to free murderers after such a feeble term is testament to mans failing in understanding the effects of such a crime. Man will not be Man for long if the spirit breaks.
All the good intentions of those who oppose capital punishment will be drowned in untamed seas ruled by predators. Death feeds on death its true but in times when even a wrong look can earn your cemetery stay then this most ancient of punishment must be handed to all those who murder.
I believe blood should follow blood, and that every murderer, not just the raging maniacs and child molesters, should be executed after one review of the case has run its course. No endless parade of appeals or petitions, no 15 year wait on death row. Just a cell with a radio and book to pass the time until that dawn walk to the gallows.
Death on the streets is becoming more common as life gets cheaper by the day, and people are quick to thrust blades into anothers heart. On the feral estates in parts of Britain murder has gotten trendy and gangs of youths hanging around in shadowy corners are not just rowdy teenagers with a bit of backchat anymore. They have lost all respect for authority and in doing so have turned into vicious rattlesnakes, ready to strike fatally at passers by.
Life can be short on the wildside even for peaceful pedestrians walking by, and life in the courts of justice has become equally as short. A 20 year old killer today will be free by the time he is 30, sometimes before.
So what price life? Death, it has to be.
The death penalty is not about revenge and neither is it a deterrant. The eye for an eye in the old testament was talking about justice, a fitting price to pay. And so it must be that every single murderer in prison today has earned death. They ought not to be drawing breath at this very moment, they should not be playing videogames in heated cells. They should not be getting meals, post, visits, medication, water, television, soap, kisses at visiting times, or any other of lifes pleasantries. Killers should be dead. At the end of their story. In a pine box with a broken neck. They deserve nothing. This is what they have given their victims.
There will be no more birthdays for them. No specially prepared meals on anniversaries or travels to foreign lands. No gold at their rainbows end. Innocent victims of murder did no wrong. Were simply going about their buisness, often helping others as they went, when suddenly life is cruelly cut short in a merciless act. It is the ultimate betrayal of all that is decent. To not only rob a person of their goods and money but to steal the very breath in their lungs. To take away everything. There can be nothing more wretched and the death of innocence demands a fitting retribution. Skin for skin, bone for bone, blood for blood.
We should be ashamed to let killers walk free after comitting murder. The victims graveyard is forever swelling whilst sentences are shrinking. Justice? Definately not. Anyone who forgives this heinous act is not more human but less.
It was a sorry time when Britain (and others) abolished the death penalty. As a whole we became the killers friend, and a lot less kinder to innocence. And make no mistake we shall be rewarded for discarding the noose as punishment, only the rewards will not be sweetness and roses. It will be more death, more diseased actions from the hooded and many many freshly dug graves looking like scars across the country, reminding us that forgiveness pays in coffins.
It is not revenge to execute a killer. Revenge is a lot harsher than dying on the gallows. Nor is death a deterrant because life in solitary could deter just as well. Having the death penalty is simply punishment, you kill and you will be served with what you deserve; death. No more, no less.
Life in prison is no justice; in the lofty realms of the scheme of things a jail sentence for murder does nothing. The killer lives and spits in the eye of the victim. Its a terrible injustice but most cannot see it, they are ignorant to foul play. I can almost hear the victims weeping in their caskets.
Shame on us for allowing it to happen. Emotion has found a way into laws when none should exist. We cower in fear from cold justice and one day we will mourn the hemp rope. When all we have are killers and victims, the hand of death shall rise again upon savage hearts. There are not enough jails and murder is getting easier. Punishment can only go two ways of course: we can get more lenient or more severe. Worryingly mankind has opted for the latter option in todays cotton livered attitudes but time WILL turn again. As peoples fear grows so too will their frustrations, and murder will no longer be tolerated. Everything is cyclical and whether it takes 50 years or 500 the gallows will return to despatch swift and deserved punishment.
And let the scaffold stand alone as a method of execution. America muddied the waters by trying to find more humane methods with the electric chair and lethal injection. New doubts were expressed on efficiency, new problems occurred from voltage and chemicals. These all contributed to people taking their eyes off the main goal: punishing murderers. In Britain hanging was nailed down to a fine art, a science, and murderers were put to death with remarkable speed. As little as 10 seconds from cell to trapdoor. No fanfare or fuss. And definately no media interviews on television a few days before.
It should be reinstated with haste before we slide into brutal wastelands where good people hide from the lash of a blade or stray bullet. We will save a lot more than money by having the death penalty brought back. If we were halfway decent we would admit defeat regarding the pathetic sentences passed for murder, and instead of trying to find good in the killer we should honour the good that was in the victim. Giving a 8 to 12 year term isn't justice or punishment enough, in fact it is yet another strike to the victim. That we should be content to free murderers after such a feeble term is testament to mans failing in understanding the effects of such a crime. Man will not be Man for long if the spirit breaks.
All the good intentions of those who oppose capital punishment will be drowned in untamed seas ruled by predators. Death feeds on death its true but in times when even a wrong look can earn your cemetery stay then this most ancient of punishment must be handed to all those who murder.
Monday 10 August 2009
RetroDj: Dawn On A Brand New Old Touch
In trying to recapture a little youth, which only truly escapes if one allows it to, I have been buying items on a well known auction site and started a collection. It is truly amazing what one can find. For example I discovered a few days ago someone selling Oric-1 games. This was the first home computer I ever had and unsuprisingly time had done a great job of shrouding the images and names of the games which were available. Amazing how one can so easily forget things that as a boy were desired more than anything else in the world. I could have tasted the special place these games took me too years ago, and until recently it had been disgarded among other relics of the mind.
And suddenly there they were again, before my ever widening eyes. Rat Splat! was the first game I saw; utterly adored as a boy, long forgotten as a man but now it was back and the image sent such a wave of nostalgia through my body that for a second I was actually back in 1983 on that beautiful Christmas day when I first played it. Rat Splat! echoes of my mother saying 'urgh splatting rats thats horrible!' rang in my head like she was beside me again. And as I scrolled down the items for sale the memories got ever deeper.
Next I saw Xenon 1, a space invaders game which had a videocase type cassette cover. The green and orange space ship heading into a giant number 1 picked my nostalgia fever up a level and even though I no longer have a Oric computer to play the games on I knew that I would be placing bids.
Mr Wimpy arrived next, a fun burger making game that was a great title. The baddies I remembered well; Sid Sos, Sam Spoon, Pam Pickle and Ogy Egg, but it was the Star Nastie as he was billed who really opened the floodgates, the great Waldo!! Who was basically a jester type head that chased you about the screen. Fantastic!!
When Zorgon's Revenge appeared I was already buzzing from the high of childhood memories but it was no less a fabulous and very familiar sight. The hero of this amazing little game was called simply what he was, The Hero, and I guided him past two headed laser shooting aliens and rode on the tails of giant birds through hailstorms with him many many times to rescue the Princess. The feelings and emotions from these snapshots are indeed priceless, and millions of pounds could not buy them.
Then my eyes caught hold of the next and final game on offer, and my soul went into dizzy raptures! Dinky Kong!! This was a game I had lovingly obssessed over as a boy. Certain games strike a chord with us gamers and the three which first made big impressions on my younger self were Donkey Kong, Ghosts n' Goblins and Green Beret. I was besotted by them, they meant the world to me, (me who always delighted in escaping school through books and now videogames).
Dinky Kong was a copy of one of those games, and now it was before my disbelieving eyes again! I almost had to pinch the screen to check it wasn't a internet mirage!! There it was, a long lost object of such delirious passion now instantly remembered and within my reach again.
How well I recalled the games cover art: an evil looking gorilla with sloping jaw, barrel raised above its head, ready to throw at a frightened bean faced man with panic in his eyes who is running from another barrel and a bright yellow fireball. I very nearly choked on rabid glee. The bids could reach £20 and still would be acceptable, even with the fact that I don't yet own another Oric to play on.
I sat hypnotised by the wonderful images of the games and bathed in the calming butter of memories brought instantly back to life after long years dead.
It thrilled me to know that for a mere 99p I would be owning them again, tiny slices of a past that I am still able to touch. Resurrection through bits of plastic and cardboard. Fantastic!!
And it seems as if I am not alone in wistfully looking back toward a more innocent, more stable era. Many websites have popped up dedicated to all things retro (what a wonderful word that is: Retro). There is a big market for toys from the 70s & 80s, and rightly so for they were the years when home entertainment grew into its own. Everything took off: radio, magazines, computers, films via VHS and Betamax, television. The multi coloured rainbow stretched for miles, planting magical and often bizarre ideas into the minds of those who watched and listened.
The 1980's were a virile time for videogames, which flowered under the enthusiastic imaginations of programmers and publishing houses. Children of that era were not as soaked with cheap cider and cannabis as they are these days. There was a healthy escape to strange lands without a need for plastic intoxication.
Arcades thrived and many a sunny day I spent under a sprites protective shadow, guiding the feisty little thing past hoards of goblins or charging through gangs of punks.
Double Dragon, a great fighting game which I swamped with coins. Paperboy the arcade game where the cabinet had handlebars for controls and the player guided a mini paperboy along perilous suburbia, filled with staggering drunkards, fighting skinheads, statues that came to life and even a stalker/fan at the end of the course who held a placard proclaiming 'I Luv U Paperboy'. What wonderful sights to grow up with.
And suddenly there they were again, before my ever widening eyes. Rat Splat! was the first game I saw; utterly adored as a boy, long forgotten as a man but now it was back and the image sent such a wave of nostalgia through my body that for a second I was actually back in 1983 on that beautiful Christmas day when I first played it. Rat Splat! echoes of my mother saying 'urgh splatting rats thats horrible!' rang in my head like she was beside me again. And as I scrolled down the items for sale the memories got ever deeper.
Next I saw Xenon 1, a space invaders game which had a videocase type cassette cover. The green and orange space ship heading into a giant number 1 picked my nostalgia fever up a level and even though I no longer have a Oric computer to play the games on I knew that I would be placing bids.
Mr Wimpy arrived next, a fun burger making game that was a great title. The baddies I remembered well; Sid Sos, Sam Spoon, Pam Pickle and Ogy Egg, but it was the Star Nastie as he was billed who really opened the floodgates, the great Waldo!! Who was basically a jester type head that chased you about the screen. Fantastic!!
When Zorgon's Revenge appeared I was already buzzing from the high of childhood memories but it was no less a fabulous and very familiar sight. The hero of this amazing little game was called simply what he was, The Hero, and I guided him past two headed laser shooting aliens and rode on the tails of giant birds through hailstorms with him many many times to rescue the Princess. The feelings and emotions from these snapshots are indeed priceless, and millions of pounds could not buy them.
Then my eyes caught hold of the next and final game on offer, and my soul went into dizzy raptures! Dinky Kong!! This was a game I had lovingly obssessed over as a boy. Certain games strike a chord with us gamers and the three which first made big impressions on my younger self were Donkey Kong, Ghosts n' Goblins and Green Beret. I was besotted by them, they meant the world to me, (me who always delighted in escaping school through books and now videogames).
Dinky Kong was a copy of one of those games, and now it was before my disbelieving eyes again! I almost had to pinch the screen to check it wasn't a internet mirage!! There it was, a long lost object of such delirious passion now instantly remembered and within my reach again.
How well I recalled the games cover art: an evil looking gorilla with sloping jaw, barrel raised above its head, ready to throw at a frightened bean faced man with panic in his eyes who is running from another barrel and a bright yellow fireball. I very nearly choked on rabid glee. The bids could reach £20 and still would be acceptable, even with the fact that I don't yet own another Oric to play on.
I sat hypnotised by the wonderful images of the games and bathed in the calming butter of memories brought instantly back to life after long years dead.
It thrilled me to know that for a mere 99p I would be owning them again, tiny slices of a past that I am still able to touch. Resurrection through bits of plastic and cardboard. Fantastic!!
And it seems as if I am not alone in wistfully looking back toward a more innocent, more stable era. Many websites have popped up dedicated to all things retro (what a wonderful word that is: Retro). There is a big market for toys from the 70s & 80s, and rightly so for they were the years when home entertainment grew into its own. Everything took off: radio, magazines, computers, films via VHS and Betamax, television. The multi coloured rainbow stretched for miles, planting magical and often bizarre ideas into the minds of those who watched and listened.
The 1980's were a virile time for videogames, which flowered under the enthusiastic imaginations of programmers and publishing houses. Children of that era were not as soaked with cheap cider and cannabis as they are these days. There was a healthy escape to strange lands without a need for plastic intoxication.
Arcades thrived and many a sunny day I spent under a sprites protective shadow, guiding the feisty little thing past hoards of goblins or charging through gangs of punks.
Double Dragon, a great fighting game which I swamped with coins. Paperboy the arcade game where the cabinet had handlebars for controls and the player guided a mini paperboy along perilous suburbia, filled with staggering drunkards, fighting skinheads, statues that came to life and even a stalker/fan at the end of the course who held a placard proclaiming 'I Luv U Paperboy'. What wonderful sights to grow up with.
Sunday 9 August 2009
Alcoholics Adubious
The promise of A.A is a very sincere one. Abstain from alcohol and a better life awaits; a sober, clear life filled with hope. But is this really so? Is it all sweetness and light or are there pitfalls and dark corners? To be fair they never really claim to be THE answer and neither do they claim the road will be a comfortable one. There are however a lot of members who seem to have replaced their alcohol addiction with A.A addiction.
I had alcohol issues (re. couldn't stop boozing) throughout my 20's and as a result by 25 I spent a month at a very secluded, very upmarket private rehab. It was there that I had my first taste of A.A and it repulsed me. I was instantly sick of it. Sure the message was good, a day at a time helps to stay sober, but the way it was put forth was very 'wet' which is unfortunate for a group who preach abstinence.
It has a lot of God talk, and speaks of handing oneself over to a 'higher power' which I concede in these troubling times is not such a bad thing, but there's a lot more to it than that. Something cultish.
In the 20 meetings I was forced to attend (its all included with a rehab package holiday) I witnessed a frightening amount of people who had become obssessed with the A.A ritual. They had indeed got sober but in doing so had merely swapped their addiction to the sauce for the mighty mouth of the sermon. Time and time again I heard people, good people at that, beat themselves up over regret and anguish whilst others in the group nodded in condolences. I thought at the time that it was a bit like how it must have been watching people in the stocks in the 17th century. I still do, it was an uncomfortable experience, especially when one saw how nice these people were without their 'band of gold'. (My term for anyone who has religion).
The phrases too irked me. Things like 'Keep Coming Back' and 'It Too Shall Pass' are heavy on optimism but hold little of anything of actual substance. It seems to me an idle hope thrown to someone in dire distress, when that person needs actual physical and spiritual help, not a line tossed to him from the sober.
The programme of Alcoholics Anonymous has predictibly slithered on to the world wide web also. Put in the words 'sobriety' 'alcohol' or anything to do with A.A and you will discover a multitude of websites preaching a 'new life' and promising a better time without alcohol and drugs. Invariably these places are full to the brim of 'clean' people who hold their sobriety as an example to us wretches who still imbibe. I am aware of the fact they wish us 'normal' drinkers a happy time in our alcoholically soaked pursuits but I have a difficult time in believing them to be sincere. Deep down they must envy us and occasionaly an odd comment here and there, laced with a tinge of spite proves this to be utterly true.
I have no problem in alcholics getting themselves into recovery and achieving sobriety but the ways of some of A.A's most ardent supporters shows me it is not all harmony, indeed if it were then it could not have inspired this very piece that you are reading.
Their belief that once an alcoholic one can never again return to normal drinking is flawed.I know this to be true because I myself was alcoholic throughout my twenties. Hardly a day went by without some incident that had its seed in booze, whether it was me actually under the influence or recovering from yet another disastrous binge. I would start the day at 7am with a few cans of super strength lager or half a bottle of vodka, and continue this all day until Id pass out only to wake up early evening to repeat it all again. Plus I used pills like they were going out fashion. If this isn't alcoholic behaviour I don't know what is, but I can say now that im in my 30's I am able to drink with no ill effects. So the sober mantra is definately not the only one to seek out. I simply grew tired of the chaos that heavy drinking brings and shrugged my shoulders and decided that moderation was the key. Self abuse is always YOUR decision, very rarely is something out of your grasp.
I felt miserable sitting in the confines of an A.A meeting and not because of the sad stories being thrown about like cheap suits but by the narrow vision of those there. They had been suckered into believing the only way was abstinence, and for a lot of us it is not.
If people are happy in their new found life then this is all that matters, however there are those I have come across who are not happy in sobriety. They have a desire to drink but have been told by the A.A preachers that it 'does get better'. This shallow promise does little to quell the rising urge to have a drink, and more often nutures resentment in the person who wishes to drink.
How good can flexing negative vibes be? This I believe is the reason that the majority of drinkers relapse into old habits. Being told there is only one way is very final, and most would like to test the boundaries.
All I saw in A.A (and continue to see on internet forums)convinced me how shaky the whole idea is. And how some members become robots rather than human. Any trouble flares up and they say 'Keep Coming Back' and repeat it over and over like a prayer that will somehow make the trouble disappear. They use words instead of action and trust more in the 'Big Book' than they do their own hearts. A perilous journey opens through blind faith and hope.
Plus great things were created from alcohol and drugs: The Who, The Stones, any writer or actor worth his/her salt. Sobriety creates nothing. Never does.
There are a lot of Christians in A.A but if Jesus Christ ever did come back to earth they would not believe it was him because they struggle to believe me when I tell them I have indeed recovered from alcoholism and can now drink again without craving.
I had alcohol issues (re. couldn't stop boozing) throughout my 20's and as a result by 25 I spent a month at a very secluded, very upmarket private rehab. It was there that I had my first taste of A.A and it repulsed me. I was instantly sick of it. Sure the message was good, a day at a time helps to stay sober, but the way it was put forth was very 'wet' which is unfortunate for a group who preach abstinence.
It has a lot of God talk, and speaks of handing oneself over to a 'higher power' which I concede in these troubling times is not such a bad thing, but there's a lot more to it than that. Something cultish.
In the 20 meetings I was forced to attend (its all included with a rehab package holiday) I witnessed a frightening amount of people who had become obssessed with the A.A ritual. They had indeed got sober but in doing so had merely swapped their addiction to the sauce for the mighty mouth of the sermon. Time and time again I heard people, good people at that, beat themselves up over regret and anguish whilst others in the group nodded in condolences. I thought at the time that it was a bit like how it must have been watching people in the stocks in the 17th century. I still do, it was an uncomfortable experience, especially when one saw how nice these people were without their 'band of gold'. (My term for anyone who has religion).
The phrases too irked me. Things like 'Keep Coming Back' and 'It Too Shall Pass' are heavy on optimism but hold little of anything of actual substance. It seems to me an idle hope thrown to someone in dire distress, when that person needs actual physical and spiritual help, not a line tossed to him from the sober.
The programme of Alcoholics Anonymous has predictibly slithered on to the world wide web also. Put in the words 'sobriety' 'alcohol' or anything to do with A.A and you will discover a multitude of websites preaching a 'new life' and promising a better time without alcohol and drugs. Invariably these places are full to the brim of 'clean' people who hold their sobriety as an example to us wretches who still imbibe. I am aware of the fact they wish us 'normal' drinkers a happy time in our alcoholically soaked pursuits but I have a difficult time in believing them to be sincere. Deep down they must envy us and occasionaly an odd comment here and there, laced with a tinge of spite proves this to be utterly true.
I have no problem in alcholics getting themselves into recovery and achieving sobriety but the ways of some of A.A's most ardent supporters shows me it is not all harmony, indeed if it were then it could not have inspired this very piece that you are reading.
Their belief that once an alcoholic one can never again return to normal drinking is flawed.I know this to be true because I myself was alcoholic throughout my twenties. Hardly a day went by without some incident that had its seed in booze, whether it was me actually under the influence or recovering from yet another disastrous binge. I would start the day at 7am with a few cans of super strength lager or half a bottle of vodka, and continue this all day until Id pass out only to wake up early evening to repeat it all again. Plus I used pills like they were going out fashion. If this isn't alcoholic behaviour I don't know what is, but I can say now that im in my 30's I am able to drink with no ill effects. So the sober mantra is definately not the only one to seek out. I simply grew tired of the chaos that heavy drinking brings and shrugged my shoulders and decided that moderation was the key. Self abuse is always YOUR decision, very rarely is something out of your grasp.
I felt miserable sitting in the confines of an A.A meeting and not because of the sad stories being thrown about like cheap suits but by the narrow vision of those there. They had been suckered into believing the only way was abstinence, and for a lot of us it is not.
If people are happy in their new found life then this is all that matters, however there are those I have come across who are not happy in sobriety. They have a desire to drink but have been told by the A.A preachers that it 'does get better'. This shallow promise does little to quell the rising urge to have a drink, and more often nutures resentment in the person who wishes to drink.
How good can flexing negative vibes be? This I believe is the reason that the majority of drinkers relapse into old habits. Being told there is only one way is very final, and most would like to test the boundaries.
All I saw in A.A (and continue to see on internet forums)convinced me how shaky the whole idea is. And how some members become robots rather than human. Any trouble flares up and they say 'Keep Coming Back' and repeat it over and over like a prayer that will somehow make the trouble disappear. They use words instead of action and trust more in the 'Big Book' than they do their own hearts. A perilous journey opens through blind faith and hope.
Plus great things were created from alcohol and drugs: The Who, The Stones, any writer or actor worth his/her salt. Sobriety creates nothing. Never does.
There are a lot of Christians in A.A but if Jesus Christ ever did come back to earth they would not believe it was him because they struggle to believe me when I tell them I have indeed recovered from alcoholism and can now drink again without craving.
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