Mug Love

The other day, while doing some housework, I came across a gem of a thing in the cupboards of the house I now inhabit.  A mug.

Some people have no appreciation of the attraction of a good mug.  They see a mug as nothing more than a receptacle for liquids, and a means of conveying beverages to the mouth.  For those who don't understand, allow me to enlighten you.

A favourite mug is a very personal thing.  For some people, a feeling of sturdy ruggedness is important, others look for large capacity.  Some require both.  Or the absence of both.  Or one of those things in conjunction with something else not mentioned here.  A humorous image, a bon mot, advice or encouragement.  As I say, it's personal, and I couldn't list everything everybody looks for from their mug.  My previous favourite, a Simpsons one featuring a nude Homer chasing a blue iced doughnut, was broken shortly after I unpacked it following a period of storage.  I was obviously devastated, but, ever stoic, resigned myself to drinking from lesser vessels.  Not for the first time, I considered purchasing a 2000AD mug.  They look about the right size and construction, if a little thick and rounded at the top for my tastes.

My new stoup is a very dark brown, almost black, with a white interior, which I like.  It is, I was surprised to find, roughly as deep as it is broad.  That is, it's as tall as my middle finger, and its diameter is the same.  Its handle comfortably accommodates my three upper fingers, with enough space under the handle for my little finger to support, without being bumped uncomfortably when I place the mug on the table.  Or coaster.  I always use a coaster.

Its a great all-rounder.  It's solid enough to be a comfortable tea mug, while svelte enough to be a respectable coffee mug.  It's plain without being boring, simple, elegant and functional. 

It is everything I aspire to be, yet am not.  In mug form. 

NSFW. Certificate 15.

(Grandad.  If you're reading this, please choose another post. Any other post.x)

There is a thing that we all have access to, whenever we choose, which has the power to make us feel better in times of pain or stress.  As with all things, some people use it more than others.  Some, I can't help but feel, abuse the privilege.  Some people rarely, if ever, use it.  Some can't stand it.  The thing is a word, and the word is cunt.

Personally,  I use it very little from day to day, and never on social media.  I understand there might be times when it is exactly the word you need to convey your thoughts, and then it is right and correct to use it, but generally I find other ways to express myself.  There is little that upsets me to the point that that must be the word I use, and often it is funnier if I find some other phrasing to accurately portray my displeasure.  I have friends, however, who regularly put their cunts out there.  One in particular is always flashing his.

It's one of the first ways I discovered the joys of subversion.  Having been angrily told by my Mum I must never say it (after I'd foolishly repeated a Roy 'Chubby' Brown joke in front of her), she sat me down a few days or weeks later and we listened to Derek and Clive.  While it's far from Pete and Dud's best work, there is still an intelligence there belied by the language used, but the joke wears thin far more quickly than other, less immediately shocking skits of theirs.  Even these two comedy giants, whose work I adore, at points fall back on the word as a crutch, and those sketches aren't so much funny as desperate.

Critics will say that it is just a word.  But it isn't.  It is a talisman.  It's a special word.  It is a word we have imbued with power through it's connotations.  A cunt is a linguistic commodity, and as with other commodities, it is devalued in an over saturated market.  A study has shown that swearing increases pain tolerance, but that its general over-employment may reduce its specific efficacy.  As the king (or queen) of swear words, cunt is a real life Shazam!*, temporarily granting us super powers.

I think a cunt should be cherished, nurtured, protected, and only exposed to the light of day in an environment in which it can be appreciated for the thing of beauty it is. Familiarity, as I'm sure you are aware, breeds contempt. It would be a sad day, the day I wake to find a callous has formed on my soul where that word has traditionally rubbed.  So please, next time you find yourself about to employ it, take a second to see if you can't find a more amusing or appropriate term.  Don't be a...prat.

*To my comic nerd brethren.  I would have loved to have used Kimota! as the word in the main body of this post, but it's even more obscure than the already obscure Shazam!.  I haven't checked out DC's reboot, post 52.  Thoughts?

Exercise...

There are words which are pleasant both to say and to hear.  Wool is one.  Feisty.  Unenviable.  Flatulent.  Mellifluous.  All a joy to enunciate.  That one's pretty nice too.

Then there are others, which not only are unpleasant to say, but also not pleasing to the ear.  Some people struggle with the first 'r' in February.  Espresso causes grief by dint of it's regular mispronunciation.  There is a minor anxiety experienced at the beginning of each of these, for both speaker and listener, not entirely alleviated by it's successful vocalisation, because what about next time?

This is a round-about way of introducing the idea that there are many reasons I hate 'exercise'.  As a word, it slips and slithers in a most untrustworthy fashion.  'Ex' creates associations with other words meaning 'to want rid of', most obviously exorcise, but also expunge, extinguish, exile, excommunicate, exfoliate, and of course, exes.

'Ex' as a prefix is a warning of a kind, and we should listen to it, most especially in the case of the word 'exercise'.

I myself recently considered becoming involved in a program of exercise.  Having made it to my thirties, looking back on a life of moderate to high (whenever possible) excess (another warning!) I cut down the drink, cut out the smokes, and began reacquainting myself with fruit as a foodstuff rather than table decoration.  Having been single for some time, I'd lost my only form of physical exercise, chasing after partners who'd walk away when we argued.  Surely the perfect accompaniment to this new, healthier living was a regimen of vigorous physical activity?  But what to do?

I thought about running.  Anybody can do that.  There's a park at the end of my road.  I went running.  A few times.  I got shin splints.  I got advice.  Bought running shoes.  Ran in them.  Twice.

The thing is, is that I've always hated running.  It's helluva dull. 
Yes, you can listen to music, as you haul your unwilling self interminably round and round the same scenery, red faced and sweaty, sore kneed, drowning out your gasping for breath but unable to overcome the pounding of blood in your ears.  Or you can listen to music at home.  With a cup of tea.  Not sweating, or red faced, or uncomfortable in any way.  On better audio equipment.

I'm willing to admit that people who tough this initial phase out may actually begin to enjoy the experience (is 'experience' a warning word?  It certainly suggests encounters with adversity, or having weathered mistakes...).  But that leads to another reason I despise running and runners.

As I said, I'm in my thirties.  When I took my initial, exploratory (careful!) steps in the park, I looked like what I was, a middle aged man attempting his first exercise for some years, in old trainers and a band tee-shirt.  There's no getting around the fact that you look faintly ridiculous.  When I bought the running shoes, I also bought some shorts and tees to wear with them.  This makes you look ridiculous in another way.  You have to move with a certain grace, and travel a certain distance, or you risk being judged as having 'all the gear and no idea'.  Especially with a physique like mine.  I've been blessed with a body which, though it changes little, from the age of 24 has the constant appearance of gaining weight and losing hair.  Which is fine, because the next level up, is to actually be good at running, and have a body that reflects the fact that you exercise.  Then, when seen running, you cannot help but appear to be a poser.  At no stage of the running process do you look like anything less than a git.

It didn't take me long to realise that my thoughts and feelings about running could be, and are, equally relevant to other forms of exercise.  Exercise is not activity.  You aren't accomplishing anything other than exercising.  It's pointless and it's vain, and not only vain in a physical sense.  If you exercise for health reasons, to extend your life, how inflated is your sense of self-worth that you think the world won't get along without you in it?  Get over yourself, you preening tit.

And when I say you, I do of course mean me.  And you.  Wouldn't the world be better if we all just gave it up, and indulged in hideous excess until we grew fat enough to merge and become a gestalt, brief lived entity?

x

Meditations on Good and Evil

It is an oft repeated claim that 'all that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.' but it is not strictly true. Evil has to be doing something while the good men rest.

What you may not be aware of, unless you subscribe to the Evil Newsletter, is that evil never rests. I have an evil friend, and he shows me the newsletter. He's not supposed to, but the evil aren't big on following rules. That's part of what makes them evil.

They're a surprisingly organised bunch. Shifts, forecasts, projected aims and outcomes, emergency numbers in the event someone is found to be shirking their evil duty, and a fiendishly difficult crossword, it's all in the newsletter.

Women, of course, are capricious, and bring balance to men by constantly being at odds with what they want to accomplish, whether that be for good or ill. Neither good nor evil themselves, they serve an important function, but can be ignored with regards philosophy of higher ideals. This is why Burke left them out of his famous statement. We shouldn't excoriate them, rather celebrate that they are here to temper and moderate our extremes.

The worst kind of evil, the most damaging, is that which masquerades as good. No-one is more dangerous than a wrong-doer convinced they are Doing The Right Thing.

These are the bigots. The zealots. The extremists. People who want to save us from ourselves.

These people don't subscribe to the evil newsletter. They don't consider themselves to be evil, and though they may agree with some of the ideas expressed in the newsletter, often they feel that suggested practises don't go far enough, or methods of implementation are too insidious. People who Do The Right Thing have no need of insidious methods. Right, as they see it, is on their side.

They freely dispense their advice, heedless of the fact that no-one asked for it. They may write a blog, ridiculing people who don't share their point of view. They divide the world into 'Them' and 'Us' categories.

The real problem is that they muddy the waters, blurring the lines between those of us who are good and those who are evil, which evil-doers can at times exploit, promoting fear and paranoia.

Henceforth, my blog will be an unofficial newsletter for the good. Please be aware that your opinion of what is good may differ to mine, but as I am arbiter, you should revise your opinion accordingly.

Love, even unto the women. (Especially unto the women). (Exactly the same proportion of love to the men and the women).

Be excellent to each other.x  

Crime fiction. TW.

Another piece of short fiction I wrote years back.

‘Sit down.’ I indicated a stool along the bar from me. He sat.

‘What are you having?’ I asked.

‘Whisky.’ He said, ‘A good one.’

‘Macallen, 18 year old?’

‘Good enough.’ He shrugged his way out of a leather jacket, and lay that on the bar beside him.

The barman poured a generous glassful and pushed it towards Pete, who barely looked up from the bar, but muttered his thanks before turning to me and raising his glass. I raised mine and took a sip, then reached to my inside pocket and took out a pair of brown envelopes thick with their contents.

‘Sorry it took longer to clean, this economy’s hurting everyone.’

He laughed. ‘A coupla days more? I figure what we got, I can wait.’ He took the envelopes, one in each hand, and smiled, appreciating their weight, then put them next to his drink.

He raised his drink again, ‘The biggest job we ever done.’, and emptied the glass, then whistled loudly for the barman, unnecessarily, he was on his way over. The doors were locked, chairs on the tables, fruit machines switched off, we had his full attention. He waited at the other end of the bar when not needed, respecting my need for privacy in my dealings, but nonetheless attentive.

He was a good lad, and I bristled slightly at the whistling, but it was just Pete's way when he was in a good mood, so I said nothing, and he ordered us two more drinks. I thanked the barman.

‘How long have we worked together?’ I asked. Pete looked at me and pondered.

‘Must be 22, 23 years.’

‘Yeah.’ I grinned, remembering us back then. ‘When I was 24 I thought I had the world at my feet.  What a big man I was.’

‘You’re a bigger man now.’ He grinned

‘Ay, I earned this,’ I caressed my stomach gently, and shot back, ‘Got nothing to prove, look at you, you probably still got a six pack, just to show off to the young’uns. Sad on a middle aged man’

‘Six pack and...’ He ran one hand through his thick, dark, neatly cut hair, looking like a model from an advert for dye, or rich roast coffee. I’d been shaving mine close ever since it went thin in my early thirties.

We both drank then, amused.

‘Didn’t think then we’d still be doing the same shit now.’ Pete said.

‘I guess the scale changed. We got cleaner, more professional. And I got this place.’ I waved an arm vaguely around.

‘Yeah.’ He looked at me, ‘Your ivory tower.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Never get your hands dirty now. You plan the things, but we never see you on the jobs.’ He looked ruefully at his now empty glass.

The barman arrived then and I told him to leave the bottle. I poured Pete’s next drink myself.

‘Is that so bad? I planned this last job.’

‘Aye’ he said, brightening.

‘Tell me about it.’

He looked at me. ‘What about it?’

‘How it went. What happened.’

‘You know how it went. You’ve just given me my share of the prize. We all came back, nobody hurt, no problems, everything cool.’

‘Just talk me through it. As you said, this is the biggest job of our lives and, as you also pointed out, I’m not on the jobs myself any more. Gimme a walk through, let me picture the scene.’

‘Heh’ he shifted on the stool to fully face me, just his arm resting on the bar by his drink. ‘Well, after the fortnight we spent randomly tripping his alarm system he was less cautious than before.  Can’t imagine the names he must’ve called the repairmen he’d had out.’

I smiled.

‘So we set it off, and waited outside. He was still careful enough to leave his wife and kid in the car while he checked the house. We ran at the car from our various positions, got her and the boy out and walked them up to the house, shutting the door behind us. He was coming down the stairs, but stopped when he saw us and the knives at their throats. Kev told him to keep coming, and Paul set up a chair in the dining room for us to tape him to.’

He had finished his drink while he was talking, so I topped the glass up. He nodded appreciatively.

‘The wife and kid were in the room with him, off to one side. The dining room turned out to be ideal. You know what those posh types are like. The range of cutlery there on the table was, uh, good for inspiration.’

He was warming to his subject, becoming more animated as he talked, obviously enjoying the recollection. One of the reasons I’d kept using Pete, beyond our history, was that he took a certain pride in a job well done, and that led to a passion comparable to a chefs for food or a pianists for music.

‘We worked him over gently before we asked him anything, but he knew why we were there, and was denying having anything beyond the wife’s jewellery and the silverware in the house before we’d said a word. Kev dragged the kid over in front of him, told him he didn’t believe him, and said if he didn’t tell us where the coke and money was we’d kill the boy. The wife was crying and begging but that cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch just shook his head.’

I refilled his glass and he thanked me, then excused himself, and went to the toilets. I sat in silence, sipping my drink and digesting what I’d heard so far, until he came back and resumed his story.

‘Well, of course, we couldn’t kill the kid till later, if we’d done that straight away he and his missus would never cooperate, so I told Paul to stand behind him. Know what a carving fork looks like, with the two prongs?’

I nodded.

‘I got Paul to hold his eye open, then pressed the fork to it, just close enough to touch, and asked him again, real quiet, where the stuff was. Always liked eyes. I seen some hard men break when their eyes were under threat. Not as messy as doing bollocks, and almost as effective.’

He got out a packet of embassy and lit one, thanking the barman pleasantly when supplied with an ashtray. This smoking ban in pubs baffles me, and I’ve no problem with the after hours lot smoking in here.

‘At first he was quiet, then he told me. Two different places, opposite ends of the house, Ten kilos, pure as the driven, six million in cash. I nearly laughed out loud.’

‘And then?’ I sensed the story was finishing and was now eager to get to the end.

‘Then we did the three of them, Kev and Paul drove to Dorset, dumped their car and them off a cliff, drove back, and I came and gave you what we got.’

‘Smooth and easy.’ I said.

‘Smooth and easy. Never had a job go like it.’

I reached toward his glass with the bottle, now nearly empty itself, but he held his hand up to stop me. I filled mine instead, and he waved the barman over.

‘What’s that thing, like tequila, but real good stuff?’

‘Mescal?’

‘Got any?’

The barman turned and pulled a bottle from the back shelf.

‘Any limes?’ Pete asked.

The barman turned again, placed the bottle on the bar, then disappeared out back for a second before returning with two freshly chopped limes on a little plate, set them down next to the bottle and smiled politely at Pete. A thought struck him, and he grabbed a fresh glass from a shelf over the bar, and set that next to the one Pete had been using. He turned to walk away, but Pete called him back and threw a tenner at him. For a second the barman looked amused, then bent to where the money had fallen, picked it up, and placed it next to the limes, before turning and walking away.  Pete looked at me quizzically, then burst out laughing.

‘Some kid you got working here, can afford to turn down tips like that.’

‘He’s a good lad, and he knows when to keep his mouth shut. Better’n that, he knows when to keep his ears shut. He earns his money, and gets a fair wage for what he does.’

Pete poured himself some of the mescal, knocked it back, and squeezed a lime into his up-turned mouth.

‘Never tried this stuff, but always wondered what it was like.’ He poured another glass.

‘It’s smooth. I’ll try sipping it this time.’ We were silent then, both lost in our own thoughts, him sipping his drink, me sipping mine. He got himself another cigarette and was about halfway through it when I asked ‘You ever think about the morality of what we do?’.

He took a drag on the cigarette, and contemplated me through the exhaled smoke.

‘Guess I must’ve at some point, but not for a long time now. Not consciously. Why, something bothering you about it?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Why now, all of a sudden, when we just came good? I mean, really good.’

‘I Dunno. Maybe I’d never thought about it before. I mean, it’s something we’ve always done.’

‘Right.’ He nodded, and sucked a slice of lime for a second, then grabbed the bottle to refill his glass.

‘You’re enjoying that. Why something new?’

He patted the envelopes on the bar.

‘Maybe I feel like celebrating a job well done.’

I emptied my glass, poured the last of the bottle for myself.

‘Sounded like you started celebrating before the job was done.’

‘What d’you mean?’ He sank the rest of his glass and poured another.

‘Paul told me what you did with the wife.’

He paused, then looked at me and grinned.

‘She was a cutie.’ Still smiling, he shook his head a little. ‘Would’ve been a crime to let that pass.’

‘You didn’t mention that in your account.’

‘I guess not. Must’ve slipped my mind. Not an important detail.’

I knocked back my drink and, while the barman was opening a fresh bottle, asked

‘You ever done that before?’

Pete sipped his drink.

‘Yeah. Not every time but, if they’re nice, I figure why not?’

‘Why not?’

‘I mean, we’re gonna kill’em anyway. Why not get some fun from them before they‘re no use to anyone? ’Cept sickos.’

I didn’t feel like drinking any more, but filled my glass from the fresh bottle anyway. I spilled a little on the bar ’cause my hand was shaking.

He laughed. ‘You remember that time you cut that guys arm off, and he was givin' you the finger when you did it, how we laughed at him tryin'ta get his wedding ring back, with nothing below his elbow? Man, every time I think of that, I can’t help but smile.’

‘You never touched the women back in the day.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘Who says it’s a problem?’ I pulled my hands from the bar, so he wouldn’t see the shake.

‘I gotta explain myself to you?’

‘I just want to hear about it’

He looked at me then, I could see him trying to figure out if he should be angry or amused. I stared back as passively as I could manage. Eventually he smiled.

‘Never figured you for the kind that pervs on this.’

‘When’d you start?’

‘Years back. Private job, for me, I realized that the guy wasn’t gonna give up the info I wanted from me threatening him, but the girl was a real sweet piece, and he was big time in love with her. Had her right there in front of him, him screaming out the details trying to get me to stop. Had to make him repeat everything after I finished, and he only did that ‘cause I told him I’d do it again, and again, until he told me calmly.’

‘It was a professional thing?’

‘Yeah, just another tool, get’em to talk.’

‘But you didn’t use it as a tool this time? The guy had already told you where everything was.’  Now I grabbed my glass and threw the drink down my neck in an effort to keep my voice steady, and give me an excuse not to be looking at him.

‘Like you said. Celebratin’. And like I said, if we’re gonna kill’em anyway, what’s worse than that?’

‘With the kid there?’

‘I took her upstairs, but the ones with kids are the best. Tell’em you’ll let the kid live if they do, some of’em’ll even act like they want it.’

I stood up.

‘’Scuse me.’ I headed towards the toilets.

‘You never could hold your drink.’

I went straight to the basin, and, looking in the mirror, it was easy to see why he’d thought that. A sweat covered my forehead, and I looked pale. My skin seemed to be stretched over my face a little too tight. I could hear birdsong. I ran the tap, splashed my face with water, then went back.

He was putting on his jacket.

‘Feelin’ better?’

‘Going somewhere?’

‘S’nearly seven. Time for bed.’ He swayed unsteadily towards the door. The barman was waiting with the door unlocked. Pete went through without saying anything else. The barman closed the door, then turned to look at me, one eyebrow raised, to hear my verdict.

‘Kill him.’.

SociaLite

A short story I wrote a couple of years back.

‘August 19th, 2504; I’m still fuzzy, but better than last week, and easily better than before that.  Clearer headed. Less anxious. The list helps, I think. Looking at it now, I can almost feel…something.  Of course, I wrote the list while still influenced by my eMote, and now I’m not, can I claim to be the same person? Should these thoughts make sense to me?

I’m not sure why I should feel there’s anything wrong with eMote. By all accounts, we’re much better off now than before it. More connected. And we, as a people, have wanted that for ever. Religious followers, patriots, sport team supporters, Marmite lovers and haters, everyone wants to feel they belong, everyone looks for others like themselves. Prior to eMote though, this longing for a connection was as likely to express itself as ‘fear of the other’ over cosmetic differences as it was in any sense of deeper brotherhood. 

I feel ridiculous, telling myself a history I already know, but I think it’s helping. Pinning down facts sets a boundary, a guide-rail. Even hearing myself dictate the words, the assurance in my voice, “these are things I know”, I’m sure pushes back the haze. As I advance through the tale, I advance on my own mind.

Of course, I say prior to eMote, I mean prior to the old Penfield. Named after an item in an old science fiction book, a ‘mood organ’, the Penfield required a stationary base, usually in a home or office, and the user, or users, to be in proximity to that base to be effective. As soon as a user left its sphere of influence, any effect they had been subject to more or less wore off.  It couldn’t be sustained.  

Nonetheless, it didn’t take long for someone to notice that people who used the Penfields together got along better for much longer than they could without one.

The first eMote innovation was to make their device portable, enabling people to remain under it’s influence wherever they went. The second was to have their devices synch up with each other.

With the Penfield it had been possible to have two devices running at the same time, each affecting a different user. Thus, one user could select, for example, ‘peaceable relaxation’, while the other could select ‘critical vexation’. Each selection would conflict with the other, causing discord, and ultimately leaving neither party satisfied with the experience. ‘Peaceable relaxation’, would become, perhaps, ‘tense defensiveness’, or ‘frustrated righteousness’, while ‘critical vexation’ would often find itself morphing into more of a ‘hysterical hopelessness’. The best outcome one could hope for in such a situation was that both would resolve into ‘weary resignation’, but such a resolution could not be relied upon.  

The synchronization element between eMotes was automatic.  If two or more users shared the same space, they would experience the same emotions. This, finally, was a true social application for the internet, which, until 2136, when the eMotes first came out, had had people ‘socialising’ mostly by sitting in front of a screen in a room on their own.

I sound like my old history textbooks…

Has it really been that long? Nearly 370 years since they entered our lives. And since then, only one major difference, the mood-glow, or SociaLite, introduced in the early 22 hundreds. And thank God for that. It’s bizarre to look at my hand now, without its reassuring luminescence of some cheery hue. Sub-dermal implants in the back of the left hand, which change to indicate the mood being experienced, which let you see at once that you are in accord with those around you. It’s amazing, the feeling of inclusion, as you join a group, and watch the subtle colour changes as your mood is absorbed into that groups. I can quite understand why alcohol, caffeine and other chemicals fell out of favour. The wrench that must have been experienced by both sides as someone jittery on such a stimulant, or mindless through some other excess, joined a gathering, simultaneously corrupting the group and to the same degree purifying the individual, must have been quite jarring.

Whatever I feel may be wrong with eMoteing, I am glad of the numerical tipping point, that if more than five people gather, only emotions in the positive spectrum can be experienced. The idea of five or more hot-heads getting together, egging each other on, and then heading out into the streets, or wherever, is terrifying. Who knows what may happen?

So, what began as a fashionable accessory, a ‘must-have’ item, truly became a must have item, through sheer convenience. Users found people who weren’t in-tune with them unnerving, and those who found themselves doing the unnerving found the social exclusion discomfiting, and soon hooked themselves up with an eMote unit themselves to see what they were missing. Soon, parents were having their children fitted with one at birth, so as to better understand the state of mind of their child.

Perhaps that’s it, my problem; after all, by opting out for this hour each week, I am removing myself from the fold, and alone. Should I be allowed to do this? I mean, I know after an hour, or if I try to leave my flat, the eMote will automatically come back online, bring me back to myself, but for this hour I feel so alien. Isn’t that dangerous?

Perhaps it was the realisation that I never saw a politicians hands. Any broadcast shots are strictly from the elbows up. This isn’t a problem, as such, because the broadcast medium emits an eMote field to ensure that everyone feels the way they should when the transmission is received. It’s just recently struck me as being peculiar. Apparently, though, the last big problem the politicians had was getting agreement to compulsory euthanasia once unable to work, and that was back in 2323 (a nice easy date to remember). But once people couldn’t work, they couldn’t afford their eMote tariff, and once cut-off, felt vulnerable and alone, so most of them were in favour, and visiting relatives, unable to empathise effectively with the eMoteless also tended to come round to the idea, so it was with some relief that the practice was adopted.

The only other people whose hands I never see are the technicians, who seriously creep me out. Not when they’re around, because they carry emitters which send a calming mood to all around, but afterwards, when I look back at any incident, because all I can remember is their gloves. Of course, they only turn up when needed, if someone is regularly accessing the negative side of the eMotes, and inflicting themselves on others, then the technicians will come to remove or limit that function on that individuals eMote unit. I respect what they do, and appreciate it’s a necessity, but wearing gloves seems so wilfully…other. What are they hiding?

It occurs to me that what I have just dictated is known to almost everyone on the planet, because these events are almost exclusively the major events of the world since the 22nd century. I mean, there were a few natural disasters, but people soon stopped talking, or even thinking, about them due to the negativity the subject bred. I know things happened, but I couldn’t name a location for or feature of such an occasion. But what strikes me now is that in over 300 years technology has barely advanced a step. Before that, as I recall, technology was constantly moving forward, gathering momentum, each step, each fresh discovery, forcing us faster and faster on to the next. Since the eMote united us, brought us contentment, we’ve slowed to a crawl.

Africa! That was an event. With global warming reaching a peak in 2194, the population had been dwindling for many years, I remember my whole class being simultaneously horrified by the thought of what had occurred and glad that we didn’t have to deal with it. There was a collective unspoken agreement to distract ourselves from the subject as soon as possible, and to never return to it again. I wonder why I’m remembering it now?

They understood, of course, that to send food was pointless. In that heat, food that would keep for long enough to be distributed was far too expensive. Likewise they appreciated that they could not afford to move elsewhere, and if they could, almost everywhere else had no room for them. What they asked, instead, was that for that last year, in which it was estimated that the great majority of those remaining would finally escape in the only manner left them, they be hooked up with eMotes, and the synchronicity field be expanded to cover whole countries, the idea being that the suffering of a few thousand people, and less each day, be shared out amongst many billions of people, while the comforts that those billions enjoyed be focused to some degree into those few thousand stranded there. Needless to say, those outside of Africa were reluctant to increase their own woes, and so the whole thing was mooted, leaving the Africans to die in solitude and despair.

This strikes me as barbaric and needlessly cruel. Even such concentrated suffering, as diluted as it would have been, would have barely affected my mood. Right now, I like to think that I would have been one of the few we heard about that considered accepting a unified field over the ‘net, and I even think I may have gone through with it, but I know, in reality, that even had I considered it, the mood around me would have prevailed and I, as did those that were there, would have given up on the idea pretty quickly.

I guess it’s for the best that we’re not constantly looking for the next big thing, the next advancement, the way we used to before eMote. Contentment has set us free. People used to hate their jobs, try to outdo each other with petty possessions, people used to yearn for something more, and often people would assume there was something wrong with themselves if they were unhappy with who they were or what they had, which led increasingly, from the 20th century, when people began to expect to be happy, to the recognition of various depressions, manias, syndromes and the like, and the prescription of various mood altering chemicals. Nowadays there is far less mental illness, no problems with addiction (what could be better than sharing eMote with people?) of any kind, depression is a thing of the past, and competition over material goods has virtually died out, since anyone bragging over something with someone in their eMote field would be sharing their satisfaction, and hence the emotional benefit of the trinket or bauble, with that person, too.

I’m beginning to feel restless. Looking at my list from last night, things I have felt I should be concerned about, none of them seem to make sense to me now. I thought my dictation was leading me somewhere. I don’t know who wrote these things, but it was not who I am now: ‘Crime?’?; What’s that supposed to mean? Why should I worry about crime when there hasn’t been any for over 200 years? ‘Art?’?; I should know that we stopped considering the point of art long ago, such a divisive subject would and could provoke wildly different responses within the same group, evening out as a kind of malaise, which, if the goal of ‘Art’ is to provoke a response, this forced indifference surely defeats the point. Besides, no-one’s created anything new for generations. ‘Necessity is the mother of invention’?; Well, as I mentioned earlier, technological advance has slowed right down, so I feel sure that we do not need anything, although I feel quite strongly that I do. I’m hating each second that I’m not connected now, and I’m counting down the seconds until my eMote comes back to life. Can’t stop looking at the back of my hand.

‘Individualism’; The last word on my list, and the most puzzling of all to me. I can’t concentrate on it. I can’t think why I wanted to do this. I shan’t be doing it again. I’m starting to panic now, what if the eMote has broken? It never has in the past but…

I shouldn’t have worried. A pleasant warmth spreads across the back of my hand and a friendly green glow radiates from that warmth. I can feel my girlfriends universal love from the other side of the wall. The couple upstairs are watching a comedy, and I enjoy their response to it. Below us, a child is feeding his cat, and his appreciation for the love he receives is a special kind of buzz we are glad to be a part of. Even the lonely lodger next door, recently visited by the technicians, seems to be emanating bonhomie. My own joy at being readmitted bleeds into their collective mood, and we all appreciate how lucky we are to be a part of this.

It’s good to be myself again.’

Alright Ed West, you just made the list....

While researching for a new blog post (yes I do), I came across this piece of nonsense rhetoric from 2010, which presents statistics in support of its opening statement that, if anything, show the opposite. 74% of those given a community penalty are reconvicted within 9 years, while 70% of those who served a prison sentence of a year or less reoffended within a year, although this is only relevant to 1 in 8 prisons, rendering the statistic virtually meaningless. In 14 prisons, 7 in 10 (70% again. Sorry) of those released reoffend within a year, and 1 in 5 (20% in the interests of clarity) given a caution also reoffend, though without a time-scale presented.

He attacks Kenneth Clarke's comments, which had sounded surprisingly reasonable to me, before suggesting that 'most evidence points to the unfortunate truth that no form of punishment, whether it's prison, community sentencing or sending kids on safari, has significant success rates'. Well, perhaps 'most evidence' does, but as I mentioned in my previous post, HMP Grendon has had success at significantly reducing recidivism, and does a lack of success elsewhere mean that we should stop exploring and plump for an increasingly expensive punishment, an ineffective deterrent, building and filling ad nauseum?

'The “prison works” argument of the unfairly maligned Michael Howard is the rational conclusion based on empirical evidence; the “prison is rehabilitation” argument is based on sentimentality, and an irrational radical idea that anyone can be perfected given the right social conditions, something which goes against our understanding of human nature. There is no evidence that shorter sentences do anything to improve the re-offending rate – quite the contrary.'

Jeez, that's a beauty, isn't it. Where to start? Having illustrated that prison doesn't work, he claims that Mr Howard was correct to state that it does, based on the same empirical evidence that points to the unfortunate truth... etc. I don't believe that anyone has made the claim that “prison is rehabilitation” in quite some time. However, the therapeutic prison of which I'm so fond has helped to rehabilitate offenders, and while they may not have been 'perfected', they have adjusted to social living. Which of us can claim to be perfect? With regards the paragraph's last sentence, it is equally true that there is no evidence that longer sentences improve the re-offending rate; in which case we must balance the cost to individuals and society of the crime/s committed against the cost of housing the offender at her majesty's pleasure, which appears to be exactly what Mr Clarke was attempting to do...

The articles closing paragraphs regarding class are so fatuous as to be risable. In fact the whole article is so rabid and absurd that I feel I may have been trolled.

These are some of the lengths taken to distort public perception in order to maintain the illusion that 'prison' is 'doing something about crime'.

It started with serial killers. Or maybe it didn't. Maybe before that, it was the idea of death.

My Mum tells me that, when she used to read me bedtime stories ('28 years old, I was' etc) I repeatedly asked to hear about death. It was a subject which fascinated me. A state of otherness that nobody could describe, but that everyone would experience.

Around age 10 I began to get interested in serial killers. If murder is the worst crime somebody can commit, prematurely sending someone to this other state, what sort of person could repeatedly commit it? Is impelled to perform the act again and again, refining and honing, perfecting, tailoring the experience to suit themselves? How deviant!

From there, it was a matter of degrees. By the time I was ready to go to university, I was interested in all crime. I read mysteries and detective fiction. I followed news reports about drug smuggling operations being 'busted', about celebrities discovered not paying their taxes, or using 'hookers', about Doctors found to be administering overdoses of diamorphine to their elderly patients... Of course I was still interested in killers, but they were at the extreme end of a broader question What does it take to be a criminal? For most of us, the answer is simply 'being caught'.

It often surprises me how few people accept that they indulge/have indulged in criminal behaviour. Drinking under-age, pocketing an eye-liner from Boots, downloading a film or album, walking off with erroneously excessive change, speeding, taking stationary from work, or an experimental puff on a 'funny cigarette'...

Often we excuse these behaviours as young people pushing their boundaries (drinking, drugs, shoplifting), or because 'everybody does it' (speeding, stationary theft, accepting extra change), some result in financial losses for the victim, others only affect the perpetrator, but they are all criminal activities. That is not to say that I feel we shouldn't excuse them in this way, with appropriate soft penalties when discovered to demonstrate disapproval, but merely to illustrate that just because someone is a criminal does not make them a bad person.

When I talk with people about options other than prison, many first respond by extending my point beyond any comment I've made, saying 'So you don't want to send murderers to jail?'... To which I'm forced to admit, 'Well, no and yes...'.

In many cases violent offenders lack empathy, but can learn it, as evidenced by the success of the daily therapy regime in use at HMP Grendon. This is the kind of prison that we need more of, if we want prison to accomplish anything more than simply removing offenders from our streets for a finite time. It's reduction of recidivism would ease the problem of 'packed' prisons, save money long term, and result in less crime, all of which traditional prison regimes have failed to achieve. However, budget cuts in the short term are causing problems, as is general overcrowding, and threatening to put a stop to the only prison in the UK to have proven to lower re-offending rates' ability to do so.

It's just occurred to me that those who are still against the rolling out of this system may be exhibiting the same lack of empathy displayed by violent offenders. There's irony.

Those who aren't against rolling out the reforms, let me know. Let's start something.

There's a moment in Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy when the character Smiley explains that the things he talked about during an interview gave away more about his own preoccupations than they ever revealed about the interviewee, who had stayed silent throughout. I read this several years ago and it's an idea that has stayed with me, our projected motivations reflecting on ourselves, often popping up while I listen to someone trying to shout down opponents to their point of view.

One area in which this behaviour is particularly prevalent is contemporary politics. Of the two dominant parties, the Conservatives seek to punish transgressors, and force compliance of the masses through fear of reprisal, leading to security and comfort for all in a well ordered homogeneous society. Labour seek to support individuals, understanding and accepting differences which demonstrably do no societal harm, removing the need to transgress in the first place. These examples are reductive, but illustrate fairly well the core of each system, and each has been shown to have a degree of success in some areas, and be less successful in others. An example of them working well in concert is Karyn McCluskey's Community Initiative to Reduce Violence, and its handling of gangs and knife crime in Glasgow.

Recently, The Daily Mail reported on a study which seemed to show a link between lower intelligence and right wing political beliefs. This ignores the fact that some very intelligent people purportedly hold right wing beliefs. I have friends who claim to subscribe to some right wing philosophies. I say claim, because actions of theirs I have witnessed often fly in the face of these ideological tenets. Similarly, I'm not always as tolerant and/or accepting as I'd perhaps like. Permanently enthusiastic people, for example, tend to wear me out.

The bigger problem, as I see it, is that it ignores the fact that many right wing politicians are intelligent, and are absolutely aware of what the consequences of their 'common sense' policies are, but forge ahead knowing that they will be popular with a significant number of voters, due to a lack of education/interest/interest in education on the subject of politics, and, equally cynically, that there may be investment opportunities in the future. In many cases, there is historical evidence that gives the lie to promises made by these policies. They would HAVE to be fools to have chosen a career in politics while being unaware of the results of strategies previously implemented. Instead they are deliberately perpetuating a system which increases financial disparity, increases alienation, increases fear...

Ken Clarke's proposed sentencing reforms of a couple of years ago are wonderfully illustrative of this very point. The reforms contained several ideas which have been proven to work, both in reducing rates of re-offending, and reducing the prison population in general. Implicit in the reforms was the acknowledgement that significant numbers sentenced to prison are suffering mental health problems, and would be more appropriately dealt with by other institutions. Also important to note is that the proposal was welcomed by prison reformers. This is in stark contrast to the current proposed reforms to the NHS, which have been almost universally condemned.

The prison reforms were never implemented. Cameron 'bowed to public pressure', and rejected the proposal, rather than explaining why it was a good idea, or indeed ploughing on regardless, as he seems intent on doing with the NHS bill. Of course, Labour cannot be said to be blameless with regards the prison situation, as we have to question why they didn't implement the same changes proposed by Mr Clarke while they held power. Sadiq Khan, the Shadow Justice Secretary has now admitted that the ideas were good ones, and Frances Crook (Yes, yes, an ironic surname, one supposes), Labour Party member, and Director of The Howard League For Reform, has long looked to her party to apply it's traditional values to this most contentious of areas. My question is, why must it remain contentious? There is a wealth of proofs that support these reforms, but they need to be communicated to the public. Rather than 'soft options', they should be presented as what they are, the most successful ways to manage and reduce crime and criminals. The public should also be reminded that it is they who pay for the poor management of this system, not least through tax. In 2010, the average annual cost in England and Wales of housing one prisoner was 34000, at a time when the prison population reached a record high, exceeding 85000...

One irony here is that those who subscribe to right wing views due to low intelligence reportedly do so because it makes them feel 'safe', but are, along with everyone else, actually less safe while governed by right wing policies. Another is that the political judgements we make, our projected motivations, reveal as much about ourselves as individuals as they do our view of society.