The Decade That Taste (and Decency) Forgot

I grew up in the seventies. As childhoods go mine was definitely one of the better ones. Long hot summers, a loving family and good, wholesome entertainment on my television and radio. Who could ask for more?

Well, me. I could ask for the innocence of it all back please.

Yes, I came from a caring nuclear family and yes, the weather (especially in the middle of the decade) was warmer, for longer, than average. But the entertainment? At the time it was great and throughout the decades since I’ve smiled with nostalgia at the repeats, but now? Now the memories are tainted. Now little pieces of my childhood are being fouled with each new news revelation.

On the radio I listened to Dave Lee Travis playing the hits of Gary Glitter and others stars of the day, while John Peel spun more cutting edge discs later in the evenings. The Rolf Harris Show (under various names) was a television staple as were Jim’ll Fix It and It’s a Knockout. Jim Davidson and Freddie Starr were on every chat show going and had everyone in our house, from granny down to me, laughing together.

While many will say that they always felt that there was something ‘funny’ about some of these people the fact remains that they were among the most popular entertainers of their day. It wasn’t just me that enjoyed their work.

I’m not defending anyone here and if they’ve committed crimes then they should be punished. On the other hand everyone is entitled to a fair trial and, here in Britain, we’re all assumed to be innocent until proven guilty in a court of law but those still living have had their careers, like my innocent memories, shattered. This is, of course, nothing compared to what’s happened to the alleged victims in these cases.

I guess it’s the age-old question here again. Can we still love the art if we’ve subsequently learned to despise the artist as a person? And sure, we all look back at our youth with rose-tinted vision but could everything that we enjoyed back then have been, in reality, so awful?

My memory isn't what it was.

Habitual Addiction

They say that you need to do something for twenty-one consecutive days to form a new habit. Repeat the pattern daily for three weeks, whether you want to or not, and it will be mentally hard-wired into your daily routine. You’ll do it automatically. It’s become a habit.

Taking that same logic, I suppose that the same length of time would apply to breaking a habit. If you do something all the time and then, for twenty-one days, you make an active decision not to do it you’re creating a new habit, one of not doing the action that you previously did regularly. Note, that’s breaking a habit, not an addiction. So you might be able to stop doing something like biting your toenails in three weeks but kicking a chemical addiction to, say, nicotine could take a lifetime.

I really want to get back into the exercise habit. A healthy body helps a healthy mind, right? While I was never the fittest or most athletic person in the land I did at least make an effort. I used to run. I used to pedal miles without getting anywhere on the static bike in my dining room. I used to walk up hills that quite literally reached into the clouds. I even used to do yoga for heaven’s sake! And no, before you ask: that’s an image that will never make it onto YouTube while there’s breath left in my body. So what happened? Why do I no longer do these things? Why have I reverted to my previous alter-ego of Tub-O-Lard Man? I simply stopped doing the things that burned calories. I lost the desire and, three weeks later, I’d simply slipped out of the habit (as the nun said on bath night).

But habits that cause chemical changes in the brain (as exercise does) have a habit of evolving into fully-fledged addictions if you’re not careful. And it can be many things, some that you might not expect. For example, I know quite a few people who will argue strenuously that they’re not addicted to exercise. No sir. Definitely not. No way, José. Yet take this idea for a moment…

Imagine someone who drinks alcohol, quite a bit of it every day. Much more than you and I would consider to be healthy. They just can’t get enough of it, usually two heavy sessions a day. They may not want to admit it but they’re hooked on the chemicals that the demon drink gives them and if for whatever reason they can’t get their boozy fix for a day or so they become anxious, stressed or worse. You’d say that they have a problem whether they want to acknowledge it or not, right?

Now re-read that previous paragraph but change all references to drinking alcohol so that they instead point to doing some form of exercise. It’s a healthier option, sure, but is it still completely healthy? Physically, they might be in peak condition but emotionally or socially? I’m not so sure.

I’d rather take the holistic approach. Everything in moderation, they say, and that applies to anything that you may think that you’re addicted to. But where exercise is concerned, moderation is a heck of a lot better than none at all. So this week I’m making an effort. I’m going to get off my considerable behind and try to get a little fitter. I don’t ever want to get to that stage where physical exertion defines me but I do want to do something every day, even if it’s just a walk to the paper shop.

Today is the first day of the next three weeks.

© Shaun Finnie 2013

When I Am Old

When I am old I will walk slowly and only on the flat. I will gaze longingly at high hills and pretty girls and think of what once was and what might have been.

I shall wear shapeless grey clothes and smell faintly of urine and strongly of aftershave, even though I shall not need to shave my chin more than once every third day.

Others will tend to my needs through duty to blood or money. I will be unable to cut my own toenails and I shall weep tears of impotent rage.

I shall be indulged in my dotage as I was in my youth yet discarded as of no more use. I’ll demand, but probably not get, respect from people who will wonder exactly what I’ve done in my life to think I deserve it.

I will rail against teenagers and how they are wasting their most vital days while forgetting that I was once a teenager myself, and I shall rant at the state of the world while ignoring the fact that I have done little to improve it. But that, alongside all my other foibles, will be tolerated, because I will be old.

I will drool into my food and onto my shirt and I shall become impatient at the failings of others to mask my annoyance at my own shortcomings.

And I will reflect sadly on the fact that one day, not so very long ago, it was indeed all fields around here.

When I am old I shall become louder as people around me hear less. But I shall eventually grow quieter.

And quieter.

© Shaun Finnie 2013

Little Things Never Mean ‘Alot’

You know how there are some things that you just can’t remember, however many times you’re told? The precise date of your wedding anniversary perhaps or whose turn it is to take the dog for a walk when it’s blowing a hooley outside? Well you won’t be surprised to read that for me it’s usually something to do with words that gets me all of a muddle. In this case it was that I can never remember if ‘all right’ is one or two words (as in, “Bob asked if Rachel was all right”).

So I typed “Bob asked if Rachel was alright” and my spell checker didn’t flag an error. That would seem to indicate that was correct but it seemed a bit strange to me. So I looked it up and found that I was wrong, “alright” is just a frequently misspelled version of “all right”. There is (whatever my inadequate spellchecker may say) no such word as “alright”. Just as there’s no such word as “alot”.

The (mis)use of “alot” throughout online writing shows just how popular the misconception that it’s a valid word is, like the use of “should of” and “would of” when people actually mean “should have” and “would have”. This lack of correct English usage bothers me to a ridiculous and comical extent – if I were Donald Duck there would be steam coming out of my ears and I’d be swearing  profusely in a quacky manner – but does it really matter? What harm is there in someone just using a word incorrectly?

The obvious answer is ‘none’, of course. It does no damage whatsoever (apart to my blood pressure). The public at large doesn’t care about such things, as is obvious by their routinely referring to those of us who do care as ‘grammar Nazis’. Our ruling classes are apparently beginning to agree with them too with several councils recently announcing that they will remove apostrophes from all official signs to avoid public confusion. This particular member of the public doesn’t agree with that viewpoint as I most certainly am not confused by the endangered apostrophe. The argument comparing gerunds against verbal nouns confuses me, yes, but not apostrophes.

Apostrophes are an important part of our language and removing them would be as confusing as, say, suddenly deciding to eliminate commas or do away with the odd superfluous letter or two from our alphabet. How would we know the difference between the following two sentences if not for the humble apostrophe?

“The frog’s exploded.”
“The frogs exploded.”

Or what about this classic that shows perfectly how useful a comma can be?

“Let’s eat, Grandma.”
“Let’s eat Grandma.”

And don’t get me started on the importance of using the correct version of they’re / there / their. While I see the need for a language to evolve as its use changes, I’m not a fan of devolution due to user idleness.

That’s it, rant over for this week. I think I need a sit down with a nice cup of tea and a copy of ‘Eats, Shoots and Leaves’.

© Shaun Finnie 2013

The World's Fair

Teenager’s the world over have a cry that, although the language in which it’s spoken may change, carries precisely the same meaning and exasperation for their parents.

‘It’s not fair!’

And you know what? The teenager’s right. But get over it, kid. Life’s not fair for any of us. It never was. And anyhow, you don’t really mean that ‘the world’s not fair’. What you really mean is ‘the world doesn’t operate the way that I want it to’.

The concept of fairness is incredibly hard to define. The King of All Dictionaries, the Oxford, defines fair as “just or appropriate in the circumstances”. Look up ‘just’ and you’ll see “based on or behaving according to what is morally right and fair”. So fair equals just and just equals fair. These are not black and white, they’re judgement calls and each of us would have our own choice of what they mean.

Imagine two men in the same town. Your town, maybe. Perhaps even your street. Let’s call them John and Paul.

Now John has his own business and employs quite a few men and women in the area. He looks at Paul and sees a man of his own age who has spent more than half his life claiming various benefits and thinks that life just isn’t fair. Why should he pay his taxes to support a guy who doesn’t support himself or his family? It just isn’t fair.

Paul on the other hand has tried to look for work, he really has, but there aren’t any jobs out there for a man of his age that it would be worth his while to take, not when he’s got three children to look after as well. The way he sees it, people like John should help him out. John can afford a nanny to look after his kids. It just isn’t fair.

Which one’s right? Both. Or neither. Which one you would agree with depends on your political view. A succession of governments have implemented what they believe to be the best policies to make our society fair but without a generally accepted definition of what ‘fair’ actually is, they face an impossible task. Both Margaret Thatcher and Tony Blair won landslide election victories by promoting a vision of a fairer Britain. Whatever you might think of their respective levels of success, it’s difficult to see either of them being elected today.

Or perhaps I’m being unfair?

Fear Itself

Perspiration’s never a good thing. A pounding heart and light-headedness aren’t very welcome either. Neither is a dose of the shakes, and a case of the dodgy tummy is always to be avoided. But sadly these are extreme symptoms of something that we all experience at some time or other in our lives:  fear.

Fear is one of the most basic of all human emotions. It triggers our ‘fight or flight’ instinct where we either stand our ground or leg it, deciding the odds aren’t in our favour and that it’s better to live to fight another day. Now that’s all well and good if you’re facing down a charging buffalo or the playground bully but I’m not quite so sure how it works when faced with having to complete a set of company accounts.

I’m not too confident when it comes to sorting my business finances. They induce an emotion of ‘bad-scared’ in me. This is quite similar to ‘good-scared’ – the feeling you get watching a spooky film in the safety of your own home – but with the unwanted added reality of consequences. In this case, the consequences are those of HMRC.

Now, in the same way that Catholics can get their sins removed by a priest, in this particular instance I could pay to have my fears removed by an accountant. They’re trained to handle it much better than I am. To be honest though, that would eat up any profits that I might have made throughout the year, thereby being a bit of a false economy. Anyhow, accountants are pretty scary themselves, only slightly less so than clowns, ventriloquist’s dummies or that bloke who’s replaced the meerkat in the insurance advert.

No, it’s time to face up to this particular phobia head-on. It’s time to just get on with it. It’s time to prepare my accounts. So you’ll excuse me if I end a bit early this week. Not only do I have lots of adding up and taking away to do (primarily taking away) but I’ve also got to go to the dentist for a filling.

I keep telling myself – there’s nothing to fear, there’s nothing to fear, there’s nothing to fear, there’s nothing…

© Shaun Finnie 2013

Bye Bye Baby

I’ve heard it said that writing a book is like giving birth.

It all starts with a passionate flash of inspiration, then there’s a period of uncertainty where there seems to be nothing there at all apart from a vague mass that means nothing at all to anyone else, only you. Slowly the component parts begin to come together until it starts to take shape and become a small but recognisable version of the finished product. Eventually, after around nine months of love, nurture and discomfort, it’s time for your beloved creation to emerge into the world. Whereas hitherto it’s been yours, completely yours, and you were the only one who could see its beauty, now it’s time for others to take a peek at something that was once a part of you but is now a creature in its own right. They get to see what you’ve been talking about and to decide on its beauty (or otherwise) for themselves. And hopefully, if they’re polite, they won’t say that it looks like a scrunched up version of Winston Churchill.

You know what? That’s rubbish. For one thing, unless you write shocking revelations that you can’t prove about high-profile celebrities, you don’t end up paying for a book for the best part of the next twenty years. And, assuming that you aren’t a particularly aggressive typist, there’s much less blood involved in writing a book too.

There’s a massive emotional attachment involved in both though, I’ll grant that, but let me ask all parents one question: A few months after your baby was born did you lose most of your interest in it (apart from seeing what cash it brings home every month) and move on to the fun part of creating a new child?

That’s how it is with writers. Whereas parents can continue to nurture and improve their infant for years after it’s born, a writer pretty much washes his or her hands of their new ‘baby’ shortly after it’s made its first appearance in the world. Once that first sale is made it’s no longer theirs, there’s nothing more that can be done.

And the nine months analogy? That’s wildly inaccurate too. It’s quite possible to knock out a paperback in three months, start to finish. It might not be great art, but it could be perfectly acceptable. Others can take years. For example I’m still working on a novel that I started making notes for in the last century. To make that count on the ‘it’s like giving birth’ comparison you’d have to say that the road to conception begins at your first fumbled schoolyard kiss.

All this of course is leading me up to saying that my new collection of short stories (“Forks in the Road”) is now available in all formats. If you like, you can download it for your favourite e-reader device or, if you don’t hold much truck with that particular new-fangled malarkey, head over to www.lulu.com where you can buy a paperback version. If you want a signed copy, drop me a line.

I’m delighted with how it’s turned out and at the moment I’m allowing myself a little while to bask in its beauty before starting the hard work on the next one. I’ve been scribbling in my Rough Ideas book for a while, let’s see what comes out of it.

That's another thing that's different about making human babies. The actual creation process is so much more fun.