Waking Thoughts

Between bed and the table
I don't mean to be rude
But to decide I'm unable
Between sleeping and food

Habemus Papam!

I went to London on Saturday. In truth I had gone up simply for a break from the routines of home life and had planned the journey some time earlier. However, it happened to coincide with the Pope's visit. With this in mind I'd decided that I'd go to Hyde Park in the evening so that I might witness the spectacle and commotion.

The first time I saw any papal activity was at around 10.15am on my walk from Victoria Station to Westminster. As I strolled along Victoria Street I noticed a large mass of people blocking the way ahead. They were facing not towards me, nor away, but to the side, towards the sight of Westminster Cathedral. The only way to pass them was through a narrow sliver of pavement, about one or two persons wide at most, which the police ensured was kept free so that people might walk from one side to the other.

The crowd itself was probably around 500 people. And soon it was around 501, for I joined near the back. I heard the voice of His Holiness, as loud and clear as a thunderclap. However, this was simply due to the wonders of technology. The Pope was inside the Cathedral, whose doors were closed to us. There was however a video and audio link, the screen so large that I could capture his every gesture. Not that there were many gestures to be seen. And the words, though spoken clearly, were the same platitudes you get in any sermon,

More interesting than the Pope (in my opinion) was the crowd itself. They were from all around the world (though there were, as may be expected, a lot of Irish voices) and given the density of Vatican flaglets and the intangible sort of devout intensity that pervaded, it was clear that, as a non-believer, I was in the minority.

The crowd were friendly too each other - one taller man happily letting a shorter man go in front of him to get a better view. It was nice to see a friendly crowd, not in a mawkish heartwarming way, but because every other time I see a crowd they tend to be loud, vocal protesters with all the unpleasantness, emotional baggage, pigheadedness, insecurity and dogma that the average protester brings with them.

One man loudly asked one of the policemen when the Pope was due to come out. "About ten minutes" said the copper. "Pardon!" shouted a man. "About ten minutes!". The questioner then admitted to having a hearing problem, and thanked the policeman.

I stayed for about fifteen minutes but based on my limited knowledge of liturgy, I deduced that the ceremony was nowhere near the end. Also, there was no guarantee that the Pope would leave through that entrance, although there were a square-formation of young people waiting not far from the door, dressed in blue/yellow robes as if they were part of a choir or a youth organisation.

About seven and a half hours later on my return walk (from Oxford Street towards St. James Park) I noticed a temporary barrier had been erected across the length of The Mall. The famous lines of Union Jacks were interspersed with the flag of the Vatican City. Crowds a few persons thick were hugging either side of the barriers. The Pope, it was said, would be coming down this route on the way to Hyde Park

The police were not letting people go from one side to the other. Fortunately one American woman was pushy enough (verbally, not physically) to allow a small section of us to cross to the other side. She had a friendly rapport going with the police officer, and joked how British policeman were soft, and that in New York or Boston the policemen would not have allowed any sort of negotiation at all. "STEP BACK LADY" etc.

Now in St James Park I took a spectator-point on the steps of some statue. A few other people had had the same idea, but it was worth sacrificing 5 metres or so of proximity for a better view. The police were on full pestering power, and two people standing near me were questioned. I did not hear what the conversation with the first person was about, but the second one was apparently in trouble for crossing the barriers without permission. The two argued for about 10 minutes and, I believe, the man was eventually given only an informal caution.

It wasn't for around forty minutes that the pope's entourage arrived, although we were able to tap in to the audio clues around as he approached. The hovering news helicopter was slowly beginning to hover nearer to us. People who could see around the corner of St James Park (to which I was fairly close) were starting to take photographs down their particular vista. Preceded by several security vehicles and police motorbikes there came... The Popemobile! From his familiar dome turret he waved, along with two other ever-presents who always seem to be in the Popemobile with him. I reckoned the speed of the Popemobile to be extremely leisurely, around 5mph (you will excuse my constant flicking between metric and imperial).

What happened next was madness. Having caught a good glance of the Pope I thought I might try to keep up with the vehicle. 5mph is only a light jog or a long-stride walk, so it wasn't too much of an effort and I didn't have anything to carry. Naturally, as I looked ahead I assumed I was the only person doing this. It wasn't till I looked behind that I found that dozens if not hundreds of people (as they came around the corner of St. James Park) were doing the same as me. It was the craziest thing I have ever seen. Imagine a Disaster Movie - hundreds of people running away from the space-monster whom is rapidly consuming downtown. It was that sort of feeling. It was madness, no other word for it.

This bizarre spectacle continued for about four minutes, until the park stopped and the security barriers curved around to stop us from travelling any further along the Papal route. Along the journey I saw many crazy, some stupid things. There were a number of professional photographers who, armed with stepladders, mounted themselves somewhere in front of the pope in order to get a good shot of him once he crossed the path of their lens. Then they would get off the step-ladder, take another sprint slightly further up, and repeat the ritual.

Though my own running was that of a sneering, rational spectator, it was clear that there was a strong sense of excitement in the running crowd. It was all rather haphazard, and a few people (including a young girl) fell over during the scramble, although as far as I am aware nobody ran over each other - it was not quite crowded enough to be a stampede. Mind you, there might have been some trouble as some people, in their rush, were ignorant enough to run behind some of the police horses. For those not aware, you must run in front of a horse, not behind it. And certainly not through it.

Amidst the crowd and the running I saw two people, a man and a woman (or a boy and a girl, I suspect they were about my age or slightly younger) stop to embrace each other. Though I couldn't help but shudder at the melodramaticism of it all (it's not bloody VE Day) at the same time I found it very sweet, and from their smiles afterwards it looked to me as if it was the first time those two had kissed, and they seemed very excited.

It was only afterwards that I realised just how despicable and weird the whole ceremony I had just seen was. This man, The Pope, a mere mortal, seemed to have the following of a God or a popstar. I could never imagine Gordon Brown (or for that matter any other Prime Minister, including Winston Churchill) being able to attract such lunacy.

Self-fulfilling, self-denying mediocrity

Actually there's a song which is like "If you got to know me I think you would like me very much" (a guy singing). Which is kinda sad cause part of being likable is the ability to offer an initial if brief avenue in the early stages of a human interaction in which people CAN get to know you, or at least provide glimpses of what you are and see whether they wish to pursue things further from there or rather confine you to the pile of acquaintances (I talk of all interactions, not just romantic relationships).

So the question is, why would someone WANT to like somebody who does not provide this said avenue of time in which a proper first-impression might be formed?

It's a bit like saying "if I'd worked harder at my degree, I wouldda got a first" - well, erm, yeah, except that's what part of a FIRST actually measures - the ability to work hard!?

So both in the human relationships example I have given and the degree example, we see people subtly if rather nasally boasting how great they are yet moaning at the fact that their refusal to 'play the game' in either case leads to their wishes and desires ultimately being unfulfilled.

O' course I don't claim to be completely innocent of this myself. In fact, I'm not, and it is the realization of this fact that causes me to write about it.

Anyway off to London now

Dream from last night

Joshua Smith added 'gettin' paid and gettin' laid!' to his interests

"mate, do you even have a job?"

"well no"

"and do you even have a girlfriend?"

...

Joshua Smith removed 'gettin' paid and gettin' laid!' from his interests 

----------

Just a little joke to get y'all attentive. Not that I have an awful lot to say today. Had one of the most mundane dreams I could possibly have ever had, ever. Was given a series of tests to do - one was maths based, one was an essay-quiz about popular culture, and another was some sort of text which seemed to integrate pictures of art with paragraphs of words (like in John Berger's Ways of Seeing). I had 7 hours to complete the test (I believe it was about 9am dream time). From my initial glances at the tests I was puzzled and annoyed - how was I going to get seven hours worth of brain-material on to these obscure examination papers? Yet at the same time I bargained for time. I was thinking about phoning my driving instructor to cancel my lesson, and asking my family whether I could skip the ritual Friday lunch.

I believed the tests were for a job interview, and so I was wondering how much effort I should put into it - the tests were so obscure and difficult it was hard to know whether it was even worth trying or whether I should just take the day off and find something better to do.

I woke up at around 6.30am. Not being due up for another hour (and being pretty exhausted anyway) I slept again. But even then there was no escape. Though my dream subject was no longer the said tests, I had basically the same sort of feeling. Basically I dreamt I was back at school again where I was in trouble for not doing a piece of work. My argument (as I persisted angrily to my friends, who were sympathetic to my plight) was that the work  was non-assessed, and as I had more important work to do (for the same teacher) that should take priority. Mr Crichton (and for some reason, Mr Anderson) were in the dream, and they did not agree with my argument, and we were scheduling another meeting in which I could make my case. I felt like Galileo facing the Roman Inquisition.

So a tedious, awful, dull set of dreams. Banal. Pathetic. I'm not pleased with my subconscious at all. Perhaps it shall make things up to me tonight.

So, where was I

The master didn't have any work for me today (barring a journey to the Post Office) so spent most of the afternoon reading. Managed to finish Alistair Cooke's Letter from America. Had been dipping into that since May. And I mean dipping in literally - as the chapters are short (around 5 pages per broadcast) the negation with the bathtub is easy - you don't have to leave the bath mid-chapter or anything like that. Not that I dipped the book itself into the bathtub. Nor did I try to read it in the shower.

It's a funny sort of book, Letter from America. For a start it isn't really a book - it's a selection (of about one hundred) of British-born journalist Alistair Cooke's weekly radio broadcasts he produced for the BBC from, as you may have gleaned, America. Usually from the New York studio, the city where he was based. He broadcast every week from 1946 until his retirement in 2004 (he died the same year, aged 95). It was my memories of these later broadcasts which led to to buy the book in the first place.

Though his style always seems to be that of the consummate moderate (as he seems to be in his American Journey and his documentary America (spot a common theme?)) it is funny how Cooke becomes mildly more whimsical and subtly irreverent as the years go on, becoming in my eyes (and ears) something of a Roald Dahl figure.

There are a few recordings of his letters here to give you a taste.

Having spent the afternoon in bed reading (although unlike Alistair himself, I had two, not three pillows) I had to stretch my legs and went for a quick run around the park to ventilate my brain, which had just spent the last three hours in turn-of-the-millennium America (needless to say, the letters are presented in chronological order).

The odd and interesting thing is what happened when I got back. Though the run was not long, it was conducted at a decent pace, and so on my return to house I was moving quite slowly, worn out as I was. As I entered the first thing I saw was the strong if rather weird yellow light coming through the landing window, which made everything a little hazy. From the kitchen I heard the song  Blue Moon by The Marcels, except that this was a slowed down version from the film Grease. So my walk up the stairs was rather surreal - the music was in slow motion, my footsteps were in slow motion, and everything was in a weird, yellow haze.

Last time I went running I saw a discarded apple core outside the Coptic Church in Davigdor Road. This made me laugh pretty hard. But in case you haven't made the link (God knows I have to explain many of my jokes these days, as the last post attests to) the reason for my mirth was the fact that 'twas the eating of the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden that proved the origin of all mankind's sin. And so to see one eaten lying outside the church (unintentionally I am sure) proved the origin of my laughter.

Shoulder Arms? Shoulder Responsibility!

No, this isn't some tirade against gun crime or some sort of critique of the military (a critique I would have absolutely no right to make). I'm just a bit fed up of seeing cadets walking around Brighton in their uniform. I was only in the CCF for one year (and even then it was little more than weekly parading and rifle-training) but we were always told never to wear our uniforms in the street. And even if we had been allowed, it just seems like bad manners. A policeman wears his uniform that he might be identified as such, and be approached as one and act in that capacity, whatever that might entail. The uniform is not just for style (stylish though many of them are), it's a practical signifier. However, when a cadet is walking around the street in his uniform, he is not expected to act as a soldier. There are no officers to obey, there are no instructions to receive, and there are no tasks that the cadet can take out in his capacity as a cadet - he has no authority whatsoever.  So why wear the uniform?

I understand that when there are cadets walking in groups (for, say, a field day or other team exercise) then they have to be in uniform. But this does not apply for individuals out-of-hours.

In other words, just because I'm a Tory doesn't mean I like the idea of people walking around the streets in military uniform.

That said I do slightly miss my own uniform (which I had to hand back at the end of the year). Of course I could have trained as an NCO, but I didn't want to at the time, lazy, diffident 15 year old as I was. It'd be fun barking orders at people and getting them to march up and down the squuaaaare?!! (I can attest that, from my own experiences some 20 years after this Monty Phython film, Sergeant-Majors have not changed a bit)

Instead I joined the Creative Writing group. To be honest, considering we were all 15-16 year olds the work we produced was fairly fun and not at all pretentious or hormonal (there were a few exceptions).

Mentioned the Creative Writing group (and the 'creative' field trip) back in my old blog. Here's the link.

Joke

yerr, I just have a complex about making myself entirely clear so as not to be misunderstood, or for the joke not to be got

Joke 1
then again it's been said (I think by Mark Twain) that a joke is like a frog. You can dissect it to see how it works, but it will lose its life in the process.

...Joke 2
This is because when you unravel a joke into its components and essentialisms, the shared human experience and understanding when enable us to 'get' the joke are brought the the forefront and are therefore rendered awkward, factual, and unfunny. Which is like a frog, because it's green.

Joke 3
In that joke I made it look like I was making a ridiculously illucidatory explanation in which I, ironically, dissected Joke 1 to death. And then proceeded to make a ludicrous comparison by suggesting the greeness of a frog is the most important feature of a frog in the context of this joke. Which is ridiculous of course, cause we all know that frogs are brown.