Nuggets of Wisdom

After a sabbatical of three years, the People of Ireland have welcomed Clondalkin taxi driver James Carthage Nugent back into the public arena. It all began last Saturday afternoon. Under the weathering effects of one too many pints of Smithwick's the night before, a particularly irritable Mr Nugent was seen on Henry Street, attempting to do some shopping. The word 'bollocks' was heard leaving his lips an inordinate amount of times, even for a man with such an affection and proclivity for the expletive. After a largely fruitless couple of hours, wandering from shop to shop, Jimmy found himself in McDonald's, eager to satisfy his growing hunger. He was quickly discouraged by the long queues he encountered.  His abilities not dampened by the rawness of his hangover, the ingenious and decisive man took action. He turned on his heels, exited, and tried his luck with a nearby Burger King. Unfortunately for Jimmy, Burger King was host to even longer and less orderly queues. He angrily waited in line for five minutes, muttering contemptuous lines under his breath. When he was one place from the counter, his patience gave way and he scolded the entire staff from afar. A ten-minute verbal battle ensued, Mr Nugent schooling the Burger King workers in efficiency and quality service. He skilfully wove blunt moral platitudes into his arguments, punctuated with his hallmark vocabulary of 'bollocks', 'gobshite', and 'clowns'. He was soon removed from the premises by security, in a manner undignified for a man of such stature. 

However, the patriot and saviour of our economy was not to be defeated so easily. A mere two yards from the Burger King entrance, he delivered his manifesto for the future of fast food. A crowd gathered around him, soon wondering if the Lord himself had hit chords so sweetly and sagaciously when he gave the Sermon on the Mount. "We should nationalise all fast-food places," he told his captive audience. "I'd fire all the lazy staff first," he declared, pulling no punches. Mr Nugent continued for many minutes more, divulging further details of his plan. Everything will be centralised and highly organised, creating a lightning-fast service. "We will use the army to boost the workforce. And there should be a fast lane for those who are genuinely hungry." To save time, French fries, Jimmy suggested, should be cooked in factories outside the city, frozen in large blocks of grease, and then heated up in restaurants. 

Artist's impression of our brave Nugent world. 

Within an hour of his declaration, Mr Nugent had satiated his hunger in Leo Burdock's, and his views had somewhat moderated, focussing more on the dismissal of the Burger King staff he had encountered. The outburst, however, has resonated with many people, and, combined with his other recent propositions, it is now being called 'the Nugent Deal' (referred to in the international press, mistakenly as the 'McNugget Deal'). Published by some of his devoted followers, the five-page document recommends (among other ideas) the following:  buses should be allowed to run red lights to shorten journey times; The Revenue should have a staff of 100,000 people, so that nobody ever has to wait on the phone; there should be high-speed underground tunnels across the city centre to speed up traffic; Irish people should have priority during the sales and on flight tickets in this country; Michael O'Leary should be made president and should be allowed to sanction capital punishment; there should be a five-year wait for a new taxi plate; we should have an Irish equivalent of the French Foreign Legion for delinquent youths; the ombudsman should have an ombudsman, who in turn should have an ombudsman; alcohol should only be taxed if you are jobless or homeless; we should stop all foreign aid and instead build houses for the homeless (unless they are on drugs or haven't been looking for a job); the country should be federalised according to the ancient kingdoms of Ireland; the Hill of Tara should be the host of a newly built capital; our new national anthem should be For What Died the Sons of Róisín. 

As paradigm-shifting as always, Jimmy Nugent has once again sent shockwaves throughout the corridors of power. Many members of the Oireachtas have emphatically endorsed the Deal, gushing like star-struck, giddy schoolgirls. However, political commentators are doubtful about how much will get implemented, noting that the sway of Mr Nugent is not what it used to be. An Taoiseach Leo Varadkar, bungling his way through a response to the declaration, said he liked many of the proposals, but he regretfully emphasised that the government could not easily abandon its programme of unprovoked slights at the working classes. 

Days of Wine and Shittem

And so, we come to Exodus, the hotly anticipated sequel to Genesis. The sequel novel is a difficult creature, created under the inescapable weight of reader expectation. Exodus was a resounding success, however, and in many people's eyes, superior to the first book.

We follow once again the highs and lows of prankster and alcoholic God. He wakes up aghast, not knowing where he is. He is in Egypt, and his heart stops racing, when he he discovers the small tribes he swore to protect are well, safe in the bosom of the Egyptian largesse. However, upon closer inspection, God finds that the tribes of Israel are now in captivity; the Egyptians have taken advantage of defenceless foreign labour. 

The tribes of Jacob call for help, and an irritable, hungover deity grumpily gets to work. Like all bosses who are hungover, he delegates the tough jobs to someone else. He finds his man in Moses, a charismatic old hand who does what he is told. Moses is remarkably calm when God introduces himself as a burning bush. He later saunters overs to his brother Aaron and asks him to join him in freeing the Israelites. 

"You seem easily convinced by this God fella", Aaron remarks skeptically. 

"I suppose he's got a flare for persuasion", Moses reassures him.

Moses at the first Burning Man festival.

Moses is a cool cat and a legend. He leads the Israelites out of Egypt, parts the Red Sea, and communes casually with the most powerful of all beings. His greatest talent, however, is his uncanny ability to repeatedly ask an unwilling person to do something they do not want to do. Most of us would crumble under the pressure of placing oneself in such an awkward situation again and again. The suffocating cringe of hearing your voice ask for the same thing repeatedly would wear us down. All the halfhearted assertiveness, feigned playfulness, and passive-aggressive pleading would break lesser men, but not Moses. He went persistently to Pharaoh, making the supplication to let his people go:

"Hey, man. You know what I read is really good for your mental health…"

"Hey, bro. Slavery is a pretty dick move."

"Eh, hi… So… Em, I was wondering — now don't take this the wrong way! - but, yeah… I guess there's no way I can persuade you to free the Israelis, is there?"

"Look, Pharaoh, I love you and all, but I really have to protest…"

"What the fuck are you playing at? This is serious."

"It's going to happen anyway. You may as well get used to it."

"Look at the sign. What does it say? That's right: free the slaves."

"Sorry, buddy. I wish I could help, but my hands are tied."

"I just don't want you to get into any trouble… We're still pals, right?"

Luckily for Moses, his words are backed up by God's intimidating action. Not so luckily for everybody, God is still trying to retrieve his artistic glory days, and terrorises the Egyptians in the way only a desperate, reaching artist can. The classic thunder storms and drought are forsaken. Instead we get avant-garde plagues, more intricate than impressive. The eclectic choices really fail to come together to create a unified, memorable theme. Sobering up from eon-long benders, the insecure deity fears that he has lost the skill and artistic spirit that once allowed him to create the entire universe - an immeasurably intricate and awe-inspiring feat. Many of God's actions in Exodus make sense in this light, as we perceive the hopeless feeling that we have let the talents and potential which once defined us slip away. 

Firstly, he turns the water to blood. The fish die and the place stinks, but the Pharaoh stands strong. Blood is an obvious choice after all, particularly for a pretentious artist. Pharaoh paces up and down, wondering how to reassure the thirsty people; Moses lounges back in his chair, offering unsolicited commentary. "It's all a bloody mess if you ask me."

Then God, the old prankster, sends in the frogs. The little critters get everywhere, even disturbing the Pharaoh during his coital duties. "Some people are just eager to jump into bed", Moses remarks, filing his nail. 

With the Pharaoh still unwilling to let the Israelites go, God covers the land in flies. The Pharaoh is indignant, particularly when Moses and his people have been spared any of the hardship of the plagues. "It's not my fault. There are no flies on me."

God sends even more plagues: wild animals, diseased livestock, locusts, and thunderstorms of hail and fire. All predicable of course. Only the pandemic of boils stands out - perhaps the artistic highlight. The ninth plague is three days of total darkness. Nearly tripping over Moses' extended legs, Pharaoh inquires as to when the protracted night will end. "I can't see anything happening for the next while", he replies.

God's final plague is his most ambitious and avant-garde. He murders the first born of everyone — but with a clever little caveat: those who mark above their doors with lamb's blood will be spared. After this, Pharaoh gives in. The torment and the bloodshed are not worth the value the slaves bring to the labour market. That and Pharaoh fears what radical, artistic monstrosity lies ahead in the eleventh plague. 

With that, Moses and his people leave Egypt. Pharaoh reneges on his promise and sends soldiers to haul all the Israelites back. Fortunately, God allows Moses to part the Red Sea, and the Israelites safely pass. The Egyptian soldiers surpass all standards of naivety, believing they will also be allowed to cross the parted sea. As they get swept away by the rejoining waves, Moses wryly observes that, "they're a little wet around the ears."

The Israelites journey onward for years. At Mount Sinai, they take rest. Moses ascends the mountain out of sight. Here God communes with him. Perhaps it is that Moses is such a credulous and faithful listener, or perhaps it is a deepening in God's insecurities, but the Lord Almighty goes full Patrick Bateman, devising the particulars of items of worship for three or four tedious chapters. Nothing is left to chance: tabernacles, candles, jewels, and bread are all prescribed in detail. When Moses descends the mountain again, his hand sore from jotting down all the intricate details, he finds his dumb brother and sheep-like people have begun worshipping a golden cow. Moses has it destroyed, and then, under the orders of their American Psycho deity, has about three thousand of the heretics stabbed to death. 

"Do you like Phil Collins?"

The temperamental artist is irate, and he calls them a "stiff neck people" (because they cannot see the breadth of his artist genius). He also avows to blot them out of his book (no doubt referring to some off-beat, coming-of-age novel he has been working on). Moses calms him down, and ascends the mountain again to privately commune once more. God invites him to look upon him. But not the face! A revelation that great would prohibit the mystique necessary to be a great artist. "You can look at my back part", he instructs Moses, as he poses erotically, painfully aware of his appearance and how it might best be viewed artistically, in a way that only bohemians know how. After another lengthy, indulgent lecture, God grows tired and retires to his tabernacle to rest. World-weary and cynical, he surrenders his eyelids to slumber. 

Epilogue:

Exodus is most famous for being an epic emancipation of a people in bondage, a story of hope in dark times and the sacrifices one must make in order to succeed. However, as a sequel to Genesis, all this acts as a backdrop for the further development of God. He is a man past his prime, reaching back desperately for his glory days. "I am that I am" is how a fallen artist identifies himself, doubling down on pretentiousness when his former talents escape him. All the fine linen, gold, pomegranates, and special timber cannot make up for the abilities he has lost. His greatest plague on the Pharaoh (the murdering of all the first borns), is derivative of what the Pharaoh does earlier in the book. Irritable and missing his old drinking buddies, God is a clinging man, desperate to find a spark that will light the way back into greater times. 

And It Was Good

I have recently read Genesis. When I say Genesis, I of course mean the first book of the Bible, not the biography about the band, Genesis: Behind the Lines. And when I say 'read', I mean listened to a dramatic audiobook version by an American evangelical organisation, where God sounds something like G.O.B. from Arrested Development. What follows here is my review, but to save you needless suspense, I'll tell you now that I give it three stars out of five. 

Before I get into the story, allow me preliminary remarks on interpretation of the Bible. Whether your church encourages it or not, those of us raised Christian inevitably find ourselves in the game of exegesis. We all bring our own redacting pen to the text. Those who hold the good book dear will find themselves glossing over chapters, smudging verses, while lending precious weight to others. All agree that the Bible contains parable; exactly how much is often where religions diverge. As a writer, I am forever trying to pry into the untold story. Hence, I have foregone reading any interpretive texts on the book. In Genesis, I see a writer grappling with alcoholism. Like all addictions that have seduced us, we struggle to let go in spite of all the ills, because we know that our vice once brought us so much joy.

Genesis starts well enough with our protagonist, a fellow named God, bringing the universe into existence. God labours lovingly, for six long days, bringing forth all from nothing — an unparalleled act of productivity and creativity. All without hands to speak of; he seems to have an invisible touch. On the seventh day, he rests, and, what goes unsaid — but must certainly be factored into the story — is that he had a quite a few tipples during his downtime. Some might say that is too great an interpretative leap, but I wouldn't be the first to jump so far. In any case, we never see the inebriation of the man who drinks alone at home. What follows from this now makes perfect sense. We behold the ugly stupidity and aggression of drunkenness, as well as the rib-tickling jibes and antics.

In the midst of paradise, God, with drunken logic, plants a tree that nobody is allowed to touch. With mischievous reverse psychology, he tells Adam and his fully-grown rib woman that they are absolutely forbidden from eating the tree's fruit. "Oh, think twice," Adam tells Eve, who covets the apple, "it's just another day for you and me in paradise." They both are seduced by temptation, and God banishes them from Garden. Like an inebriated joke taken too far, God condemns generations to hardship and misery in the harsh reality outside of Eden. 

Being chased naked by a fire demon seemed like a funny prank at the time.

Naturally enough, crime manifests in the disadvantaged environment. In melancholic despair, God wipes clean the whole Earth in a massive flood. "Ooh, I wish it would rain down on me," declares a broken deity. "Noah," he says to a man he hardly knows, "build a giant ship and I'll save you." Intimidated, Noah does as he says, but has doubts about being able to save two of every creature on the planet. 

We then get a very tedious, drunken ramble about the generations that followed from Noah and all his incestuous descendants. Eventually, we meet Abraham, a pious man whom God slaps on the back and assures him that he likes him. Squeezing him intimidatingly, the toxic smell of alcohol on his breath, God tells Abraham that he will strike a special arrangement with his people. Abe's people will worship God, and God will assist them. "Follow you if you follow me," as it were.  Abraham agrees, and then God tells him it's time to have babies with his nonagenarian, barren wife. Abraham reluctantly complies. Realising that his new friend Abraham will do just about anything to humour him, God pushes his luck.

"You want me to do what?!" asks Abraham.

"Cut off your foreskin."

"I'm a little confused as to why you want this."

"Why not?" retorts God, growing irritated. "It's not like you need it for anything"

"Okay. Okay. Just let me find a clean knife."

"Oh, Abe…", God calls him back, with a grin on his face.

"Yes, Lord?"

"Make sure all of the males in your household do the same."

"That might take some convincing. I mean, the lady folk won't like it, and it's a very weird re…"

God begins to frown.

"Never mind."

God finally sobers up and reels it in, when, having asked Abraham to kill his own son, he realises that Abe's actually going to go ahead with it. Embarrassed with his foolishness, he gets aggressive in his drunkenness, and decides to pick a fight with Sodom and Gomorrah. Abraham, his only real pal, tries holding him back. He reasons that there must be fifty men in Sodom who don't deserve a smiting. God, seemingly open to reasoning, promises he won't destroy the city if there are fifty good men there. Quickly realising that there may not be fifty men in Sodom living up to God's standards, Abraham haggles with God to get the number down. After some wrangling, they finally agree on ten. 

Despite Abraham's best efforts, the whole situation quickly becomes a mess. Women get raped by angels, the whole city gets destroyed, and the wife of Abraham's nephew gets turned into salt. God tells her and her husband, Lot, not to look at him while he is destroying Sodom. However, the city of Sodom calls to her, saying, "take a look at me now", and she cannot not restrain herself. As she crystallises into sodium chloride, Sodom laments, "you coming back to me is against all odds", before God wallops the city, slurring "c'mere you little bugger". 

Then comes Jacob, who was a complete alcoholic. He get so drunk one time that he fucks two of his daughters. "I can't dance, I can't talk," he once bleated to by-passers as he drunkenly tried to climb a ladder that apparently went to heaven. "The only thing about me is the way I walk." Like the textbook drunken dad, he doesn't really like any of his sons. His youngest, Joseph, is perhaps the exception. 

He was a pretty cool guy after all. 

But then again, Joseph has it all: the coat, the mastery of disguise, the prophetic visions, the high-powered position. Towards the end of the book, Egypt survives the great famine because of his insights. "I can feel it coming in the air tonight," he whispers to himself about the impending catastrophe. But Egypt was not prepared. "Can't you see, this is a land of confusion?", he implores the Pharaoh, who eventually allows him to govern the Empire. In the land of Canaan, where the famine hits hard, Israel (aka, the patriarch formally known as Jacob) and his family are suffering. God falls asleep from having one too many, and fails to save them from their desperate plight. Young Joseph, who had previously survived his brothers' murder attempt, decides to save all the Canaanites. But not before mischievously putting his brothers through an elongated guilt trip. It is this prankish abuse of power which so charmed God, and convinced him Joseph was one of his favourites. 

After some toing and froing, Joseph manages to bring all his tribe to Egypt to survive the famine. "We're up and leaving for Egypt with the entire crew", they laugh. "Even our hungover deity is coming with us." And with that felicitous ending, the book comes to a close. 

What, you might ask, is the moral of the story? Well, there are many morals: don't look at your city as it's being destroyed, lest you turn to salt; don't pull out while you're doing your sister-in-law, or God will kill you, as he did nonchalantly to Onan; always haggle a murderer down to get the lowest number of murders possible; and don't eat the forbidden fruit, especially if a serpent tells you it's a good idea. Most of all, however, Genesis is a cautionary tale about the tragedy and misadventure that can be found at the bottom of the bottle. Genesis's perceptive and empathetic author knows well that the enchanting seduction of alcohol cannot be understood by looking at the sun-worn wino on the pavement, but through the affirming, bacchanalian whirlpool of inebriation. The joyous mischief, the laughter, and the alleviation of responsibility are what call us back to drink. The certitude of our actions, which is undoubtedly what allowed the insecure God character to be seduced by alcohol, must also be a factor in explaining his frequent (and angry) acts of immorality. 

How will this character progress? Join us next time for Exodus, where God lets Egypt know all about his hangover, and Moses desperately jots down the detailed specs his master requests of his religious artefacts. 

The Egyptians have no idea what they're getting themselves into. 

Let Her Go

Lyrics

Well, you only need the light when it's burning low
Only miss the sun when it starts to snow
Only know you love her when you let her go

Only know you've been high when you're feeling low
Only hate the road when you're missing home
Only know you love her when you let her go
And you let her go

Only in the play when you've got a role.
Only miss your ladder when you're in a hole.
Only miss your calm when you lose control.

Only miss a shot when you go for goal.
Only need the dice when you want to roll.
Only miss your job when you're on the dole.
And you're on the dole.

Only need to stand when you are a foal. 
Only leave shit comments when you are a troll.
Only swim with fishes when you're in a shoal.

Only miss small coins when you pay the toll.
Only doubt life choices when you're on the pole. 
Only miss Nirvana when you are Dave Grohl.
But you're not Dave Grohl.

Only crave for soup when you lose your bowl.
Only miss the heat when you're burning coal.
Only thirst for Irish when they say ''ag ól"

Only spy on people when you are a mole.
Only keep on playing when you're on a roll.
Only want opinions when you take a poll.
"You like profiteroles?"

Only miss Gołąbki when you are a Pole.
Only miss a student when you call the roll.
Only scored 5 goals 'cause you're Andy Cole. 

Only need new shoes when you have no sole.
Only think of Motown when you want some soul.
Only miss the cod when you're eating sole.
Farmed fishing takes its toll.

Only like a mouse when you are a vole.
Only miss the things that the robbers stole.
Only missing Riga when you're playing zole.

Only miss your own shoes when you go to bowl.
Only buying books from a bibliopole.
Only joining Greenpeace 'cause you hug the bole. 
Even when it's cold 

Only New Orleans if it is creole.
Only being good 'cause you're on parole.
Only getting angry at this rigmarole. 

Only won the game with a trick bricole.
Only won the case with a loophole. 
Only getting heat from the fumarole. 

A dangerous fumarole...


Though it is not widely acknowledged, Passenger were greatly inspired by the poetry of my uncle.

I put down the books and learned to depend on my historical compass. Here is why you should too.

Deny the Holocaust, you say? You foolish sheep! You'll eat anything they feed you, won't you? You know why the Thought Police have never come to arrest you? Because you never broke any of their laws. What I tell you next must be read as a whisper. Listen carefully; dangerous knowledge, no matter how true, must be communicated quietly and discreetly. Huddle in and listen closely to the disturbing truth: World War II never happened. 

That's right, Hitler's march across Europe, the millions slaughtered, the bombings, the Blitzkrieg, the rantings, the alliances struck, the arms manufactured, the invasions, and the counter invasions are all works of fiction. The mushroom cloud of Hiroshima had as much impact on history as an actual mushroom. The post-war iron curtain pulled over Eastern Europe was as big a happening as Winston Churchill pulling his curtains closed one evening. That's assuming he even existed, which is quite doubtful. He was certainly never Prime Minister. The man embarrassed himself in World War I, fell out of politics in the late 1920s, and then — somehow — pops up again in the late 1930s to become Britain's saviour. A little implausible, surely? And he then wins the Nobel Prize for Literature. Ask them what he won it for and they tell you that he got it for no particular book. What a story. 

And what about the American President, Franklin D. Roosevelt? He also returned from the wilderness to play the hero in both the Great Depression and the war. He served four terms, despite the American constitution specifying a two-term maximum. Even the progenitor of the office, George Washington himself, only served eight years. Roosevelt couldn't stand up — apparently — yet he is pictured upright on two legs at every speech he gave. Pull the other one.

Let's talk about the Blitz and the allied bombings. For such destructive acts, they seem to have left surprisingly few scars. London's old buildings still stand, as do all the splendours of Paris. Even the Berliner Dom and the Brandenburg Tor are still standing, as indubitable as they are irksome to Second World War theorists. Apparently, Dresden and Coventry were very badly bombed during the war, a very convenient fact given that few people visit them to witness the signs of conflict.

And, of course, those who bore witness to the war are now at an age where their memory is less reliable. In any case, they were children when it happened. I believed that Santa Claus brought me Christmas presents when I was a child, and look how true that turned out to be. 

Countless books have been written on the subject. They emphasise different causes for the war, different reasons why the Allies won, and different evaluations of the big players. There are artefacts, or so we are told, and statistics too, but they diverge on precise numbers. (How hard is it to just go out and count everything from an event that only happened 70-80 years ago?) All well and good, but demonstrative of nothing. I have Star Trek merchandise, memorabilia, fact files, and boxsets for each series, but I don't see the formation of the United Federation of Planets being taught in schools. You might counter that Star Trek occurs in the far future, but I would remind you that Khan Noonien Singh didn't conquer a quarter of the globe back in 1996, as Star Trek predicted. Well, unless you're one of those conspiracy nuts who believes that nonsense theory that 1996 was wiped from everyone's memory. (It's so obviously bullshit. HOW DO I REMEMBER SEASON 2 OF VOYAGER THEN??!) 

And who profits from all these lies and smoke screens? I'll tell you: the establishment. And who is that? Those who wield the real power, those who make the real decisions. And who is that? Those who undermine democracy by making self-interested decisions in the dark. And who is that? That is somewhat hard to say, as you would expect from a shadowy group. My best guess is that we are looking at the mad bureaucrats of the European Union. And who, specifically, is that? Who knows? The European Union is a gigantic, nebulous bureaucracy that nobody really understands. The heart of the decision making process lies somewhere between the commissioners, the parliament, the central bank, the various sovereign governments, the Common Agricultural Policy, the Euro, "Brussels", and the Greek bailout . So, really, it's impossible to tell. One might postulate that the bureaucracy has itself taken on a life of its own, lumbering on towards its inhuman goals. And who can say what bureaucracy actually means? It is difficult to define. Unless you speak French, it's hard enough to spell never mind understand. 

Anyway, the European Union is the prime suspect, as it benefited from the fabrication of the World War II story. The union emerged from post-war circumstances, supposedly as a means of ensuring war never broke out again in Europe. A simple trade agreement supposedly lost all control, but I believe it was by design. What is also certain is that these people want to regulate everything, from the shape of bananas to what currency is in your pocket. They make you comply with privacy directives and agricultural policies. They standardise products, try to harmonise tax bands, and ask for agreed immigration policy. They invade your very thoughts and feelings by disallowing racial and sexual discrimination against others. You can't say anything anymore; we're trapped in the oppressive bars of a plural society and protecting people's rights. Let me tell you, this clamping down of dissident thoughts through the mechanism of multicultural tolerance is nothing more than the Islamification of Europe. The liberal acceptance of others' thoughts and beliefs is surely a masterplan to allow immigrants from countries that have succumbed to at least two centuries of western innovation to come here and force us all into a caliphate. And when I finally get around to reading the Wikipedia page on Islam, I will then be able to tell you exactly what a caliphate is. That might take a while; using Wikipedia as a guide to a completely foreign subject is an arduous journey of link clicking, so I'm hesitant to get started.

In the meantime, I will continue to risk my life and freedom by freely publishing blogs and videos, and disseminating them unimpeded on an array of open, barely regulated mediums.   

Postscript: Other events in history that never occurred 

Mark Anthony was a real person (the English name gives it away)

The Ottomans had a powerful empire (I mean look at those hats) 

The Sputnik Project (the Commies couldn't get past the restrictions of their centralised bureaucracy, never mind the stratosphere of the planet)

The Scramble for Africa (Europeans knew about Africa for ages, why did they suddenly just decide to grab all of it at once?)

Richard Nixon was who he said he was (it's clearly a man with a mask)

The Egyptians built the pyramids (it's a pile of rubble)

Uncle Ben was an uncle (he had neither nieces nor nephews)

The Best Things in Life Come at a Discount

My recent trip to Thailand has rekindled a musical fire in my soul, which I haven't felt in over a decade. My creativity unleashed, I brought into life an album that harks back to pop music of the mid-to-late 2000s — music concocted in the same cauldron as John Mayer, Jack Johnson, and Jason Mraz. The album captures the lazy and free beach bum vibe, which shall henceforth be referred to as coco-mango. This attitude, only accessible to white men like me, is cultivated by summoning the native man in your head. It matters not where he is from — he could be Jordanian, Kenyan, or Filipino — just once he is from a hotter, poorer county than yours. Permanently jolly and deferential, with a whistle-while-you-work character to the point of implausibility, he tirelessly labours the cogs and levers of your brain to create a chilled, laid-back vibe just for you. In advanced stages of this condition, you might find yourself under a coconut tree, wearing a straw hat, jamming on a ukulele. 

And so it was this spirit that gripped me on my most recent holiday on Thailand. Perhaps it was the shits I suffered from during my holiday that forced me to be more laid-back and philosophical, but, in any case, I was swayed by the rhythm. I somehow managed to compose an album draft entirely on my phone. With no ukulele available, I made use of a two-litre bottle and some elastic bands; it's as good as the real deal.  

I'll treat you to  a preview of each song.

1. Never Change

A sentimental melody, gently urging the local islands I visited to remain the same. May the same saltwater lap against the shore; may the same smiles warmly grace the locals' faces; may the vibrant hum of the hot nights remain in the same key. May the cheap prices never succumb to any substantial inflation. Maybe air-conditioning could be more prevalent, and the wifi, as well. But, that aside, the song asks everything to remain the same, pure and unspoilt by too many visitors and increasing income expectations. 

2. Mango Girl

A love hymn for a local girl — innocent, friendly, and (one hopes, despite all the references to her childlike features) of age. She is languorous, sweet, and exotically beautiful, quite possibly a product of my imagination. It's a passionate, soulful vow to love her forever — a love encumbered only by the sad reality that I have to go home and it's best she doesn't follow me. My land would only corrupt her sweet soul. 

3. Be Chill (aka, don't tip too much, it "ruins" the natives)

A rebellious, righteous anthem to remind all the agitated folk of this world to look at the lighter side of life. Our time on Earth was not meant to be spent in a rat race. Chill brothers and sisters: drink coconut water and eat mango under the shade of a tree. Bathe in the sea and don't worry about anything. Let love guide you to the warm shore, and eat the food I prescribe above. Care not for the daily grind, or the small troubles that seem so big up-close. Come sail away with me and forget your worries. Fret not about work; forget about money.  And always barter down the prices.

4. Somewhere, Over the Banana Pancake Tree

A reminder that the sweeter things in life are eminently within reach. Consider the coconut trees by the shore, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin. Thematically similar to the last song, but sung in an intonation like that of the natives speaking English (heavily punctuated and simple in grammar). Also, its subject is a different type of food. 

5. Your body is a salty wonderland

A cheeky, risqué love song about the adoration of the flesh. I'll allow your imagination to figure out what "her coconuts" means. She is like the sea, waves lapping against my shore. Also like the sea, she is salty, because the air-conditioning is broken and it's a very sweaty romp. The shortest song on the album too as exerting yourself in this heat is exhausting. 

6. Mango Monkey Malarkey

A feverish, food-poisoned composition that spurts out in a shit-stream of consciousness. Monkey. Mango. Coconut. The mango tree. Alcohol bucket. Shore. Love. Long boats. Long nights. Coco water. Warm breeze. The sweet, refreshing water. Tropical fish. Warm smile. Little lizards. Tuk tuks. Banana pancakes. Full-moon party. Sandy beaches. Chill attitude. Elephants. Blue skies. Buddhist temples. Thai massage. Sunshine. Huge bullfrogs. Heatstroke. Diarrhoea.  Ganesha, the great unblocker, curse me no more. 

7. Sand in My Shoes Blues

A didactic tale told metaphorically. Riffing hard on my make-shift ukulele, this number packs real attitude. The surly, glum, jaded tourists taking up all the space in my holiday are lampooned squarely here, compared to the irksome sand that won't leave the inside of my sandals. They get everywhere, bringing a mild misery with them. Like sand, they can only be dealt with by drowning them in a handy basin of water. The song starts with that famous Anakan Skywalker quote to set the tone of a formidable attitude and an implausible lapse into homicide. Written before my morning coffee during my 4.30 a.m. visit to Angkor Wat. 

8. Where'd All the Good Prices Go?

A post-holiday blues lament. Back home, where the attitude is far less chill and mangos are proportionally as expensive as they are lacking taste, one can only dream of returning to the lands of coco-mango. The  thoughts linger long in your head, and soon it is all you can talk about. Everything at home is far more expensive. Your friends call you a pretentious knob for blathering on constantly about your holiday. All around you are miserable simpletons, with a countenance of solemn boredom appended permanently to their faces. They seem oblivious to what lies beyond the horizon: lazy days, cheap booze, coconut and mango. And checking the conversion rate between Thai Baht and Euro to make sure you're getting a real bargain. 

In my mind's eye, I have already begun to imagine the live performance of the album. I imagine the perfect audience, the perfect atmosphere. I perform it in front of a crowd of jaded tourists, preferably as part of a guided tour, where the people barely interact with each other. Bored, and just going through the motions, they bend their knees bouncily and tentatively, and clap a perfunctory clap.  The album will enchant those who have been touched by coco-mango, and they will allow an authentic, knowing smile drift up their face. The songs will haunt those who cannot relate to it, as they meander on, even more constipated and stressed in their lives. And then the sweet tunes will pass into the night sky, never to be heard again. A legend. Not available on the internet or on iTunes, and no CDs for sale. A ghost, an ether, a moment lost. The excitement will hit you momentarily, when you think you hear it on the stereo in some bar in Ko Phi Phi. But it's just Jack Johnson or Jason Mraz. We all sound the same.   

As many of you have now guessed, the transience of the songs is the object lesson. The mid-2000s can never be recaptured. Visit as many paradise beaches in the Pacific all you want, but you'll never find it again. 2005 is never coming back. Put down the seashell necklace, and the bead bracelet. Remove the cargo shorts and the novelty t-shirt. Don't worry, it's all going to be okay. You can get them cheaper at a stall down the street anyway. 

Don't forget to have a totally chill shirt, too.

Beaches Speeches

In the advent of Brexit, I have heard some lamenting along the lines of, "If Churchill was around, he'd give us the leadership we need now". Even if we put the World War II hero in  the most flattering light, I find this notion highly implausible. I shall forego any explanation about how intractable a mess Brexit is, or how there is evidence that Churchill may well have favoured a "United States of Europe", and just assume that this idea comes from the many recent fictional interpretations of the historical figure. That in itself is a peculiar phenomenon. It is as though the rights of Churchill's life suddenly entered the public domain, such is the volume of films and television shows representing him in recent years. 

As per the exigency and dictums of the internet, enumeration and ranking of these portrayals is inevitable. Here, I shall itemise my top eight portrayals of the man, taking into consideration some helpful criteria: the delivery of the post-Dunkirk speech to parliament (obviously); the amount of curmudgeon in the performance; the level of alcoholism; the simplification of history; the omission of Britain's dominion over other countries; the inclusion of some git who wants to placate the Nazis; and a reference to Britain's democratic, freedom-loving character, such as the Magna Carta, or the time Oliver Cromwell got rid of the monarchy for a few years, or how they became a constitutional monarchy because the aristocracy was so desperate not to have a Catholic sit on the throne. So, in no particular order, here are my top eight.

Churchill addressing parliament. 

1. Darkest Hour (2017)

Gary Oldman plays the great statesman, Winston Churchill, as he inspires his nation to hold out against the German menace, after the strategic retreat of Dunkirk. 

2. Churchill (2017)

Brian Cox portrays the legendary leader, Churchill, as he emboldens Britain to stand tall against the German threat of invasion, after a failed military operation in France.

3. Into the Storm (HBO TV film, 2009)

Brendan Gleeson is the wartime prime minister, Winston Churchill, as he rallies his people to stay strong against the Nazi war machine, after the army's touch-and-go escape across the English channel. 

4. The Crown (Netflix TV series, 2016 - )

John Lithgow plays elderly statesman, Winston Churchill, as he waxes nostalgic, with, amongst others, the young Queen Elizabeth, about how he rallied his nation to stand up to Nazism (pron. naw-zee-ism) after the military retreat from Dunkirk.

5. Dunkirk (2017)

A beach plays Dunkirk, not Winston Churchill, as the events that happen there, narrated later by a Churchill speech being read aloud, encourage a nation to never submit to the will of Teutonic tyranny, after a difficult, strategic retreat on the aforementioned beach above. 

Incidentally, the speech is delivered on a dejected train by one of the many interchangeable, indistinguishable young white English actors. In other words, not shit-cool Tom Hardy, nor Mark Rylance, the resolute English gentleman, nor the heroic, inspiring Kenneth Branagh. Maybe it was the guy who was in One Direction - I couldn't distinguish him for the other young lads. 

6. Never Surrender (2018)

Set after the heart-aching retreat from Dunkirk, Meryl Streep plays the strong, confident leader, Winston Churchill, who inspires passion in her nation to say enough is enough of the bullying, misogynistic Adolf Hitler, by being her own woman, complete without a man. 

Or something vague like that which parts of the internet will hate before it goes into production, because there's a woman playing a man's role. Part of the internet will consider it a triumph, before insisting everyone must see it, regardless of the quality of the film. And another part will criticise the lead actress for her clothing, being white, being straight, having vulnerabilities, and not making enough anachronistic commentary about the sexism of the time.

7. Inspiring World War II Speech Guy (2017)

Kevin James plays a slobbish-but-loveable president of England, Winston Churchill, as he keeps his country in the game against the Nazis, after they literally almost got their asses kicked in "Europe". 

There are some notable changes in the Dunkirk speech. The following phrases were added by the film writers: "it was a dick move", "real douchebags", "a game changer", "freedom ain't free", and "let's play ball".

In the end, Churchill fist fights Hitler, wins the war, and gets the girl. 

8. Winston and Franklin (2017)

Eddie Redmayne plays misunderstood statesman, Winston Churchill, as he challenges the British public to follow their heart and resist whatever the Nazis think of them, after nearly getting caught and humiliated in Dunkirk. 

A highly erotic melodrama, which also centres on Franklin D. Roosevelt's decision to take the US into the war. A polio-struck cripple falls for an old, cantankerous English gentlemen, and realises he must do whatever it takes to save him. The speech itself narrates an awkward love scene, where two inflexible, ostensibly straight gentlemen try to navigate homoeroticism for the first time. 

And there you have it. Another deeply unsatisfying listicle. Of course, this list is subject to revision, as they keep churning out historical dramas about the same person and events. That's all there is for the foreseeable future. Settle in and suck it up. It's either this or we return to making films and TV shows about the Kennedys or Nelson Mandela, and I know there are only so many bad accents you can take. 

Men of a Certain Age

The time has come for me to finally divulge my feelings on Star Wars: The Last Jedi. I know I have made you wait a long time, but like a fine wine or a perfect steak, my feelings take time to season and mature. My immediate reaction would undoubtedly be of great value, but it tastes better after it has been subject to some time. Additionally, I could talk about the storytelling or the themes, or the acting, or the impact of the special effects, but I'll spare you and get straight to the most important aspect: the feels. So, how did I feel about the film? Did I like it? Did I think it was a stunning masterpiece or get offended by how much it totally sucked? Well, — actually — my take on The Last Jedi might surprise you. I felt it was okay. I didn't hate it, but I didn't love it. You may want to ruminate on that last point to fathom its complexity. The film produced neither gushing love nor infernal hatred in the realm of my personal feels for films. 

Yoda was all about the feels.

Past the first major point of consideration, we then move onto what matters next: how do I feel about the reaction to the film? This is an even harder question to answer. Usually, I would just actively find fault with the judgement, politics, or psychological make-up of those who felt the opposite to me about the film. "You're a delusional fanboy piece of shit", I would say to a complete stranger online, rarely wasting my time with any punctuation. "You're just a gormless 12-year-old bro-flake who has an unresolved Oedipus Complex", I would say to another. These options are not available to me in this case, however, as there is no singular, polar opposite to where my feelings have landed me. That said, with so much resentful reaction to the film, I cannot stay on the sidelines, giving no voice to my feelings about the feelings other people had about the film. 

For those of you who have been indifferent to the reaction to The Last Jedi, I shall briefly summarise. Much of the hatred centres around several points. Firstly, it portrayed Luke Skywalker negatively - a particularly low move, giving Mr Skywalker is now an elderly, lonely man. Secondly, Rey, like some sort of entitled bitch, gets Jedi powers, despite doing virtually no work to earn them. Thirdly, Princess Leia is powerful enough to survive the vacuum of space (something noise can only do in this universe), awkwardly dragging herself to safety with the Force. Fourthly, a faster than light ship can be used to wreck just about anything if it hits it at light speed. This can't be true, because, in this entirely fictional universe, we have never seen anyone do that before. Fifthly, we are denied intricate familial connections and revelations (and endless fan "theories"), when we discover that Rey is just a girl and Snoke is just a creepy old man. Sixthly, Snoke gets killed far too easily. Seventhly, Kilo Ren is a whiney, unintimidating villain. Finally, lots of plot threads in the film go nowhere. 

None of these points may seem all that important on how good the film is, but you must keep in mind the audience this is aimed at. Those of us who survey the character of mankind and are blessed with psychological insight into the various stages of life know well that men of a certain age long for nothing other than to frolic through the fields of tedious detail of films, and wax sentimental about the way they thought sequels would be. Background details of films and TV shows must be analysed and worlds must be built accordingly. Once created, those who so love the world feel compelled to protect it from inconsistencies, and protect characters from any real development. Every inch must be mapped out, every moment accounted for, every action consistent with predictable character parameters. In the case of Star Wars, it is perfectly natural for young men to protect its extended universe. You see, what is at play is the song that has filled the hearts of young men since time immemorial. 

Young men follow the course that nature prescribes when they angrily claim that the latest instalment has disrespected the fans, and what are we looking at but the rhyme and reason of the life cycle when over thirty-thousand adult men start a campaign to have The Last Jedi removed from canon? A man in the prime of his life rightfully finds himself spending his days trying to retrieve the film he concocted in his imagination for years, and dismissing what was actually produced as a kind of sacrilegious betrayal. A man, when he comes of age, must stake a claim in the fantastical series he has invested his money, attention and thoughts in. A warrior-like anger is the normal reaction of a grown man to the attempts of a director to make a film with strong themes and genuine surprises. When you are right, you must dedicate time to tell everyone on every medium available on the internet. Such is the yearning of a man standing at the apex of his life. 

In the end, however, we must eventually move on from this phase. We must learn to reject the need to be right, or the need for all the details of a fictional world to line up correctly. We all must learn to accept that not only are we often wrong, but it does not matter in many cases if we are right. Often the world, or a fictitious story, is not what we wanted or expected. Disappointment is frequently the order of the day. Life is not always fair. Plans fall apart. Failure is the law of the land. Your arguments, no matter how true to the facts, fall on deaf ears. We must also learn to accept, in the final analysis — in the calm temple of our hard-earned wisdom — that The Last Jedi is the third best Star Wars film in the series, behind only A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back.

It was a trap, old friend, but you're free now.