New Year’s Evil

The second night of this horror fest of fake social orgasms kicks off this Saturday. This time no family are required, merely a group of friends hellbent on celebrating the fact that the Earth has rotated just one more time on its axis. Oh and that you have to write the date a different way when you wake up. Despite the apparent lack of value in New Year’s Evil a large number of people believe that there is some mystic specialness relating to it which only people who have visited Goa and have a beard can see. I have a message for those people. It’s bollocks.

By adding the words ‘it’s gonna be’ along with ‘wicked/great/awesome/the dog’s bollocks’ you as a reveller have already failed. Several centuries ago the fore mentioned expressions were identified by social anthropologists as the curse of the idiot. If you find yourself at a party this Saturday and are unfortunate enough to hear such expressions you must run very quickly and contact a real grown up, as the chance of having anything resembling fun or a good time with such morons is as likely as Fidel Castro revealing himself to be a woman.

Instead contend yourself with an altered reality for a moment. In days long gone people would sacrifice goats, virgins and encyclopedia salesmen to mark the passing of the days. Our generation have developed New Year’s Eve as a means to sacrifice our livers. The only thing more pointless that a New Year’s Eve party is the lives of the people saying it’s wicked whilst they are at a New Year’s Eve party.

Prepare yourself now for midnight by singing the first line of a song and mumbling the rest. Start thinking of a things you could pretend you want to change or give up before giving up the giving up a fortnight from now. Hone your social skills by spending everyday between now and the party drunk, and walking up to strangers and telling them that you fucking love them and that you will definitely call them. Stock up on fireworks now, because if you don’t try to blow your fingers off when the bell strikes midnight your neighbors are going to be deeply disappointed. And last but not least, steel your stomach for the quaffing of cheap unpronounceable champagne by drinking a litre of vodka now and drinking your own piss at midnight.

Wherever you happen to be in the world, wherever you go for your New Year’s Evil party, bear this one thought in mind. All over the world there are billions of people having just as shit a time as you, and some of them might be people you hate. As the wise men say, every cloud has a silver lining. Until next time, I sincerely hope each and every one of you has a Crappy New Year!

A Peculiar Christmas Present

Here we are again, Christmas fucking Eve. One of a number of days in the year which I absolutely detest. Christmas fills me with two specific feelings. The first is the desire to vomit. And the second is the desire to vomit. As I have previously moaned about it I shall not continue on. Instead what I wish to do is to share some good news.

Two days ago I received a piece of amazing news in the shape of an email which you can read below.

Good day my good friend,

Let me start by introducing myself. I am Mr Desmond Ibram, an accounts officer with
Bank of Africa here in Burkina Faso West Africa.

I am writing you this letter based on the latest development at my bank which I
will like to bring to your personal edification. ($9million) transfer claim in
to your bank account.

Pleaded, do reply for more detail on how we are going to proceed if you are
interested. And also you can contact me via me email: mr.ibramdesmond@gmail.com
Thanks
Mr Desmond Ibram.
+22675447235

I was gobsmacked. The first thing which surprised me was the fact that I have a good friend in Burkina Faso. Having never been to Africa in my life, it comes as somewhat a surprise that I seemed to have made such a personable impression on someone. The second thing which shocked me was the fact that I have a bank account with the Bank Of Africa. Residing in Poland, it may surprise people to hear that in the seven years I have lived here I am yet to see a single branch of the Bank Of Africa. The third surprise is that my good friend Desmond ‘wrote me a letter’ which somehow arrived in the form of an email. The fourth shock was the fact that someone wanted to transfer $9 million dollars into a bank account which I don’t have. The fifth and final surprise wasthe fact that it appears that the Bank Of Africa do not have personal emails for their staff. An accounts officer who contacts people via their gmail account is clearly a banker of solid integrity and quite obviously worthy of my trust.

It’s still hard to believe my luck. I had absolutely no clue what I should do with such a vast amount of money. The first idea related to Vegas and hookers, however the very thought sent a panic down my spine. The idea of visiting a country which doesn’t speak my language made me feel physically ill. I needed another plan. What on earth should I do with $9 million dollars? Surely with that much money I should be able to make a difference. I could buy food for the starving. I could donate it all to charity. I could give it to scientific research. The more I thought about it the more differences I realised I could make. However one thing struck me with the force which only Yoda can use.

Rarely in my life have complete and utter strangers showed me such kindness. Even now thinking about what Desmond Ibram did for me brings a tear to my eye. There was only one thing I could do.

Good day Desmond old buddy old pal,

Let me start by thanking you for everything you have done for me. I appreciate the fact that you are willing to transfer money into an account I don’t have with the Bank of Africa. That in itself shows a great deal of trust on your part, and for that alone I will always be indebted to you.

I am sure you will be delighted to note that my personal edification was absolutely massive when I read your letter which arrived in the form of an email. I was so edified I could hardly believe it. Shortly after I read your email, my wife gave birth to our daughter. We were so overcome with emotion and a burning desire to demonstrate our gratitude towards you that we have named her Desmond.

Forthwith we have decided that such a figure is too much for us to accept personally in good grace. Instead we have decided to create the Desmond Ibram Fund, and we would like to offer you the post of President of the charity. On the 1st of January a full-page advert will appear in the following newspapers:the Botswana Guardian, the Post in Cameroon, Salongo in the Congo, the Ethiopian Herald, the Ghanaian Times, the Standard in Kenya, Mololi in Lesotho, This Day in Nigeria, Wal Fadjri in Senegal, Uhuru in Tanzania and the Zimbabwean in Zimbabwe. Each advert will announce the formation of your charity with you at the head, containing your telephone number and your email address inviting people from all over Africa to contact you with grant applications. The concept of the Desmond Ibram fund is to help people improve the lives of others and increase the quality of life all over Africa. I have faith that an honest man with a decent job will make proper use of the money I am giving you and help make the world a better place.

I hope you have a very Merry Christmas.

Sir Bob Geldof

I can hardly express in words how fantastic it feels to know that I have done something so wondrous which is truly in the spirit of Christmas. The fact that I, a struggling writer has had the opportunity to give such a monumental gift to people who need it feels fantastic. It’s like live aid without the shitty song. Just the feeling good bit for doing very little. The very best thing is that the karma points alone mean that I am definitely going to heaven. And believe me, I am gonna shake things up when I get there.

P.S. If anyone out there feels like contacting my good mate Desmond to congratulate him, or thank him, or even a suggestion as to what he should do with himself please feel free to contact him. As a trusted friend of his I am certain he would be delighted to hear from you.

I Told You He Was Kim Jong il

This week the world has lost one of its most colorful, revered world leaders and most charismatic despots in the shape of Kim Jong il. I am saddened by the news. Not because I am a fan of tyrannical style, nor because he was human but because he was an inspiration. I suppose I better explain myself.

I was fifty something pages through my first novel when I went to Denmark to visit my god-daughter and her family. I was troubled by the fact that I wasn’t convinced that writing a novel about a fictional dictatorship was a valuable use of a thirty year old man’s time. It wasn’t only that, there was a plot point to consider. I did not want to create a dictator based on someone who existed. I was stretching the boundaries of reality in an attempt to create a leader so unique, that there would be nothing more a reader could do other than believe in him. Due to the nature of this exercise, I remember feeling as if I was trying to hard to make the reality of my fictional country too distorted when my Danish friend pointed me in the direction of an article about Kim Jong il. Suffice to say I have not been able to find the very same article. What I learnt from Kim Jong il if anything was that the shackles of reality only exist to be broken.

There are innumerable legends regarding the life of the great dictator that its near on impossible to separate fact from fiction. The fact is that it is marvelously simple to write an article about the Great Leader because there is almost always absolutely no way to verify the facts. Some of the most famous legends include the fact that he is the best golfer in the world, a fashion icon, a miracle birth, that he has never taken a shit, that he owns 20,000 dvds, that he spends half the gdp of North Korea on cognac, that North Korea won the football world cup and most impressive of all is the fact that he could reputably change the weather by altering his moods. The question which arises is where exactly these rumours come from.

The first thing to consider is the nature of the press. North Korea is a totalitarian state, which means there is no free press. Which immediately means that any press reporting is speculative at best. The second is that what reports there are mainly from dissidents or based more exclusively on translation. The third thing to consider is that Western media never promote any other way of life than ours. Therefore they are almost always more likely to print stories to the detriment of any different system. Which means that we should take each of these stories with a pinch of salt.

Where are the positive stories? How many North Korean banks have been bailed out during the global recession? What is the tax rate? What about the unemployment rate? Is it not troubling that when you google ‘North Korea unemployment statistics’ the very first website it finds is the one belonging to the Central Intelligence Agency?

The much labored point I am trying to make is that we often take reality for granted. Life is easiest when we assume that people all over the world live the same way. When we are confronted by alternative realities rather than examining the ways in which they differ, we prefer to paint them in a barbaric light. We often read about people being enslaved by various systems, yet we never consider that there has to be others who support the same system. Is it more mental to believe that a man can live seventy years without defecating or that giving banks more money to stop a recession caused by banks reckless investing can stabilize the global economy? Among all the smoke and mirrors we rarely catch a glimpse of our true reflections.

The final thought I shall leave you with about the great dictator and leader of North Korea Kim Jong Il is one of the few verifiable facts. Kim Jong Il was born in Russia.

The Meaning Of Christmas

There are only six calendar days left before Christmas eve and as usual I am yet to even begin shopping. I could blame it on my inertia, or my schedule or I could even blame it on the boogie. However I shan’t. Instead I will blame it on the fact that I despise Christmas. It’s hard to put my finger on exactly why as there are so many reasons which work in my eyes. Whether it be the mythical attachments, the commercialisation, the nonsensical ‘family’ time, or even the giving and receiving of things which nobody wants. The thing which annoys me most of all is the constant string of bullshit which people come out with regarding the ‘Christmas’, ‘Christian’, ‘Festive’ spirit. There is only one true spirit of Christmas and that is one of pure unadulterated insanity.

By definition a ‘religious’ celebration for a man who ‘purportedly’ lived 2000 plus years ago, despite the fact there is absolutely zero evidence that he did is something straight out of the Da Vinci code. The idea that Christmas is some kind of religious celebration is absolute nonsense and has thankfully been long forgotten by most countries.

Which brings us to Santa Claus. Who unfortunately is yet another religious icon. Saint Nicholas of Myra was a 4th century Greek Christian Bishop who was renown specifically for giving gifts to the poor. Saint Nick is most famous for giving dowries to three daughters of an impoverished Christian so they wouldn’t have to become prostitutes. Is this the true spirit of Christmas? Should we not give gifts to each other and only to women we fear may become prostitutes?

Another interesting aspect of the ‘Festive’ spirit is the active promotion of lying. The Christmas lies begin with misleading our children to believe in a 4th century Greek Bishop who now is the proud owner of a courier service slightly better than UPS. A bishop who despite being dead for almost 1600 years now delivers presents to every child in the world in one night by using a sleigh and flying reindeer. And yet we expect our children to grow up respecting us. What happens when little Johnny goes back to school in January and asks young Abdul or Jewish Jacob what they got for Christmas? When they say nothing is Johnny going to reply ‘of course chaps, I forgot for one moment what a beautiful and joyous multi-cultural society we reside in.’ Sadly not as another lie we propagate means that Johnny will know instantly why they didn’t get a present. Who hasn’t heard ‘you have to be a good boy/girl/alien if you want Santa to bring you a present’? So now Johnny believes that his friends are bad boys. And Johnny wonders what exactly it is they did which is so bad, after all he set fire to the neighbours cat and still got a present.

The promotion of lies is nothing new, nor is the manipulation of pliable ideals. The fact is Christmas is no longer Christian. Nor is there a fixed spirit. It is a commercial concept which has been twisted to fit the epoch in which we live. And that epoch is one of meaninglessness. Christmas has been refined as a celebration over 300 years. It can have meaning if you try hard enough. It has whatever meaning you want it to have. For me this year is about giving gifts to women who I worry may become prostitutes and lying to children. And if that isn’t admirable I don’t know what is.

Lets Be Frank

The two-day tour has left me tired and trembling but was worth every waking moment. Does it make me a groupie? Probably? Do I care? Hell no.

The first thing is that this entire trip has been about the music of Frank Turner, the idea behind the trip embodied by the epoch of his music. As a songwriter, he has a natural knack of isolating an all too real human feeling which almost everyone has experienced at some point in their lives. As a performer he is a furious ball of energy, with a natural charm which can make a fan of anyone, including the doubting Thomas’s.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA — Gang Signs And Fruit….Obviously

The first time I went to see him play in Poznan was a solo show. I had the opportunity to chat with him(somewhat nervously I might add) and was immediately taken aback by how genuine he seemed to be. When the lights went on and the show started, attended by about 80 people at most, you could feel without doubt that you were an incredibly lucky bugger to be experiencing something spectacular, made even more so by the intimate setting. That night a bond was struck by strangers as slowly but surely the room was filled with voices singing along, and eventually dancing and finally invading the stage. He had completed his ultimate magic trick, he took this room of distant strangers and made them into a single organism. It was awesome. So spectacular that I took it on myself to push a beer in his hands the moment he finished. Despite the fact he had an early morning flight, he spent the next few hours meeting and greeting and posing for pictures and signing CD’s. As well as getting mind-numbingly drunk. Whilst the room full of strangers spent their time getting to know one another, smiling to themselves and to their new-found acquaintances. Those bonds which were formed that night now stand as a badge of honour.

The next time he returned to Poznan, he came with his band the Sleeping Souls. Again we traveled to Poznan, again I pushed my liver to its limits, however this time we had previously made friends to catch up with. The magic trick was made even more impressive by the wall of sound which set the night on fire. One of the most amazing experiences of my life was seeing him apprehensively perform ‘Glory Hallelujah’ in staunchly Catholic Poland. As he launched into the first rendition of the chorus ‘there is no God, so clap your hands together…’ you couldn’t help but notice the panic in his eyes, which was clearly replaced by sheer joy as the room sang along with him and exploded into life. The after party was great fun, as we mingled and babbled, and smiled at strangers until the alcohol become too strong.

This time around I was a little more nervous than his previous gigs. The trip to Poznan was routine, it was Warsaw which bothered me. In Poznan, Frank Turner and the Sleeping Souls got a rousing reception as they are already somewhat established there. It was great to catch up with old friends and make a few new ones.

The atmosphere was electric. Benek, the club owner and rock and roll legend was wankered and dancing on the bar. The band stuck around till late drinking. It was everything which Poznan always is. If anything the normality of such carnage is what should be alarming and not the fact that I woke up still completely drunk, with huge black holes in my memory.

What troubled me about Warsaw was that I had invited a number of friends to join us, and I really didn’t know how they would take to him. When people ask ‘what kind of music does he play?’ the first thought is always ‘folk punk’. Unfortunately the picture it creates for many is not persuasive. It’s as if in their mind’s eye they see a bloke with a Mohican and a knee-length beard playing a mandolin. The natural next step is to then wax lyrical about his lyrical abilities or his electric stage presence and people still look at you like you are nuts. Last night I learnt a valuable lesson.

Last night was Frank’s Warsaw debut. Despite the fact a number of us had attended both gigs, there was still a large number of people who didn’t know what to expect. It was interesting seeing him playing a cold crowd again. As little by little he sapped their free will way and hypnotised them into dancing. The genius of the inclusive nature of his gigs is that once you have played ‘air harmonica’ their is very little more you can do to embarrass yourself. By the end of the show he had the vast majority of the audience singing and dancing; he won, his wizardry won the day.

If I had any doubts about how my friends enjoyed the show they were quickly abated when I witnessed each one have a picture taken with him, or a cd signed. For the majority it wasn’t just the music, or the energy, or even the stage presence, it was the fact that they felt as if they had experienced something special. Is it wizardry? Is it black magic? It’s hard to say, I shall let the last words on this matter be Frank’s.

“Once more to the boards

One more curtain call

Give the crowd everything they’re asking for and more

Always make them laugh

Try to make them cry

Always take the stage like it’s the last night of your life.”

Frank Turner – Balthazar, Impresario.

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