On a Dilemma

I had planned to start this post with a call for you to refrain from judging me, but I've changed my mind. I want you to judge me. I want to know what you think of what I did, of what I thought.

I shall start from the beginning. I was waiting for a train. A light drizzle, typical of the Great British summer, fell gently over the platform. The overhead wires crackled and fizzed, the raindrops collected in shallow puddles. I felt at ease. I like the rain.

The train pulled up and the doors opened. And elderly couple pushed past, rushing further up the train to get on another carriage. I assumed they just wanted to be at the front.

How wrong I was. As I settled into my seat and the train pulled away, I heard a man muttering further down the carriage. It was a whisper at first but the volume increased steadily. I soon realised that most of what he said wasn't in English. That's not a problem in itself; I am, as you may know, an avowed lover of language. It was Arabic. At least I think it was. A constant monologue that grew from a whisper into a chant, into a shout. It was interspersed with cries of "LIGHT OF THE DAY" and "Your blood is the same colour as mine!" A wee bit sinister for lunchtime on a Sunday. The rest was, quite literally, foreign to me. I thought I could hear the odd "Inc'Allah" which, from repeated listening to an MC Solaar song of the same name, I know to mean "God willing."

So that's why the elderly couple changed carriages. That's why everyone else was shifting in their seats, exchanging worried glances and, at intermediate stations, following the exodus into the adjoining carriages.

And so, I found myself in a dilemma. He who prides himself of being accepting of others found himself itching to get off the train. The crazed liberal inside me was screaming "Look at you! Where are your egalitarian ideals now? What happened to live and let live? What next? Starting sentences with 'I'm not a racist but...', or 'You can sleep with whoever you like but I'll have none of that under my roof!' You...you Daily Mail reader!" But there was another voice, a nagging doubt. A fear building up inside. A desperate call for self-preservation, in spite of my oft-touted liberalism.

What should I have done?

What I did, was stay on the carriage. I did so with my headphones in but my iPod off, a sense of impending doom writhing inside me.

I'm not sure what the above makes me. Was I stupid to stay on a train on which I felt unsafe? Or did ignorance rear its ugly head and prove that I'm not as accepting as I think I am?

I've been thinking about it a lot today. We live in a state of paranoia. You can see it on the tube sometimes, or on trains, at airports. It's exacerbated by what I think is a very British reaction to any public declaration of fervent religious belief; awkwardness.

I know full well that this man was not representative of all Muslims, all British Muslims or probably even all the Muslims on that particular train, who probably don't make a habit of praying loudly on public transport. II don't even know what he was saying - it could have been something really quite pleasant. Nor do I subscribe to the Cameronian belief that multiculturalism has failed. His lifestyle, upbringing and outlook are as alien to me as the beliefs of the man shouting on the train. But that's ok. I wouldn't, for one minute, wish for a homogenous society in which everybody thinks, feels and acts the same.

But I'm still not sure what I should have done, or whether what I did do and did feel, was right.

On My Un-Futuristic Life

I know that, coming from someone who goes on and on about nostalgia, the past and his difficult relationship with technology, this post may come across hypocritical.

The building I work in is a converted Victorian warehouse. I like this very much; I like how it seems to have been designed to confuse you, with floors that are completely bypassed by some of the staircases, basements nobody tells you about and odd little storage rooms that you have to crawl into because the ceilings are so low. Yesterday, when I returned to the building after my daily lunchtime stroll along Regent's Canal, the Star Wars theme was blaring from the post room. It seemed incredibly out of place, and I began to feel nostalgic - only for the future.

Bear with me, I will wrestle some sense out of the last sentence if it's the last thing I do. You see when I was growing up, this wasn't how I expected the future to be. And a lot of my expectations about what the world would be like when I was an adult were shaped by things like Star Wars. No, I didn't think I'd be living in space, but I imagined things would be somewhat more advanced than they are.

I'm not asking for much. I don't need to float around in a galaxy far, far away. I'd settle for a lift that works. I don't even need a spaceship with hyperdrive capabilities that can fly from one end of the universe to the other in seconds. I would like a tube train that can deliver me to work without running out of breath and sitting in a tunnel for 15 minutes while it recharges its batteries*. OK, I wouldn't say no if somebody offered me an omniscient little robot that can play videos, pick locks, electrocute people and repair machinery. But I do have an iPhone and there's probably apps for all these things already.

Perhaps I should be grateful - my boss, for example, is actually quite a nice bloke and not a mask-wearing tyrant who could kill me by waving at me. It's just if you'd asked 6-year old Tom what the world would be like in 2010 the response would probably have involved hoverboots, lasars and teleportation. After a period in which technology seemed to race forward at a rate of knots, spewing out world-changing inventions like the interweb and mobile phones like there was no tomorrow, doesn't it seem a bit quiet?

Perhaps I'm ignoring important developments. I do spend most of my day in a Victorian warehouse after all, the building would probably reject any technological development - which is perhaps why the lift doesn't work. It's like The Haunting. Please feel free to prove me wrong and restore what little faith I once had in technology. In the meantime, I'm off camping for the weekend (in Dorset, not the Dagobah System).

*Admittedly is nothing compared to the poor souls stuck on the Jubilee and Victoria lines this week.

On Leigh-on-Sea

My favourite Beatles song is probably In My Life. I think it perfectly captures the way it feels to look back and realise that the things around you have changed [forever, not for better], without you even realising it. And yet, at the same time, it reminds you of the importance of the things that have remained, and the things that are important now. It's a song that has struck a chord with me on numerous occasions, not least on Saturday afternoon.

This weekend I went to a town called Leigh-on-Sea for the annual Regatta. Actually, when I say I went to Leigh for the Regatta, what I mean is that I went to Leigh to soak up the atmosphere of the Regatta while soaking up more than my fair share of alcohol. I used to go out in Leigh a lot more often than I do now. When I worked in Southend I'd go at least once a week, always to the same pub. It's a place with character, with a stone floor, nautical decor and a balcony that looks out over the Thames Estuary. Should you ever find youself in the area, you'll find it at the end of the cobbled street of cottages, fish n' chip shops and boozers that make up Old Leigh's high street, just before you get to the beach. Although the frequency of my visits has decreased, I still go there a for a few pints every now then, and usually spend at least part of the night wallowing in nostalgia.

Saturday was no different, only this time the nostalgia hit while I was having a wee, which it hasn't done before [please forgive my crassness]. In brief, for I wouldn't want to go into too much detail here, I used to have a favourite urinal in this pub. It was at the end of the row, in front of a broken window at head height that was most effective at clearing alcohol-fuelled fogginess. On the wooden window-frame, someone had scrawled "TOMMY P IS A SLAG" - there is nothing like an inspirational quote to ponder while...erm...otherwise engaged. The toilets have since been redecorated and, while the glass has been replaced and the woodwork given a new coat of paint, the memory doesn't fade. Tommy P's apparently promiscuous antics are yesterday's news, replaced with new graffitti for a new age [nowadays all the cool kids are writing about how Domenico and Miguel are wankers. Again, an inspiration]. The pub has changed, small changes over time that have slowly transformed the place so that it's no longer quite the same as it was.

I headed back to my table and looked at the people I was sitting with. Familiar faces; some of whom were there the first time I ever came to this pub. There were others who I've only recently met and am yet to get to know properly. And then I thought of the people who used to be there, and have since gone their separate ways. Like the pub, the group has gained, lost and retained. Things have changed, yet remained the same.

At that moment, just as I was ready to succumb to a wave of nostalgia, reach for my iPod and listen to the Beatles, N came back with a Jagerbomb and business returned to normal. It was only when I found a photo on my phone of the abuse directed at poor Domenico that I remembered that this chain of thought had even occurred. But the nostalgia isn't something I should be depressed by. I have had some amazing times with some amazing people in that pub, I had a fantastic time there on Saturday and I hereby swear to carry on doing so in future.

So despite everything that's changed, and as the Beatles say, I know I'll never lose affection for the people and things that went before. And for the people and things that are still around; in my life, I love you all.

On iDependence

My ongoing battle with my iPod has been well documented, but I've always been fond of my iPhone, with which I've experienced very few problems. At times I've even been proud of the little fellow; as I was when it transformed a dreadfully ordinary daytime shot of the Thames into the psychadelic masterpiece above. Alas, it would seem that this period of plain sailing has been nothing but a honeymoon period. The calm before the storm. There isn't actually anything wrong with my phone - my worries stem from a concern that it's too advanced. It knows too much.

Yesterday was a prime example. Having reconciled with my great love, Beer, and put our lovers' tiff behind us, I rang N after work to see if he fancied a pint. "Sure," he said, "where?" I was in Farringdon, N works in Old Street - there was about a mile between us. I said I'd come to him, as his office is in close proximity to très-trendy Shoreditch. Alas, I then made a grave error; I muttered the moronic phrase "I'll use my map app to figure out how to get there." BOOM. I had exposed my vulnerability. My iPhone, realising my pathetic dependence on it, swiftly - and smugly - switched itself off. The official reason given was low battery - but I know this to be untrue. The iPhone knew that without its knowledge of life, the universe and everything, I was up shit creek without a paddle.

My desperate attempts to turn it back on failed and I descended into a blind panic. My vision blurred, my head was pounding with the noise of other commuters chattering into their better-behaved mobile phones. Cursing the phone with a string of four letter words that turned the air around me blue, I darted towards a phone box; a red beacon of hope, so often ignored. I threw the door open, grabbed the phone and inserted 50p.

"60p minimum", said the little screen. "YOU BASTARD. YOU BIG RED GREEDY BASTARD." I thought. There, under the gaze of several prostitutes staring down from postcards stuck on the walls, I rifled through my ManBag for change. Success. Another pound. I rang N. Typically, there was no answer. As the money remaining decreased at an incredible speed, I left a rushed message explaining the situation and asked him to be patient - I would get there, I needed the beer - but I might be late as I had no idea where I was.

Leaving the phonebox behind, I began my trek. I happened across a streetmap showing my current location and I did something I haven't done in a long time - I read the map and, not knowing where the next map would be, I commited the street names to memory. It felt strange - I may as well have been using a compass or navigating my course by the stars. But I did it. Despite having to revert to such primitive techniques as using my own initiative, I found my way to Old Street Station where N was waiting with a pint of sweet amber nectar.

So in your face, smug iPhone, in your face. I don't need you. I love you, and enjoy having you - but I don't need you. Now, kindly update me on what's been happening in the world, check my e-mail, warn me of any tube delays and suggest a decent restaurant within 2 miles. Much obliged.

PS I've just responded to about two weeks' worth of comments on previous posts - sincerest apologies, I wasn't ignoring them! PROMISE!

On Books

"Don't worry dear friends, you're safe here."

As you may have guessed from my tedious book-related posts, I'm quite the bibliophile, as, I believe, are most bloggers. I wonder though, whether most bloggers are as technophobic as I am? I am never the first to embrace new gadgets or the latest technology - I generally come limping along a couple of years after the rest. It's not that I'm resistant to change, or progress. I don't consider myself stuck in the past. I'm just very good at making do with what I know.

One technological advancement that fills me with a crippling fear is the e-reader. My feelings towards this piece of apparatus have reached dangerous levels. If I see one on my journey to work I get angry. Angry. I am that ridiculous. I'll be honest, I hate them. I will now rush to point out that I do understand the wisdom behind them and don't judge the owner of the device - I acknowledge, wholeheartedly, that this is my issue. It's not you, Mr E. Reader - it's me. For someone who travels a lot I imagine they are a godsend. All those words on such a handy device, who wouldn't love it? Me. That's who. I can't bring myself to turn my back on the old, trusted way of reading. I know books aren't perfect - as an industry publishing is probably up there with the least environmentally friendly. And some books are the most inconvenient things in the world - the one I'm reading now is a hefty hardback that, no matter how I position it in the Man Bag, manages to dig a corner into my thigh. But I love them despite these faults. I love the covers, the crack of a spine, the way they gather dust on the shelf. I LOVE THEM.

This rant came about thanks to Sky 1's adaptation of Terry Pratchett's 'Going Postal'. I've never read any of the Discworld books, despite seeing them in every bookshop I've ever been in. This one revolves around the quaint, old-fashioned post office struggling to survive against a newer, faster technology called the Clacks. The parallels with the real postal service and the advent of the internet and e-mail are clear, and they left me with a really depressing thought. I imagined a little postman, in the 80s, sorting out his letters for delivery - love letters, job offers, chain letters - letters from pen-pals who have never met, from distant relatives and angry constituents. Madonna's getting into her groove on the radio and he's thinking about rumours of a new technology that would remove almost all need for his services. He underestimates it - it doesn't see how it can challenge the status quo. How wrong. How wrong Mr Postman! Flash forward twenty years and he's delivering junk mail and credit card bills.

I know this is silly; it didn't happen quite like that and there is and always will be a need for the postal service. But will books die out? Am I being ignorant in refusing to embrace the e-reader? Will I find myself, in a few years' time, with no books to buy?

I stress that if any of you have e-readers, I'd never judge you for it. If anything, I'm a little jealous. Jealous that you've been able to let go when I'm destined to stand out like...like a man listening to a cassette, on a walkman in a room full of people with I-Pods.

On The Saga Continuing (And TbR Foreseeing His Doom)

No really, I actually am going to keep talking about this. At the risk of making myself sound totally insane, my battle with the Why-Won't-You-Die-Pod is far from over. After my drastic actions last weekend, we had one day of good music together. One fine day. The next day my head phones broke (He did it! The Pod! It was him!). The day after that I developed an eye twitch like the one I referred to, in jest, in my previous post! I think that settles it - there are no other explanations - my I-Pod is possessed by something far more powerful than I. I admit defeat.

FYI the eye twitch has since subsided. I get it sometimes when I'm really tired...does anyone else or is it just me? I tried to find a quick fix online but my search was in vain, all I found was a website telling me to do the following:

a) Cut down on caffeine

b) Don't get stressed at work

c) Reduce my alcohol intake.

Now, these are silly things to say and I'll tell you why. If I were to follow option a), b) would become considerably more difficult and c) would probably be impossible as I'd drink (c) to cope with the stress (b). I can't really turn b) off, but I know that coffee and alcohol are important in keeping my work life as stress-free as possible. I could, and probably should, do c), but I'll wait until next Tuesday, because I have planned a night out at which I simply must drink. Oh, and Thursday. I'll start Friday.

From the initial disappointment surrounding my lost battle with the Pod, I move on to another: the Icelandic volcano. I completely understand why the airports have closed and I for one wouldn't want to risk flying; my sole disappointment is that I didn't read the newspaper article in full, and so spent most of Tuesday hoping to see a giant cloud of ash in the distance, looming over the tower blocks, perhaps even floating past my 5th floor window. I now realise that it's far too high for my twitchy eye to see, but it would have been something to tell the grandchildren had it happened my way.

And finally, the prediction of my doom. I had a dream. A dream of what I believe to have been the End of the World. It started in my living room. I looked out of the window and saw five shooting stars. I said, "Oooh! Look at those shooting stars!" Then they crashed to earth (for anyone with any knowledge of the county of Essex, I'd say they landed somewhere around West Horndon). Panic ensued. I woke the house and noticed a horse in the garden (completely random and unrelated, but I have to stick to the vision as it happened lest a detail I miss is important). The back garden was all of a sudden consumed by flame and thick black smoke. We rushed downstairs, jumped in the car and made our way straight for the mushroom cloud (of ash!) at the point of impact. WE WERE GOING TO SEE THE METEORITES THAT SET OUR HOUSE ON FIRE. And we were all quite excited. It felt like a holiday ("We'll go to the zoo, and the beach. And we mustn't forget the epicentre of the apocalypse!"). This is where my vision ends. I wonder if it should be analysed? What does it mean? Why am I dreaming of such terrifying situations? Why did the good clan TbR head into the eye of the storm? Are we hurtling towards disaster? And where did that effing horse come from?! So many questions, so little sense.

Have a great weekend everyone!

TbR

[Please note that I am not, in fact, completely mad and don't really believe that my IPod is out to get me, nor that I have any measure of prophetic ability. I promise I'm not a complete loon.]

On TbR & The Why-Won't-You-Die-Pod

Ladies and gentlemen, please be introduced to my arch-nemesis; the Why-Won't-You-Die-Pod. We've been locked in a battle for supremacy for a while, and only now can I see the light at the end of the tunnel.

I fell in love with the little red I-Pod Nano at first sight. I took it home and introduced it to a range of music so eclectic it blew the little Pod's mind. Perhaps I should have been more careful, adding a few songs at a time rather than drowning it in tunage for (alas!) less than a month later it was in a bad way. I took it to the Apple Store where a kindly young fellow (who N fancied, incidentally) took the little Pod 'into the back' to fix it. Now, I'm not sure what happened 'in the back' but something definitely went awry for the I-Pod I received was not the same one I gave in! It did have the same scratches from my keys, my grubby fingerprints on the screen and that same piece of receipt wedged into the headphone socket. It was physically the same machine - but something had changed.

I've since come to the conclusion that while 'in the back', the little Pod was possessed by some kind of evil Pod spirit, which altered its personality in such a way that we no longer saw eye to eye. It would turn itself off in my pocket, purposely choose songs I didn't really like OVER and OVER, and run away and hide when I turned my back. All of a sudden my least favourite songs appeared in three or four different guises in My Music folder, with just one letter, number or space different between them. I couldn't escape them. They played ALL THE TIME. My thumb ached with the skipping of tracks. Why-Won't-You-Die-Pod nearly had me defeated.

But no! I'm too clever for it! I have spent the WHOLE WEEKEND sorting out My Music folder.

There has been a veritable cull of songs - I've been really quite ruthless. I've arranged them into alphabetical order (by artist) and ensured that all duplicates are deleted. The folder is perfection - a monument to my tidying skills. I've also uninstalled and reinstalled I-Tunes. And, finally, I RESTORED THE EVIL POD TO FACTORY SETTINGS. Mwah ha ha! I'm hoping this will cure its evil ways and return it to the perfect Pod I had before - before the strops, and the unscheduled song changes and the running away. Back to the good old days...

However...I am now worried for my sanity. Perhaps it has beaten me after all...I mean I've just lost a whole weekend...do I really feel proud of that? Perhaps this was what it wanted all along...yes...to make me scared...to make me compromise my good nature by taking such reckless action...why...why you little...

Have a good week everyone!

*mad eye twitch*