Morpheus on… The Global Financial Meltdown And Me

I am indebted to m’learned colleague, Cy (see “Sumpnado” – here on WP) for hooking me up with a series of articles – nay EXPOSURES – written by Matt Taibbi for Rolling Stone, a few months back.

Retired here to Thailand, one misses a lot. But even in the Land Of Smiles, one has not been able to totally avoid the effects of the monetary mêlée affecting The West, during the last four years.

Like, little did I know – while explaining to my Lady how our pile was SAFE, thanks to the post-1929 U.S. government’s installation of safeguards on its financial institutions – that even as I spoke, measures were being taken by Wall Street to REMOVE them.

I had told my Lady that no WAY would modern Americans queue for soup as they had in the Thirties. If the World’s (and thus, America’s) financial system collapsed – so would public order. The States would witness unrest of APOCALYPTICAL proportions. Thus her government had ensured it would never happen.

And to be fair, they HAD – until Wall Street began unravelling their efforts.

I had earlier discovered how crooked America’s banks were, when I had sent a trustworthy shop CASH for a classic record (having closed down my local “cyber account” due to my no longer needing it). I told them they could change my Thai money (Baht) for WELL over the amount needed to pay for the disc.

And that would have been TRUE – in BRITAIN.

However, having tried a FEW banks, the record shop-owner told me that in addition to the few percent transfer charges – ALL of the banks he had tried wanted “extra fees” that would have pushed their rate to around FIFTY percent.

I obtained and sent him U.S. dollars instead – and he sent me my Bahts and the record by return.

The delay actually BENEFITTED me, as the fifty-year-old 45 arrived intact – if he had sent it straight away, it would have been SMASHED. At that time, a sit-in protest at the airport had caused tons of mail to LITERALLY pile up – which had resulted in another disc bound for me, being cracked in HALF. Fortunately, THAT disc was an unimportant one – but it had been a DISK – specifically, a DVD! Ever tried to bust one of THOSE?! The vintage 45 would not have stood a chance.

Anyhoo – like I said, the effects of the fun and games on Wall Street HAVE affected me here.

That pile I spoke of is now worth only two-thirds of what it was. And the current Baht/GBP rate has knocked another third off THAT. Bringing my “worth” down to less than half of what it was.

But the LITTLE effects have been instructive.

Like FUEL.

The thing is, here – as in the U.S. – petrol pump prices fluctuate with the price of a barrel of oil (in Britain, they barely move – when oil goes up, HMG simply remove an equivalent amount from the punitive taxes they levy on it and compensate for THAT by reducing public services …or add another twenty pence to the equally-punitive taxes they levy on a packet of cigarettes …or both).

Thus, the first time I visited Thailand – in 1998 – a litre of car juice could be had for around 20p (30c). And when I moved here permanently – in ’02 – it had risen to around 40p (60c).

But these days, it stands at around 80p ($1.20). And a couple of years ago, it was higher than that.

The reason, I have now learned from Matt, was NOT due to supply/demand – but rather, to COMMODITY SPECULATION. Something that would have been illegal, before the deregulation.

And it had a bizarre side-effect, here.

As soon as fuel prices peaked, BIO-FUEL suddenly became economically viable – and Thailand quickly began converting to it. These days, PROPER petrol is only JUST beginning to make a comeback.

GOOD! – the eco-fascists (as m’colleague, Cy would call them) would say. Get RID of oil and go GREEN. Yeah – except that Green Petrol is INEFFICIENT and f**ks up the rubber seals in your car’s fuel system, unless you CHANGE them all.

I was LUCKY. A petrol station near me continued selling 91 octane PROPER petrol – with little cans of additive that effectively turn it into 95 octane – so my chariot still WORKS.

But there is a hidden cost.

A few months ago, Thailand suddenly experienced a shortage of COOKING oil. All supermarket shelves became DENUDED of it.

I was okay – cooking oil is one of a number of items I keep a surplus of, to save me from the incompetent restocking practices of local supermarkets. And by the time I was running out, a dribble of stock had started to reappear – and me and my Lady were fortunate to BE there when it arrived and GLOMMED enough bottles to carry us through until stocks had normalised.

(I heard some large local companies HELD ONTO stocks, to take advantage of the higher prices it would reach, before that normalisation – corruption is not limited to Wall Street).

However, while this shortage was only a minor inconvenience for ME – the practice of farmers growing crops that can be turned into more lucrative FUEL instead of FOOD, has caused HAVOC in Third World countries.

And all of this has been caused by Wall Street commodities speculators, providing fuel – for THEIR F**KING YACHTS.

Morpheus on… The Hole In The Record

In 1939, Glenn Miller released a record with a hole in it. Oh sure, ALL records had holes in them – but THIS one had a MUSICAL hole. The tune was “In The Mood” – and the band’s arrangement had a repeated verse that slowly ramped DOWN – then STOPPED, leaving a SILENT BAR – then it ROARED back in for a final verse.

And it was that silent bar that DID it. Keeping the rhythm in their heads, the audience knew EXACTLY when the band would jump back in. Thus, it was a kind of TRIBUTE to the audience’s sense of rhythm – a COMPLIMENT, if you will. Glenn did it – and people LOVED him for it.

Fifteen years later, the “hole” in the arrangement was used to magnificent effect in “The Glenn Miller Story” (’54). In the movie, the band are playing the number at an open air concert in England, when a “doodlebug” flies over. Its jet engine sputters to a stop and with its characteristic WHEEEE, it begins to fall…

The audience does what ALL people did when they heard that sound, during WW2 – they throw themselves under the nearest cover, hoping they are not Ground Zero.

Meanwhile, Jimmy Stewart and his boys have reached the diminuendo section of the piece.

And so: WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-KABOOM! …DAH-DAH, DOOBY-DO-DO, DOOBY-DO-DO-DOOWAH…

The audience pick themselves up, realising THE BAND HAD PLAYED ON – RIGHT THROUGH the scare (the bomb had landed nearby – but not near enough for either the blast or debris to nail Glenn and his boys) and the audience erupts with wild applause.

So did the cinema audiences of the time: it was a moment of high emotion – there was not a dry seat in the house (a great STORY – but if it ACTUALLY HAPPENED, I’ll eat my own foot).

Perhaps the success of that dramatic interlude in The Glenn Miller Story influenced Bill Haley’s arrangement of “Rock Around The Clock” – it was recorded just as the movie opened. There’s no diminuendo in the number, but it does feature that HOLE.

A session drummer was responsible for the timing of the famous ending – it is said he messed UP the first take and the record that eventually sold over TWENTY-FIVE MILLION copies is in fact take TWO. Other sources say the balance between the band and Bill was out… We’ll never know.

But what we DO know is that it too contains a silent bar, before that famous crashing drum finale.

Of course, Rock Around The Clock was far from being an immediate hit. Its use in “Blackboard Jungle” a year AFTER its initial release (as the “B” side!) triggered its phenomenal rise – and the rest is Rock history.

And it would be another year (’56, now) before the device was used in another chart-topper. Except, despite it easily being the best thing Ray Gonif (sorry – CONNIFF) his chorus and orchestra ever did, “’S Wonderful” was never released as a single. He and his guys were ALBUM artists.

However, typically, the Baron Of Bland CHICKENED OUT. Rather than credit his audience with a sense of rhythm (!) he put a CRASH cymbal right in the middle of the silent bar! The bum.

It was left to Warren Covington, leading the late Tommy Dorsey’s band (Tommy had choked – literally – a couple of years earlier: a heavy meal followed by a sleeping pill had knocked him off at just 51) to revive the device two years later, in 1958.

“Tea For Two Cha-Cha” was a massive hit and featured a THREE-bar silence. This was stretching the public’s sense of rhythm to breaking point. And a number of DJs were fooled into starting to speak during it – then, if they hadn’t been quick enough with their fader, they got drowned out when the band came BACK IN!

But this foot-tapper was the LAST time the device was successfully used. Okay, it was invoked many times on Pop records of the Sixties and Seventies – but it only ever REALLY worked with SWING music. And THAT died out as a popular form in the late Fifties.

You can find ALL of the above music on YouTube – here’s Glenn Miller’s In The Mood, to get you started…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=teJfuKdzbOo

Morpheus on… The Dangers Of Travel In Thailand

Recently, a number of bus accidents that have claimed the lives of young, middle-class backpackers have – thanks to their distraught middle-class parents – made the news back in the West. And so Western journalists have come here and done various PIECES on the phenomenon.

However, they do not LIVE here. But I DO – and so I decided it was time to reveal the TRUTH, from an INSIDER’S perspective.

First, let us deal with the NUMBER of fatalities. On paper, these look DIRE when compared to Western countries. But they include those involving MOTORCYCLES – the DEAD from which form MOST of the fatalities.

Fact is, you have to understand the Thai CULTURE of travel – to see what is REALLY going on.

Like, cars here often constitute a bigger investment to people than their HOUSES – and insurance, while mandatory, is utterly inadequate. Most people cannot afford the premiums charged by companies for PROPER insurance, so go with the minimal cover provided under the government’s mandatory scheme (I certainly do).

Thus car-owners drive CAREFULLY – knowing that if they have a prang, they are going to end up paying for the damage THEMSELVES – regardless of whose fault it was.

Also, in the West, strict vehicle-testing makes keeping an old car on the road very EXPENSIVE. Not so here – thus even second-hand cars cost WAY more than they do back home. I drive a now-seventeen-year-old Mitsubishi Galant Ultima and while you could not GIVE it away in Britain – here, it is still worth TWO GRAND ($3,080).

Motorbikes on the other hand, are a NIGHTMARE – and there are MILLIONS of them.

Almost all are low-powered step-throughs that handle like rubbish – and are CHEAP to buy. Around GBP 800 ($1,250) – as opposed to cars which, while made here cheaply under license, are still expensive – GBP 10-20,000 (say, $15-30,000).

New, you could buy at least TEN of these comedy motorbikes for the price of just ONE entry-level version of the SMALLEST car you will find here.

And the road laws – and their enforcement – are very different here from the way things are done in the West. So while car drivers mostly drive a lot like their Western counterparts – but more SLOWLY and CAREFULLY – motorbike drivers drive like they are the only vehicles on the road.

Most have no IDEA how to USE roads. They consider the left-hand lane of a dual carriageway not to be part of the actual road and are quite happy to drive along it the WRONG way – without lights, at NIGHT – and with any NUMBER of passengers.

When they reach a crossroads, if they want to turn right (Thailand is a right-hand-drive country) they will slew across to the right curb, now driving AT the traffic – make the turn, hugging the curve – then slew BACK across the road to the left side again – usually without bothering to look behind them.

And the typical motorbike will have four people on it. Dad (sometimes with a helmet) will drive – his three-year-old will be sat on his lap – his wife will be clinging on behind him – and his six-year-old will be perched on the back, clinging on to Mum.

Kids as young as EIGHT drive these things – and girls sit SIDE-SADDLE on the back.

The result of this insanity is that the cops regularly stop bikes at “checkpoints” – but only on-the-spot-fine them for not wearing helmets. After which they are allowed to continue – still helmetless.

Bangkok is stricter about helmet wear – but elsewhere, no-one much cares.

All of which at least benefits ME. Back in Britain, cops spend most of their time pestering car-drivers – but here, they know the REAL problem is with motorbike drivers.

I once HIT a motorbike (HIS fault) in FRONT of a cop – and despite me being a foreigner, he knew it was the motorbike rider’s fault and was cool. He did not even ask to see my license (which was fortunate, since Thai licenses are difficult to obtain if you are foreign – and none of my assorted Western licenses are exactly kosher).

Anyhoo – it is a fact that most Thai people bear at least one scar. And if you ask them how they got it, the answer is invariably the same – motorbike accident.

I once SAW two of these excrescences meet at an urban crossroads with no markings to indicate who should STOP. Result: neither did – and seven youths ended up sprawled all over the road. Broken bones likely – but this time, no fatalities.

However, while accidents involving motorbikes hitting OTHER motorbikes generally only produce bumps, bruises, gashes, grazes and the occasional busted bone for their riders and passengers – those that pit motorbikes against cars, pickups, trucks and buses are the ones that produce all those deaths.

And every year, backpackers who hire these two-wheeled death-traps for TINY money join the statistics – particularly those who hail from left-hand-drive countries.

Holiday islands like Samui have shocking statistics. And since Thai crash-hats are SMALL – foreigners rarely wear them.

For several years, I was one such. But after a minor spill that occurred on SAND, at WALKING speed – which gave me a broken collar bone (which are NOT fun) – I eventually decided to spend the (major) extra wonga needed to hire JEEPS.

Which brings us back to FOUR-wheeled transport – and beyond. Road rage is FAR less common in this country than in the West – thanks again to the psychology of the people – and for the above-mentioned financial reasons, they generally take it EASY (although few wear seatbelts).

Thus in a car, belt up and you are RELATIVELY safe.

But few tourists can afford to hire them, so most opt for the variety of BUSES that ply their trade all over Thailand. These are HIGHLY variable, safety-wise. You see buses that are not fit to grace a SCRAPYARD carrying passengers here.

And while the “luxury” buses LOOK impressive – they are built locally, have NO safety features and their maintenance standards are low. In addition, while they may LOOK solid - their bodies’ construction is merely a mixture of wood, glass and aluminium. A truck will go right THROUGH one.

Then there are the many “minibuses” – I recall a young driver on Samui who drove like Ben Hur and every time he overtook on the two-lane concrete loop road, the knuckles of a female passenger in front of me quite LITERALLY turned white as they gripped the seat in front of her. Although I rather ENJOYED the trip – he was actually a damn good driver.

However, many are NOT. Furthermore, since they drive the SAME routes EVERY day, for LONG (unregulated) hours, they can get careless. Or fall ASLEEP (it is easily done in a hot, humid country and Thais have the ability to fall asleep ANYWHERE).

As a result – horrendous, fatal bus crashes are COMMON here.

The situation is not helped by the way Thai roads are constructed. As already stated, many consider the left lane of a motorway (dual carriageway) to be a sort of “no man’s land” where you can do anything you like.

But the thing I always hated when I drove (or was driven) along these wide, straight roads was U-TURNS.

In the West, to turn right on a motorway, you turn LEFT onto a slip-road which leads to a tunnel or elevated roadway that goes UNDER or OVER the road you just left – not here. And as in America, motorways do not have slow and fast lanes – all lanes are EQUAL and you can (usually) overtake on either side.

Thus traffic turning right ends up in a (short) slip-LANE in the MIDDLE of the motorway. You then have to filter into the traffic coming the other way – which is often THREE OR FOUR lanes-worth, ALL doing SEVENTY-ODD MPH (112 KPH).

Which is IMPOSSIBLE if you are driving a long, slow truck or bus.

Consequently, THIS is where many of the more SPECTACULAR bus crashes occur.

So – take the TRAIN, right?

Well, there is talk about replacing Thailand’s antiquated rail network with a high-speed network of elevated trains like China is currently building (which STILL have accidents) but given Thailand’s economic situation – it is highly likely to REMAIN talk.

The reality is that Thailand’s state railway system is very CHEAP – but as a result, maintenance is almost non-existent.

There are frequent derailments – but most accidents happen at the many LEVEL CROSSINGS that cover this country. These are mostly out in the middle of nowhere and if the barriers (where the crossings even HAVE barriers) do not work properly, the results can be disastrous.

Another monograph in this column tells THAT story. It can be found – with a link to PICTURES – here…

https://morpheusatloppers.wordpress.com/2009/05/01/morpheus-on-the-great-train-crash/

So, in closing, what can I say about travel in Thailand? Well – it IS CHEAP. But you get what you PAY for. This is still a “developing” country and as such, has much to learn about safety.

But then, accidents happen EVERYWHERE – even in countries like Switzerland and Germany, where safety is a byword and regulation a way of life. Thailand is pretty much like everywhere else – shit happens. It is just different in nature – it’s THAI STYLE. So if you want to live in – or visit – this place, it is no use expecting it to be like home.

I have traveled and driven around this great country for over a decade now – and I’M still alive. But I WATCH OUT. I have EMBRACED the local style and as far as possible, make ALLOWANCES for its shortcomings.

And if you do THAT – I guess you are about as safe here as anywhere…

Morpheus on… When To Panic

This is a quote from today’s BBC (online) News – “Wind speeds of up to 101 mph have been recorded in Shetland… …Forecasters issued an amber alert.” In order to ensure accuracy, I even cut and pasted the text.

WTF?????

What does it take for them to issue a RED alert? Does fire and brimstone have to rain from above???

Morpheus on… A Cautionary Tale

Once Upon A Time there lived a fruit farmer. For many years, he had grown strawberries – and every year, he employed casual labour to pick them. But in recent years, the adverse weather had driven those labourers to indoor jobs, making it progressively harder to find pickers.

And this year, with his strawberries now ripe and having had little response to his newspaper adverts, he was becoming desperate. So, with a crop far too large for him and his wife to pick, he decided his only remaining course of action was to join the growing movement towards “Pick Your Own” farming.

This was a last resort, as the public would always pick only the biggest and easiest-to-reach fruit, leaving the rest of it to rot. But as it was his only option and being a law-abiding citizen, the next morning he drove into town to seek permission from the Town Council to erect a sign.

Having queued for half an hour, he finally arrived at the Inquiries Desk and after explaining his business, was directed to the Town Planning Department. Another twenty minutes of queuing and he was re-directed to the Roadside Structures Department. Then another half an hour…

This went on until late that afternoon, when he finally found himself facing the correct bureaucrat. For the umpteenth time that day, he explained his problem and his intended solution.

“I’m sorry,” said the man, “Experience has shown that unofficial road-side signs are distracting to motorists. Also, the queues that form, block traffic. I’m afraid I cannot give you permission to erect your sign. Furthermore, having made this enquiry, you are now on record – which means should you go ahead and erect the sign, you will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

“But that’s outrageous!” shouted the farmer. “There are a number of fruit farms on my road and several of them have such signs. Furthermore, I’ve seen similar signs dotted all over this county. How come they can do it and I can’t?”

“Simple, sir,” replied the bureaucrat, smiling, “They didn’t ask.”

Morpheus on… Flamers And Trolls

This scribbler came LATE to the Interweb – it having been FORCED upon him, by a spell of extreme unreliability in the domains of “snail mail” and texting. He finally succumbed around three years ago.

Self-taught – with a little help from “Windows Vista For Dummies” – he is today somewhat short of being a “wizard” – but knows all he NEEDS to know about the science (I’m writing THIS, aren’t I?)

And thankfully, his experience of flamers and trolls has been minimal – thus far. However, he feels what he HAS learned might be of use to others also new to this medium. So here we go…

Flamers are those who, hidden behind the anonymity of an electronic medium, feel free to REMOVE the filter between their brains and their mouths and say ANYTHING they like.

We have all WANTED to tell our bosses that they are towering arseholes with small dicks – but it usually came out as “Yes sir, I’ll correct that right away, sir.”

Trolls, however, are FAR are more poisonous. They hide behind the obscurity of the Interweb and pour their vileness into the World with evil glee. Their racist, sexist, hateful bile is a cancer in the new medium.

So what do you DO about these excrescences?

Well, firstly, do not BE one. Never say anything to anyone electronically – that you would not be happy to say to a REASONABLE person, FACE TO FACE.

The fact that you are NOT face to face with them is NO excuse to allow the normal decencies of interpersonal communication to be dispensed with.

And as for “sensitive” issues, remember that while you might discuss the finer points of say, genetics or religion with a friend – the person at the other end of this medium might not be as intellectually gifted as you and your friend.

Secondly, do not ENGAGE a flamer or troll. You know what they say – “An intelligent person should never argue with an idiot, since observers might not be able to tell which is which.”

And this is TRUE: an intelligent person will NEVER be able to pull an idiot UP to their level – however, it is all too easy for an idiot to drag an intelligent person DOWN to theirs.

Also, it is unnecessary: all decent services (including THIS one) have the facility to BLOCK a flamer or troll. Once you see where their words are leading, STOP READING them – or their sick mind will pollute YOURS.

And remember, while most of these morons are COWARDS who would not say boo to a goose, if said goose was stood in front of them – a small minority of them are DANGEROUS. The sort of people who should have been drowned at birth.

You do NOT want to piss one of THEM off.

So forget about trying to teach them a lesson. Most lack the grey matter to REALISE they were just outwitted by a keener mind. Pearls before swine and all that.

This medium has plenty of people who are decent, honourable and just plain NICE. Life is too SHORT to waste your time on those cretins. Instead, cultivate people who USE this tool for COMMUNICATION.

Not those who ARE tools…

Morpheus on… Jeremy Clarkson

I don’t always agree with what Jeremy says – but then oft times, neither does HE.

The thing is, most people miss the POINT with Clarkson. Because he comes from a journalistic background and appears on what USED to be a serious motoring magazine programme, they get in an awful tizzy every time he says something “inappropriate” – failing to realize he is a COMEDIAN.

And therein lies the dilemma. The BBC airs numerous satirical, topical and standup shows where comedians say FAR more “inappropriate” things than Jeremy would ever DARE to – and get away with it, because people recognise the comedians are merely being humourous and do not actually MEAN their words to be taken seriously.

But with Jeremy, people expect DISCIPLINE.

For those outside Britain who do not know WHAT I am talking about, some history…

“Top Gear” began in 1977, as a serious motoring magazine programme. Every week, William Woollard and a bunch of oxygen thieves would compare the merits of family saloons (“I found the ride of the new Cortina to be firmer than the previous model, but the cupholder…”) and visit motor shows and… I’m boring MYSELF just THINKING about it.

But then in ’88, Clarkson joined the crew. And soon, his forthright views and casual humour began to get noticed. Ratings soared – and the BBC had an idea.

They allowed the series to LAPSE for two-and-a-half years – but they were playing the Long Game. When it returned, it was totally revamped.

There was “The News” – where Jeremy would begin reading a press release about the latest Cortina (or its modern equivalent) and a few words in, start snoring, throw the report over his shoulder and begin talking about the latest $500,000 supercar.

Then they would cut to his test-drive of the beast – involving him belting around a test-track in it, on opposite-lock – and doing doughnuts across the stop line.

In those days, they still did SOME serious bits. Like…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KGkKDaYd3Mo

But eventually, they abandoned ALL pretence at Top Gear EVER being a serious motoring magazine programme again. They began presenting it in an aircraft hanger-sized building, with a “Cool Wall” – upon which pictures of cars nominated as cool and not were displayed.

Then they invited guest stars – many “A” list – to take a turn around their (usually WET – this was in BRITAIN) test track in a family saloon. Tom Cruise held the lap record for a while.

And then there were the “challenges” – Clarkson and his two cohorts would be given a few grand to go out and buy three old bangers (US – klunkers) to pit against each other, in a series of “tests” – the vehicles would be made to SUFFER.,

By now, the ratings were SKY-HIGH. This was FUN.

Of course, the budget for the show became ENORMOUS. The actual road tests (for supercars only) were filmed with state-of-the-art technology – resulting in visual masterpieces that were less reports than pieces of ART. And their various Wacky Races covered the WORLD – even the Magnetic North Pole.

However, the BBC soon discovered they needed a special letters department just to answer the “I wish to complain in the STRONGEST terms…” rants from those who still thought Top Gear was a MOTORING show.

And the gutter newspapers joined in too: their journalists HATED Jeremy for doing what they would have LOVED to have done – speak their MINDS.

However, Auntie was not about to be railroaded into firing their cash-cow over a few complaints. They recognised Clarkson for being what he is – a brilliant and erudite COMEDIAN. And so they laugh off the brickbats and hope Jeremy can keep it UP.

And for what it’s worth – so do I.

Morpheus on… Oriental Pixelization

The entertainment industry often refers to the technique as “mosaicking” – and the public usually call it “pixelating” – but the proper term is as above.

It refers to the practise of digitally obscuring PART of a picture, while leaving the main picture intact – and permitting the viewer to understand what is going on.

The technique involves breaking the affected part of the picture into blocks – then averaging the colour and brightness of the blocks – and reproducing that colour and brightness over the entire block.

It has only been possible since the advent of digital technology – before that, clumsy optical effects had been used.

The problem in the Orient, is that the technology is ABUSED.

In Japan, LEGAL porn uses it to obscure genitals. Laughable and utterly pointless. TASTEFUL porn?

And here in Thailand, it is used to obscure guns near heads, people smoking cigarettes – and nudity.

The problem is that the law which requires it – has not been thought THROUGH.

The thing is, the pixelization only occurs during the time-period where it becomes legally required – the lead-up and follow-through do not feature it.

Thus when someone is smoking, the cigarette is only pixelized when it comes into CONTACT with the smoker’s lips. And likewise, the gun only becomes pixelized when it comes into close proximity with the head. The articles are therefore IN CLEAR, before and after the pixelization.

All of which only serves to EMPHASISE the very things the law seeks to VEIL.

Which means that instead of REDUCING a child’s interest in the offending activities, the law actually INCREASES the interest – by drawing ATTENTION to them!

Dumb.

Morpheus on… How To Achieve World Peace

During the last forty years, Political Correctness has at least partially succeeded in eradicating racism, sexism, other isms – even smoking. So why can’t it be used to achieve World Peace?

Look, if a man starts up a bicycle factory, his company will have a useful end product, right? A simple machine which enables a person to sit down to walk.

But what is the end product of The Military? Death, destruction and young, addled brains, that’s what. And that’s ALL. They produce NOTHING of USE.

Gullible youths are CONNED into fighting old men’s wars for them by talk of Service To Country. However, most conflicts merely serve The Rich, in one way or another. It’s a gigantic, sick CON.

The Military is an IMMORAL organization. It sucks up US$1.6 TRILLION (Short Scale – billion, Long Scale) a YEAR. That’s $1,600,000,000,000. Think what all of that loot could do for the Third World – all the Live Aid projects combined only raised $150 million.

And that does not take into account the OTHER costs of The War. Rebuilding the infrastructure (all those bombed buildings, bridges, etc.) and the economies of the countries involved – both winners and losers – and the minds of those gullible youths when they return (sometimes) from the conflicts.

So why not make them POLITICALLY INCORRECT? The Military, The War – the whole thing. It’s all an attitude of mind.

Once The Peoples of the World lose the idea that The Dead are Glorious – and realize they’re just DEAD – and that only when The Enemy are actually goose-stepping down THEIR STREET, do they need to act…

As John Lennon said, War Is Over – If You Want It. Remember Christmas, World War One? The combatants climbed out of their trenches and started playing football. Peace nearly broke out THEN.

The Dirty Old Men who were running the conflict nearly SHAT themselves. And it can be done again. Just don’t JOIN The Military. Or, if you’ve already succumbed to The Con – don’t FIGHT.

Become a conscientious objector. Most countries won’t shoot you for it, these days. They rely on only a handful of squaddies seeing sense – and the other squaddies bullying them back into line. But if ALL the squaddies downed tools…

It’s as simple as that. The Warmongers rely on their propaganda to Con the proles into fighting their Wars for them – in fact, it can truly be said that the first action any Warring government has to win is the propaganda battle against its own people.

So don’t BUY it. Until The Enemy is at the gate, tell them to go f*** themselves. World Peace is in YOUR hands. You, The People, outnumber the Warmongers by millions to one. That’s your power – USE it.

World Peace is a doddle. It only needs The People to decide The Military and The War are Politically Incorrect – and refuse to play their bloody (literally) games.

You’re welcome.

Morpheus on… Frilly Knickers

T’other day I came across (make that HAPPENED across) a clip of Betty (a.k.a. Bettie) Page in “Teaserama” – on YouTube. And some kid had written a comment asking why she was wearing an “adult diaper” (nappy).

Now, I had the answer – but it would have taken me more than the space allotted by YouTube to write it. And anyway, Morphy was due a new piece, so I’m posting it here instead…

“Teaserama” was a 1955 film, which featured American Burlesque queens strutting their stuff. And it included the legend that is – or rather was (she passed away three years ago, aged 85) – Ms Page.

And in that film, Ms Page wears FRILLY KNICKERS.

The thing about frilly knix is the frills are supposed to act as heat-sinks (like the fins on a motorbike engine) – which is why tennis players wear them. They are supposed to keep you cool.

Whether this is true or not, I have no idea – having never worn them (and if I had, I wouldn’t tell YOU). But while they may keep the wearer cool – they make them LOOK HOT!

Case in point was Britain’s last Wimbledon singles winner – Ms Virginia Wade, in 1977 (we haven’t had a Men’s winner since Fred Perry, in the Thirties).

Although frilly knix were really a Fifties thing – Ms Wade wore them throughout her Wimbledon career. And many non-tennis fans tuned in just to watch her serve from the end where the cameras were located!

And while this writer is now well-stricken in years, they are really before even HIS time. Nevertheless, he must confess to his heart-rate going up just a BIT when Ginny walked out onto the Centre Court.

So, young people, if you see footage of Betty (Bettie) Page – or some of the many thousands of stills taken of her by Bunny Yeager (who, at 81, still lives) – remember: NO, she was NOT incontinent.

She was wearing FRILLY KNICKERS – ’cause they were HOT – and dammit, they STILL ARE!

Morpheus on… Chuck Jones And “The Aristocats”

In 1970, I saw Disney’s then-latest offering – “The Aristocats” – in a cinema. My initial reaction was that it was fine …except it seemed strangely RETRO. Like it had been made several years EARLIER.

You have to remember that in the Sixties, style and fashion moved QUICKLY. Even at Disney. It began with the 1960 film, “One Hundred And One Dalmatians” – which was Disney’s first to use a Xerox technique (forced upon them by the flop of “Sleeping Beauty” – it made animation CHEAPER) and continued throughout their Sixties and Seventies output.

But over time, I forgot about this anomaly …until the Eighties, when I saw, on TV, Chuck Jones’ only ever cartoon FEATURE – “Gay Purr-ee” – which had been released in 1962. And the FIRST thing that occurred to me was that it was similar to The Aristocats - very, VERY similar!

Then over time, that feeling also filtered down into my subconscious – until, in the Nineties, I saw an interview with Chuck Jones. And in it, he mentioned his short spell working at Disney. It turned out Warner had CLOSED their cartoon division for a couple of years, in the mid-Fifties – after which they had reopened it, hiring back Chuck and most of the original team.

But since Chuck needed to eat, he had joined Walt’s studio during that time – doing (uncredited) work on the above-mentioned Sleeping Beauty – after which he had left and returned to Warner. Okay – except in his interview, Chuck hinted that his relationship with Walt had NOT been an equitable one.

Now, all of the above is fact. And not wishing to be sued by The Mouse, let me state that the following is only CONJECTURE…

Supposing Chuck had wanted to STICK IT to Walt? Sleeping Beauty took eight years to make and was released in 1959. And Walt did not acquire One Hundred And One Dalmatians until ’57 – then made it during ’59 and ’60 – CHEAPLY.

So could the studio have been beginning production on The Aristocats at the same time? During Chuck’s time at the studio?? And could he have decided to make a CLONE of it – to EMBARRASS Walt???

The dates work. Gay Purr-ee was not released until ’62, but Chuck and his team had been making it for a WHILE. Indeed, Warner FIRED Chuck and his team because of it – killing off their own cartoon division – after which Chuck and said team went independent for several years, producing new Tom And Jerry cartoons, before finally being “bought back” by MGM.

So could Disney have SAT on The Aristocats for a decade? The film was “officially” made immediately after Walt’s death in ’66 – and finally released in ’70.

But suppose most of it HAD been made in the Fifties? Disney were in financial doo-doo by the late Fifties (hence the CHEAP Xerox technique employed by them, on One Hundred And One Dalmatians).

OFFICIALLY, blame was laid upon the failure of the costly Sleeping Beauty (it was made in 70mm stereo). But if, in addition, The Aristocats had been SHELVED, because Disney knew Chuck was rushing out HIS version…

Chuck has never spoken of it – but what if the Disney Company bought his SILENCE?

After all, Gay Purr-ee died on its arse – so by 1970, it is unlikely anyone would have drawn comparisons between it and The Aristocats. Which meant the only potential embarrassment could have come from Chuck.

But what if – for a LARGE consideration – he had signed a non-disclosure contract?

Once again, the above is only conjecture: Walt Disney was murdered by Kurt Russell (according to some sources: see Wiki) and got cryogenically frozen (according to other sources) in ’66 and Chuck has been gone for a decade now – so we will probably never know. But given the cut-throat nature of the cartoon business, it seems to me there is something FISHY here.

All I can say is if you can buy or rent Gay Purr-ee AND The Aristocats - do so. Then watch them one after the other – and DECIDE!

Morpheus on… How America Killed The Movies

Americans have never embraced the concept that more can be LESS.

Thus, while Europe had nice little family-run circuses (circi?) with a single ring and perhaps a dozen performers – with everybody doubling roles – America had The Greatest Show On Earth – Ringling Bros And Barnham & Bailey Circus – a MONSTER circus, with THREE rings.

And therein lies the problem.

The intimacy of the small circus, where the audience watches the acts right in front of them – ONE AT A TIME – was DESTROYED by the three-ring format. How could anyone concentrate on three acts at a time? Even Marty Feldman could only have concentrated on TWO.

The apparent thinking was that with the main act in Centre Ring, the other two would “enhance” it. But no, they did not – they were just a DISTRACTION. Dumb.

And the idea that the scale was impressive belied the fact that said scale would also DWARF the PERFORMERS – the very people we had come to SEE.

It was the same with Saturday-morning TV fare. In Europe, this consisted of a series of items – a cartoon montage, a magazine-type show, an episode of an adventure series and usually, a children’s movie.

But cartoons were always the most popular item, so American Saturday-morning TV would feature nothing else – thus producing a generation of kids whose whole life experience was a series of zany DRAWINGS.

And thus it is today, with movies. In the Good Old Days, movies told STORIES – with, sometimes, a little visual artistry thrown in.

But once TV took over that role, movies became “EVENTS” – all movies had to be bigger, more expensive and state-of-the-art-effects-laden. Stories? Who cared?

And so these days, The Movies are just like that three-ring-circus – TOO DAMN MUCH. The senses are overloaded with noise, “MTV-edited” action and computer-generated imagery. Movies today are nothing more than gigantic VIDEO-GAMES.

America has KILLED The Movies.

Morpheus on… “That Letter Is Silent – Like The ‘P’ In Pool”

Kid: “I got banned from the local swimming pool for peeing in it.”

His Dad: “That’s a bit strong – every kid pees in the pool.”

Kid: “Yeah – but I did it from the top diving board.”

I recalled this venerable joke while watching Adam Sandler’s movie, “Grown Ups” (2010).

Like you, I’ve often heard about the chemical which pool owners add to the water that turns urine bright blue (or red) but when this was SHOWN in said movie – it got me thinking…

And having thunk – I decided it was bollocks.

Think it through: the chemical would have to be DRINKABLE, or it would poison the water – the very thing it’s supposed to PREVENT.

And pee is not poisonous anyway. In fact, provided the pe-er is in normal health, urine is STERILE.

And even a good, long one in a pool – would only constitute around one part per BILLION, compared with the volume of water.

And pee is essentially composed of the same chemicals as SWEAT – how you gonna stop people SWEATING in a pool?

And even if the chemical WAS safe – and worked effectively – what THEN? Sure, you could eject the “offender” – but who would want to STAY in your pool? You’d have to drain, disinfect and refill it – which would take at least a DAY, never mind the COST.

And it would be pointless anyway. All public pools contain a constantly-monitored level of CHLORINE, which KILLS “impurities” like sweat, pee – even POOP.

I’ve always figured the Magic Chemical was a MYTH – told by pool-owners to kids, to try to at least cut down on the LEVEL of pee.

Yet another lie adults tell children, like: don’t do that – you’ll go blind, every time you pick your nose a fairy dies – and ice cream vans only play music when they’ve run out of ice cream.

But I still had to CHECK – and found several sites which confirmed what I had already surmised…

It’s BOLLOCKS.

Morpheus on… Jeans: The Uniform Of Youth

Despite being a Child Of The Sixties – I’ve never really LIKED ‘em.

Thing is, they are WORK CLOTHES. But in those halcyon days of youth rebellion, they became the must-wear item.

However, they have really NEVER been ideal for casual wear. When new, they are STIFF and uncomfortable. In My Day, we used to try EVERYTHING to make them less so.

And for years, manufacturers have done likewise. Since wearing second-hand clothes creeps most people out, the companies have gone to great lengths to “distress” their NEW jeans.

One method is to SAND-BLAST them. Problem is, the Third World factories that make them have never HEARD of Health And Safety – resulting in workers’ respiratory systems getting clogged with fine SAND.

Then there were those stupid RIPS in the KNEES, a few years ago.

Of course, distressing jeans also shortens their LIVES – a fact appreciated by the companies that make them.

Indeed, these CON-ARTISTS have made a FORTUNE out of an article of clothing that costs less than ten Pounds (sixteen bucks) to make.

I even heard Levi had opened up shops on Fifth Avenue and Regent Street, called “Levi Strauss Fashions” or somesuch, selling jeans for over A HUNDRED QUID ($150). I thought it was a JOKE – but tragically, not.

Personally, I wore my last pair of jeans in the Seventies. Then for a while, I sported slacks – until finally, I STARTED the trend for wearing TRAINERS and TRACK-SUITS as DAYWEAR.

After a couple of years, the “Shell Suit” emerged and I switched to those. But after a while, they became DEEPLY unfashionable – so I reverted to track-suits. And the rest of the World followed me.

Jeans then became a JOKE – with companies selling “designer” versions, for absurd prices, to gullible morons. Then “penguin jeans” – with the crotch at knee-level. And finally jeans that didn’t even FIT – causing them to FALL DOWN.

Thus, myself and the SMART people sported track-suit bottoms, with tennis shirts and the like – covered with track-suit tops during the Winter.

Back in the Sixties, cotton was king – thus jeans and tee-shirts ruled. But these days, most people have realised that man-made fibres are WAY better at insulating you from the weather – in addition to being more comfortable and easier to wash.

Jeans are now for PLEBS (and Jay Leno-types).

However, having ESCAPED cold, wet, miserable, rip-off Britain – I live in a HOT, HUMID country. And thus, the advantages of man-made fibres are outweighed by the COOL ABSORBANCY of cotton (worn for ONE DAY ONLY of course).

But I STILL haven’t reverted to JEANS – WAY too heavy. No, here I wear Japanese-style loose trousers and tops. Kinda like Karate suits (see the pic at the bottom of this column).

Nevertheless, if I were still unfortunate enough to reside in Blighty, I would SWEAR by track-suits.

Just not with a damn HOOD!

Morpheus on… (Sir) Michael Caine Is “Harry Brown”

It has taken this film two years to turn up on Asian satellite TV – but I am glad it did. It is a great film (and reminds me why I am glad to have escaped Britain).

Beautifully composed and shot on a London estate (which was demolished shortly after) it tells the tale of Harry Brown (Mike Caine) – a pensioner who loses his wife to old age – and his best friend to the gang of thugs who “rule” the estate.

There are many such estates in Britain. The dregs of society live there, with high unemployment leading to high crime and illicit drug use. And with their low levels of intelligence and imagination, the drugs are their only escape.

The alienation the inhabitants feel often explodes into violence (as demonstrated during the recent riots) and this is the backdrop for the film.

With his wife dead, when Harry’s best friend is murdered he decides he has little to lose by going after those responsible. Thus the film becomes Britain’s latter-day answer to America’s “Death Wish” (the original film – not the wanky sequels).

And it is at least as good as that film. Caine threw himself into the role, it being close to (his original) home. He was quoted as saying it would be his last film – but he later said he was misquoted. This writer suspects what he actually said was if it TURNED OUT to be his last film, he would be satisfied.

And justifiably so. If it had been successful in The States, Caine would be looking at another OSCAR nod. But like “The Boat That Rocked” – it was too British.

And because of its failure to make it across The Pond, “Harry Brown” barely covered its costs (which were quite high – the riot scene alone was not cheap).

But we do not care: the film was made with British Lottery money – some of which, ironically, would have come from the desperate occupants of those estates…

So there it is. ”Harry Brown” is not a date movie – it is visceral and bleak. And while Harry had had experience in Northern Ireland, he does NOT suddenly become a wrinkly action-man.

But the film LIVES. It is ABOUT something – which is all too rare these days.

And it even has an upbeat ending. So if it comes your way, check it out.

Morpheus on… “I Wanna Be In Movies”

It’s a funny thing about showbiz. When I was a kid, I knew I was “different” (no jokes, please) and was SURE I would enter The Business when I grew up. But then the Real World intervened.

Fact is – nearly all of the people who DO enter showbiz do so after a firm grounding in a STAGE SCHOOL (like Italia Conti) – paid for by their rich parents, who figure their little girl/boy is “special”.

Of course, some of them ARE – and they are the ones who just MIGHT succeed.

Others STUMBLE into it (an Open Mike night – someone wants a specialist journalist for a show – or they achieve fame via a different route and then cross over).

But I did not do ANY of that. My parents were POOR and after I left school, I had to earn a LIVING.

At various times, I ALMOST blundered into it (I was a semi-pro DJ for a while, among other things) but it never quite happened.

The problem is – EVERYBODY thinks they can be a movie star or whatever – but only one in a THOUSAND has the GIFT. However, that still means there are some SIXTY THOUSAND-odd people in the UK – WITH that gift. Thus even if you DO have it – your chances of success are barely one in a hundred.

Okay, one in TEN – if your idea of success is working in local rep your whole life – with the occasional TV or movie bit-part to remind you of what COULD have been.

Plus, in addition to talent (where mine is LIMITED, to say the least) you need LUCK (again, limited) and ENORMOUS DEDICATION with NO FEAR OF REJECTION – which is where I fall WAY short.

So these days, my contribution to The Business is in the area of PROMOTION. As an unofficial “VJ” on YouTube, I am less of a performer (although I have done a FEW live bits there) than a modest SHOWMAN – promoting the talents of OTHERS.

To which end, having uploaded over 1,600 pieces, on 33 channels – I have so far gleaned OVER FIFTEEN MILLION HITS. SIXTY THOUSAND EVERY DAY, right now.

My reward is not financial (sadly!) but I achieve contact with friends of, relatives of – and occasionally the ACTUAL stars themselves, whose work I “promote” (Tom Mullica himself recently contacted me, after his piece went VIRAL, with nearly two MILLION hits to date) – and that is nice.

But even nicer is the public “fan-mail” I get. Tonight I answered just a PIECE of it – and communicated with people from Britain, America, Russia, Chile and Malta. And we spoke of things that were common to us both.

Furthermore, I linked one of my Fifties Rock ‘N’ Roll pieces on YouTube – which a 15-year-old had said showed him what REAL Pop was like – to my piece on The History Of Pop And Dance, on WordPress. Then I steered him to it.

I have already shamelessly linked relevent WordPress pieces to my top YouTube “earners”, in order to promote THEM!

Then – there IS always that WRITTEN work. As one of the top million or so non-fiction writers in the English language (!) my well-over-500 posts on WordPress, plus my book and short story (and a number of movie crits on IMDb) earn around one hundred hits a day (79,000 – thus far).

Okay – that IS pitifully tiny, compared to my A/V pieces (but like I always say – no-one READS anymore) – however, at least THOSE efforts are all MINE!

So there it is: fame – of a kind – at last! I am FAR too long in the tooth to consider entering The Business now – in any case, I am happily RETIRED to Thailand and have responsibilities here.

But having become a “columnist” and low-rent P.T. Barnham – I make a difference.

In the time it has taken YOU to read THIS, some FIFTY PEOPLE – from all around the World – have been entertained by something I uploaded into the Public Domain.

And YOU just read THIS!

Morpheus on… A Tale Of Old Ireland

Mary O’Shaunessey looked down at her husband for what she knew would be the last time. Gerry was taking his last breaths In This Life.

As she, his dutiful wife, sat along with their six children and the local priest – Mary reflected on the two decades that had brought her to this point.

She had barely been out of Catholic school when she had first met Gerry – a man then in his late thirties. He had recently divorced his first wife, as she had not borne him any children.

But over the next decade, Mary had made up for that. She had popped out babies with monotonous regularity.

Five of them were bright and brawny, but Ronan had always been sickly. Thin and nervy, he was the runt of the litter – and not the sharpest tool in the box, either.

And she could see her husband’s eyes raking the children now, as he prepared to Meet His Maker.

Suddenly, gathering his remaining strength, he raised his head and called his wife over. She bent to catch his last words.

“Mary,” he croaked, “I have to know – it doesn’t matter now – is Ronan really MY child?”

“Of course he is,” Mary replied.

Satisfied, her husband relaxed, sank back onto the pillow – and with one last strained gasp, exited This Place.

The children got up, passed their father and filed out, leaving Mary alone with the priest. He ventured, “Sure, that was an unusual question to ask, about the boy.”

Mary nodded – and the priest left her alone with her husband.

Standing over him, she murmured,”It’s a good job you didn’t ask me about the other five – I’d have hated to lie in front of a priest.”

    

[It's the way I tell 'em.]

Morpheus on… “Lie To Me: Saved” (S3, ep11)

The series was reaching its end when this offering was made (although the writers and/or cast may not have KNOWN that).

As usual, our twitchy hero acts everyone off the screen – but is let down by a MAJOR faux pas from the writers.

The plot is a twist on the Munchausen Syndrome By Proxy which beggers belief, but is at least an ORIGINAL IDEA – which you will NOT see coming, I promise you.

However, the writers failed to do their RESEARCH. The devices that the emergency services have, which trigger traffic signals to go green in front of them, only override max times and computer instructions.

They DO NOT and CAN NOT override signals’ basic safety protocols.

If, as shown in this episode, they caused green conflicts (greens in both directions) or even instant changes (no ambers or intergreen times) the EMERGENCY vehicles would leave a series of COLLISIONS in their wakes.

(As you may have gathered, in an earlier life I was a traffic systems engineer).

However, that said, this episode is possibly the most exciting and UNUSUAL of the series. So if it comes your way, WATCH it – but don’t get worried the next time you are driving.

If someone T-bones you at a signal-controlled crossing – they will merely be DRUNK.

Morpheus on… The Best Jokes Of 2011

…as voted for, at this year’s Edinburgh Fringe.

I don’t normally feature the work of others in my columns (except the odd quote or suggestion – which I attribute) but I felt this year’s Edinburgh Fringe funniest joke winners were so good – they deserved PRESERVATION. So here they are…

(1) Nick Helm: “I needed a password eight characters long – so I picked Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.”

(2) Tim Vine: “Crime in multi-storey car-parks… that’s wrong, on so many levels.”

(3) Hannibal Buress: “People say ‘I’m taking it one day at a time.’ You know what? So is EVERYBODY. That’s how time WORKS.”

(4) Tim Key: “The Drive-Thru McDonalds was more expensive than I thought – once you’ve hired the car…”

(5) Matt Kirshen: “I was playing chess with my friend and he said, ‘Let’s make this interesting’ – so we stopped playing chess.”

(6) Sarah Millican: “My mother told me, ‘You don’t have to put anything in your mouth you don’t want to’ – then she made me eat broccoli – which felt like double standards.”

(7) Alan Sharp: “I was in a band which we called The Prevention – ’cause we hoped people would say we were better than The Cure.”

(8) Mark Watson: “Someone asked me recently: what would I rather give up – food or sex? Neither! I’m not falling for that one again… wife.”

(9) Andrew Lawrence: “I admire these phone hackers. I think they have a lot of patience. I can’t even be bothered to check my OWN voicemails.”

(10) DeAnne Smith: “My friend died doing what he loved… heroin.”

(Wooden Spoon) Paul Daniels: “I said to a fella, ‘Is there a B&Q in Henley?’ And he said, ‘No – there’s an H, two Es, an N, an L and a Y’.”

A big thank you to all of the above. May your work live on for ever. And may you try to do likewise.

Morpheus on… The Missed Opportunity

Stan Getz made dozens of albums after 1955 – but he never made one called “Whatever Stan Wants…”  8)

Footnote: that HAS to be the most OBSCURE joke I’ve EVER made. If you GET it, leave a comment – explaining it to those who DON’T!

Morpheus on… My Quote Of The Month

“Life is not measured by the number of breaths you take – but by the moments that take your breath away.”

[origin uncertain]

Morpheus on… Drug-Crazed Hippies

As a child of the Sixties, I would have LOVED for the concept of Total Freedom to have WORKED. But sadly, it never COULD have. The reason? Economics.

My generation claimed “Property Is Theft” – but even THAT was an oxymoron. The truth (something my guys at least TRIED to find) was that the Californian Hippie culture, with its “Free Shops” (where barter ruled) was based on a LIE.

While heads could certainly live CHEAPLY, even they needed SOME money – and they got it as handouts from rich, middle-class residents who liked to think they were a PART of the “counter-culture”.

Thus, they were SUPPORTING the culture. Without their financial input, it would have died before it started.

But when Charles Manson and his “followers” wreaked their havoc on that fateful night – slaughtering among others the lovely Sharon Tate, pregnant wife of Roman Polanski – the party was abruptly OVER.

Despite the fact that neither the psychotic career-criminal Manson nor his people were in any true sense Hippies, they was automatically labeled as such, since they had adopted the hairstyle, garb and lifestyle of that time.

Which is ironic, given another popular saying of the era, “Never Trust Anyone Over Thirty”. At the time of his greatest crime – Manson was thirty-four.

Morpheus on… Chuck Lorre/Levine/LeVine

This piece resides under one of my more esoteric titles – but all should become clear, should you care to READ it…

Last night I was watching the episode of “The Big Bang Theory”, where Raj and Sheldon get into a pissing contest over their office.

Sheldon was persuaded to allow Raj to move into his office if he bought his own desk. So Raj moved an antique desk the size of a small ocean liner into the office. Sheldon responded by unleashing a concoction of foul-smelling chemicals into said office – hydrogen sulphide (rotten eggs/fart gas) and ammonia (urine’s main aroma).

He came out of the room wearing a gas mask – but then Raj came out with no mask and said, “Dude, I grew up in CALCUTTA. Cows walk the streets – and until we moved to America, I didn’t know what a solid bowel-movement WAS!”

It occurred to me what great writing that was.

Chuck Lorre’s real surname is Levene. He makes no secret of it. One imagines he chose Lorre out of admiration for Peter Lorre – and shunned his inherited name to avoid the cliché of being yet another Jewish-American comedy writer. But I don’t know – you’d have to ask Chuck.

But right after watching “Big Bang”, I watched “Mental”. This is (arguably) a clone of “House” and was made by Fox TV (the “nice” Fox) in of all places, Colombia (as is evidenced by the dodgy sound and spartan design). However, it’s not bad – and they only made 13 episodes.

Anyhoo - the show was created and exec produced by Dan Levine and Deborah Joy LeVine.

And this has caused much confusion. One can only assume that Ms D.J. LeVine changed HER name, simply by putting the “V” in upper case – cleverly making it sound FRENCH, instead of Jewish. However, as far as I can discover, her collaborator (brother? husband? neither IMDb nor Wiki know) stayed with Levine.

But on one occasion, the compiler of the graphics for the show’s end credits put him down as LeVine on ONE credit and Levine on the other – and all other credits.

Meanwhile, on IMDb, he is listed as Levine – yet Wiki has him as LeVine.

What a MESS!

The problem is, Debbie has a more extensive CV (maybe she should wear a skirt) so Dan is currently in the position of someone who marries UP. Like if Lady Gaga got married and her husband wasn’t famous – people would call him LORD Gaga.

The last time I spoke of ethnic names, a troll called me a RACIST. However, trolls lack intellect – and even a frickin’ GENIUS would have trouble wading through the complexity of THIS piece. Oh yeah? What was racist – and WHY?! Good LUCK.

Anyhay – for more on Chuck Lorre, you might want to hit… http://damienatloppers.wordpress.com/2011/05/30/damien-on-chuck-lorres-golden-opportunity/

Morpheus on… Sunday Sunshine

I recall a time when a certain British Sunday newspaper had a slow week and thus ran with a story about a married vicar who had had an affair with a parishioner.

It was not really a big deal. No choirboys were involved. The woman was an adult. It happened.

But the newspaper figured the piece would provide SOME entertainment for the plebs, as they waited for their Sunday lunches to appear.

On the Monday morning, the vicar was found hanging in the vestry.

The thing was, while the story was one the readers would have forgotten before they reached the Sports section – to the vicar, his LIFE just got SMASHED.

Here is a link – unrelated to the above story…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AsBZvgiZ510

Morpheus on… Death In Norway

I wondered how long it would take before the gun nuts responded to the events in Scandinavia with their traditional cry – “This wouldn’t have happened if citizens were allowed to bear arms” – it was less than twelve hours.

Of course, as always, they ignore the obvious; the number of people who are no longer with us, thanks to events in Hungerford, Dunblane, Columbine and a dozen other now-infamous places are a tiny, TINY fraction of those who would no longer be with us – if every citizen were PACKING HEAT.

When I next go shopping, I know it’s POSSIBLE I may not return – but I’ll STILL feel a lot safer than I would if my little town was like DODGE CITY…

Morpheus on… The News Of The Sun

So, the Street Of Shame’s most shameful rag is no more.

BUT – once Digger has completed his business with DiggerVision UK – how long before The Sun On Sunday makes its debut?

I’ll take Low Field…

Morpheus on… Racism

Hooray! After 496 posts – your humble scribe finally got his first comments from a TROLL!

Of course, he would not wish to burden you, his esteemed reader, with moronic, abusive rants. Thus he SCREENS all comments and sent these ones STRAIGHT to Delete Permanently – and BLOCKED their contributor’s IP.

However, this is not to say that he would fail to publish a comment just because he disagreed with it. Heaven forfend! Provided the comment were reasoned and civil, he would publish it immediately – along with his reaction to it.

But of course, Trolls do not know the MEANING of the words reasoned or civil. They lack the INTELLECT to reason – and the decency to be civil.

So which piece attracted the attention of his first Troll?

Surprisingly, it was the one which follows THIS piece. It was about pretentious names – specifically, common names which are misspelled or mispronounced to give them an “exotic” flavour.

But it stated that with this phenomenon, black Americans are the worst offenders. And it appeared to be THIS which stung the Troll into action.

Nevertheless, the Troll’s accusations of racism DID give this writer food for thought. Not that he thought his piece might have been unjust – but rather, that there was a whole ISSUE concerning racism today. An issue which he felt was worthy of sensible discussion.

It really all stems from the dreaded Political Correctness. PC was originally designed to eradicate racism, sexism and a whole bunch of other -isms.

Before PC, casual racism, sexism, ageism, etc., were daily currency. Mostly, it had less to do with outright hostility than simple ignorance.

People who were white, male, straight, etc. – did not realise the HURT they were inflicting on those who happened to be black, female, gay, etc. – by thoughtless comments and tasteless jokes.

Something had to be done. Enter PC.

But as is usually the case with these things – the pendulum swung too far. And pretty soon, no-one knew WHERE they were.

If a gentleman gave up his seat for a lady – she might SLAP him for being SEXIST.

And FORGET about calling a black youth “boy” – even if he WAS one.

While comedy shows became a MINEFIELD of confusion. Was it “okay” to laugh at THIS joke? Or THAT one? Was that sexist? Racist? Anti-gay? Anti-parrot?

What started out as a tool to right injustice quickly drove society into PARANOIA.

Of course, we have all had time to evaluate this Brave New World now. But there is still a lot of silliness out there. And nowhere is it more rampant than in the area of racism.

So what IS racism?

Well, to deny a person basic RIGHTS, based on the colour of their skin – or physical differences to YOUR race – is fundamentally WRONG. No question.

And to ATTACK someone for the same reason – whether physically or emotionally – is obviously ALSO wrong.

But what about having a little fun with a person’s STEREOTYPE? We ALL fall into a NUMBER of stereotypes – this columnist included – and RECOGNISING those characteristics is part of how we can COMMUNICATE WITH OTHERS. ACCEPT them – as DIFFERENT.

One of the most heinous sins of PC is its insistence we are all the SAME. Anyone who has LIVED can tell you we are NOT.

Sure, we are all entitled to the same RESPECT as human beings. And the same opportunities. And the same human rights.

But does that MAKE us the same? Of course not.

Post-PC, many people are still UPTIGHT. They stiffen at the word “black”.

Even a throwaway joke about the WELSH got Anne Robinson into trouble. Forget about her getting the SACK – some people wanted her JAILED.

Which is where this observer wants to get OFF the Crazy Bus.

RACISM is defined as: “The prejudice that members of one race are intrinsically superior to members of other races” and “Discriminatory or abusive behaviour towards members of another race.”

Nowhere in that does it say we cannot DISCUSS our DIFFERENCES.

“Intrinsically” means THROUGHOUT – that one is claiming one’s race to be TOTALLY superior to another. Individual aspects of behaviour do NOT constitute TOTAL superiority.

A Kenyan can generally run faster than an American – but Americans got a man onto the Moon. A Scot invented the pneumatic tyre – but a German invented the automobile that runs on them. We could go on.

The point is, all peoples have their strong points and weak ones. And all have their good and bad traits. Which is further complicated by the fact that a trait which one person may find attractive – might be abhorrent to another. And vice-versa.

Which brings us neatly back to the THRUST of this piece. People are DIFFERENT. And recognising that undeniable fact does not make you a RACIST – merely a REALIST.

“Discriminatory or abusive behaviour” – THAT is racism. Not an appreciation – or even a gentle ribbing of – our DIFFERENCES. They make us who we ARE.

So by all means check out the following piece – this author has left it word-for-word, the way it was written.

And if you ARE black – AND American – and even have a name that qualifies as PRETENTIOUS – leave a comment. Provided it is reasoned and civil – rest assured I will publish it in FULL.

Morpheus on… Pretentious Names

Black Americans are the worst offenders.

They take mundane names and mispronounce them, thinking they will sound “exotic” – like Colin Powell, who likes his name to be mispronounced “coe-lyn” – or misspell them, often using apostrophes – like Sooz’n, for Susan.

Even more absurd are the names which are just made up.Will Smith married Jada Pinkett, whose name is a corruption of Jade. That was already bad enough (the name Jada – not their marriage – I am sure they are very happy together) but then they compounded the sin by naming one of their kids Jaden.

Jaden is a cute little boy – who is already showing promise as a child actor – but his first day in school must have been tough.

In My Day, it would have gone thusly:

“Hi. What’s your name?”

“Jaden.”

“Aiden?”

“No – Jaden. I was named after my mother.”

“Oh. Your mother’s name is Jade.”

“No. Jada.”

“BEAT HIM!!!”

Footnote: following on from the previous piece – for the benefit of any reader to whom it is not obvious, this was written as a COMEDIC piece. Observational in nature, it highlighted an anomaly common to a particular slice of our modern World’s society and contrasted it with attitudes prevalent in Sixties Britain – in SCHOOLS.

Morpheus on… Pompous Face-Saving

I recently saw a recording of Kenneth Williams’ one-man-show, in which he retold an episode which occurred when he was working for ENSA (Every Night Something Awful) in Malaya.

He and the chorus boys were rehearsing “We’re The Boys Of The Service” – when the Colonel stopped them and began ranting about how the whole thing was TOO CAMP.

He demanded they change the lyric to MEN of the service.

So of course, they then all sang, “We’re the MEN of the service…” – THREE TIMES more camply than before!

The punch-line of Ken’s story was that when the number finished, the Colonel harrumphed and said, “That was better.”

This reminded me of a similar incident, involving ANOTHER Ken – Kenneth G Armstrong, our manic depressive headmaster, at Copleston High. A boys school, boasting some 550 pupils.

Back in those days (the Sixties) most schools had a thing called “Morning Assembly” which consisted of a twenty minute ”service” during which we would have to recite a couple of prayers, sing a hymn and endure a sermon – which in our case, was usually delivered by the afore-mentioned bi-polar headmaster.

After this routine, Ken would do “the notes” – which was a list of the “growing practises” in the school and a description of what would happen to any boy caught indulging in them.

Anyhoo, on this particular occasion, the hymn – it being close to Christmas – was “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks”. Wilfred, the arts master, lifted the lid of the piano, played the introduction and we began to sing.

However, we had only reached the end of the first line when Ken shouted, “STOP!”

Wilfred paused, his hands in mid-air – and we slithered to a discordant halt.

“I heard that!” said Ken. “Some boys were singing ‘While shepherds WASHED their SOCKS!’ – You will start again and this time, if I hear ONE BOY singing ‘washed their socks’ I will CANE the ENTIRE SCHOOL!”

He then nodded at Wilfred, who replayed the intro and 550 boys – in unison – sang “While shepherds washed their socks by night…”

I watched Ken’s face go through several shades of purple and steam begin to emanate from his ears. But he remained quiet until the hymn finished.

Then, as we stood expectantly, he harrumphed and said, “That was better.”

But being in the Third Year, I was positioned right in the middle of the boys and the first time we had sung the piece, I had not heard ANY boy singing “washed their socks” – in fact, I had never HEARD of this particular “twisted lyric” – however, I certainly heard 550 boys sing it the SECOND time!

So Ken undoubtedly heard it too – but, like the Colonel, he had painted himself into a CORNER and had no option but to LAMELY pretend to MISHEAR it.

And like us, he knew he could NEVER have caned the entire school. The logistics alone, of whacking 550 boys, would have been beyond him. But that would have been NOTHING compared to what the newspapers would have done to him, had he carried out his threat.

“HEADMASTER CANES 550 BOYS FOR SINGING: WHILE SHEPHERDS WASHED THEIR SOCKS!” They would have had a field day – and he would have been looking for a new job the day after!

Footnote: my friend, Little Alfie, was in my class and generally remembers these things differently from I – so if you check the “comments” to this piece, you may find an ALTERNATIVE version of these events!

Morpheus on… I Dreamed A Dream

By the Seventies, I had built up a record collection that weighed over a quarter of a ton (or tonne – they are much the same).

Today, thanks to (in chronological order) tape-recorders, VCRs and DVRs, I have increased that collection to more than HALF a ton (or tonne). It now includes audio- and video-tapes – and likewise disks.

But returning to the Seventies: in those days, I predicted that by 2000, there would be a giant computer which would have EVERY record EVER RECORDED on it – which, for a few pennies, would be accessible by all.

Well – I SORTA got that one right. Except the OLD records are on YouTube (apart from ones blocked by short-sighted record companies) for FREE – and the NEW ones are on iTunes.

However, last night I had a DREAM which I predict will – in time – ALSO come true.

At the moment, chips are still based on silicone – but around the corner are GRAPHENE chips. These are based on GRAPHITE – the stuff found in the middle of PENCILS (you remember those?)

And it is estimated that about two generations – perhaps three – in, those chips will finally hit ATOMIC level. We will be unable to go further.

But when we DO hit that level, it SHOULD be possible to store VAST amounts of audio on just a small bank of these chips.

So here is my prediction. I believe that once the copyright wrinkles have been ironed out – these chip-banks containing most of the music EVER RECORDED, in the Century Of Entertainment (see elsewhere in these ramblings) will be put into EVERY electronic audio-visual device made.

“AllMusic” modules (and if they call ‘em that, I want royalties) will be part of all DVRs, televisions, music centres, amplifiers (no need for audio playing devices) car radios, portable radios – and of course, iPhones, iPads and whatever other toys they come up with.

You will simply select genres, artists and/or titles on the screen (or remote) and be able to listen to just about ANYTHING. It will all be right there, IN the device.

We have come a long way. In the Seventies, even THIS visionary could not imagine a device the size of a domino containing his quarter-ton (or tonne) of records!

Morpheus on… Film Scores

“And on the eighth day, God created a score for what He had done…”     Levitation, 6:9.

What do “The Third Man”, “Genevieve” and “The Conversation” have in common?

Well – aside from being classic movies – they all had a score created and played by one man, on one instrument.

In the same chronological order: Anton Karas on the zither, Larry Adler on the harmonica and David Shire on the piano.

Now I love great film scores as much as the next man – probably MORE so – and am enamoured of the greats: Barry, Goldsmith, Morricone et al.

But you have to take your hat off to the brave producers of these three MAJOR movies, where the phenomenon was NOT forced upon them by budgetary constraints.

They simply saw the possibilities offered by such elegant simplicity.

Can YOU imagine ANY of those three films with FULL ORCHESTRAL SCORES?

I thought not.

Footnote: it is amazing what you can get away with, when you offer quotes from The Bible. Even most devout Christians have never read it – save perhaps for the first few verses of Genesis and a few of the New Testament stories. Levitation? Really?! (It was a mash-up of Leviticus and Revelation – I will leave YOU to guess the significance of the chapter and verse numbers).

Morpheus on… A Tip For Iceland

Iceland – of late, you have had two problems. One: your volcanoes keep filling the air with ash, preventing conventional aircraft from flying – and two: your economy has gone down the crapper.

The solution? AIRSHIPS. Now they are filled with helium, they do not blow up anymore. And while they’re a bit SLOW – they are virtually unaffected by ash.

Build some of these craft – then modify their engine’s air intakes to filter out the ash. Even if they DO clog up – at least they won’t fall out the sky like bricks.

Morpheus: thinking all the time…

Morpheus on… Two Clever (?) Ideas

I once heard a story about a young man who was propositioned by an old man on a long-distance train. It was not THAT sort of proposition, however. This one involved GAMBLING.

Despite having been warned by his mother about the dangers of gambling with strangers on trains, the young man listened.

The two men had a compartment to themselves, which had a small fold-down table positioned between them.

The old man removed his jacket and hat, rolled up his shirt sleeves and produced three two-inch discs. On one, there were two identical, plain crosses – one on each side. The second was blank on both sides. And the third was blank on one side, with a cross on the other.

He explained the methodology thusly. Each would take it in turn to place the three disks into the hat, give it a shake and hold it under the table – and then the OTHER would remove one disk, clench it in his fist and slap it down on the table. At which point, the first would have to guess whether the UNDERSIDE was blank, or had a cross on it.

The old man pointed out that since the other was drawing the counter, cheating would be impossible.

He further stipulated that either party could examine and re-examine the hat and/or the disks at any time – as many times as they liked.

The young man examined the counters carefully. Without doubt, the crosses WERE identical – precisely centred and PRINTED onto the counters. All were perfectly flat, with clean edges.

He then examined the hat, which proved to be mundane. He even checked the old man and determined he had no concealed mirrors or trick glasses – not even contact lenses.

At which point, the young man said okay then, what was the point? If the cross was on top, the disk could not be the double-blank – thus it had to be either the cross-blank or the double-cross. The odds were fifty-fifty.

And likewise, if the top was blank, it could not be the double-cross. Therefore it had to be either the cross-blank or the double-blank. Again, fifty-fifty.

Plus, the discs had the same number of crosses and blanks, evenly distributed on their faces. Yet again, fifty-fifty.

Precisely, said the old man. He went on to explain that since the train journey they were on was a long one, a fifty-fifty game would pass the time more quickly – without either of them being in danger of losing a significant amount of cash.

Having established that both parties had fifty pounds on them which they could afford to lose, they decided on that sum as a ”ceiling”. And since their money was not in single pounds, they would keep score on a piece of paper, which would be placed on the table – in view of both at all times – and settle up when one of them reached the ceiling or they both reached their destination.

And so they began to play. At first, the game proceeded pretty much as the young man had expected, with neither man moving ahead. However, after a while, the old man’s fortunes appeared to improve.

The process was gradual – but slowly, the old man’s total began to approach the fifty pounds.

Despite the young man having examined the discs and hat a number of times – with no anomalies detected – the old man finally hit the agreed sum, a few miles before the journey’s end.

The young man paid up – and asked the old man for the secret. Their time together had been good-humoured, so the old man let him into the secret.

He pointed out the young man had been INCORRECT when he had determined the game to be fifty-fifty. He said that in fact it was two-thirds/one-third. The trick was in the NUMBER OF COUNTERS. There were THREE – not two.

Thus, if one bet on the hidden side being the same as the top side – one would be correct two times out of three. Therefore, if one said the hidden side was the SAME, MORE than fifty percent of the time – in the LONG TERM, one would have an EDGE.

Obviously, if one ALWAYS said the underside was the same as the top side, the other person would realize what was going on and COPY them – and therefore, while they might not understand the principle, they would neutralise the first person’s advantage.

The trick was to exploit the advantage enough to show a profit – without alerting the other player to the method used.

The young man considered fifty pounds to be a fair price for having learned an interesting ploy – and having an equally interesting anecdote to tell his friends.

They shook hands and went their separate ways.

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Which brings us (and not a moment too soon) to Clever Idea Number One.

Bearing the above story in mind – I devised a System For Winning At Roulette.

Now, I HEAR you – roulette has been around for over two centuries and the grounds of the casinos of the World are littered with the corpses of those who thought THEY TOO had a system.

So what was MY system, I hear you ask, expectantly. Well, it was thus…

You attend a wheel and watch the play, writing down the numbers that come up on it. Few casinos mind this – they are keen to attract ANY punter, provided their “system” does not interfere with the game. In fact, some casinos will even PROVIDE you with the list of numbers that have come up during the last hour.

Either way, once all of the numbers have come up one time each – you examine your list and place a bet on the number that has not come up for the LONGEST time.

You play this number for each subsequent spin – the same amount of money each time – taking care to continue listing the numbers that come up. When your designated number DOES come up, you take your winnings and check your list to see which is NOW the number that has not come up for the longest time. Then you play THAT, until it comes up – and so on.

This means that you are continually playing the number which is the most “DUE”.

Now, casinos are out of my league – so I decided to run this one around the block to see if the wheels would fall off, using something I COULD afford. A douse – singular of dice. (I was just checking to see if you were still with me – the word is of course DIE – appropriately enough).

So what I did was this: I threw a good quality die into a box (with a flourish, to ensure it was a “good” throw) and noted the number that came up. I then repeated the action FIVE HUNDRED TIMES.

Using the same system described above, for roulette, I deducted a point for every wrong number – and awarded myself six points every time the right number came up.

I figured that five hundred throws ought to give me a fair average, with my “total” being only one – or at the most, two – percentage points off.

So you can imagine my surprise when – after having computed that total – I discovered I was almost TWENTY-FIVE PERCENT UP!!!

Resisting the temptation to smash my piggy bank and head for the Riviera, I determined to ask a smart friend I was meeting in the pub later – what his thoughts were.

After we had sat down in the pub, I told him BOTH of the above stories. He mused for a bit. You’re assuming a perfect wheel, he asked. Oh, yes, I replied. (I knew the underside of roulette wheels have grub screws to adjust the divisions between the numbers, to allow them to be calibrated to be as true as possible).

He mused a while longer and finally told me that it would not work. He pointed out the wheel has no memory. Even after a number has come up three times consecutively, the next spin STILL gives you the same odds it will come up again. Thirty-seven-to-one against (thirty-eight in America – The Mob were more greedy).

In fact, he said, if the wheel was NOT perfect, you would actually be betting AGAINST the odds, using my system.

I told him I’d already considered ALL of that. AND the fact that if it were really that simple – during the two hundred-plus years people have been playing the game, someone would already have THOUGHT of my idea.

But then I directed him to the result of my experiment with the die. Twenty-five percent, mate.

He replied that any worthwhile experiment HAD to be repeatable and advised me to do it AGAIN and see what happened. I figured a sample of five hundred ought to have been enough – but agreed to try it again, the next day. We then moved on to other matters.

And so it was that the following day I got out the die, the cardboard box and the notebook and pencil – and gave it ANOTHER five hundred goes. This time, the variation from the norm was AGAIN nearly twenty-five percent, except on THIS occasion I was twenty-five percent DOWN!!

DAMN!

I can only attribute the ENORMOUS variation – and the fact that it was UP the first time and DOWN the second – to bloody MURPHY. It had SEEMED like a Clever Idea…

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And so, we finally arrive at Clever Idea Number Two.

This has NOTHING to do with the above – apart from the fact that it emerged from the same brain (mine). This time, it concerns aeroplane landing gears (a bit different from roulette systems, but stay with me).

It is no secret that a plane’s most hazardous moments are experienced on landing (particularly if it is in the Hudson). Aside from those CROSS-WINDS (see elsewhere, in these columns) the SHOCK when a number of STATIONARY wheels hit a concrete runway, below a four-hundred-tonne aircraft doing around one hundred and forty miles per hour – is MASSIVE.

Tyre blow-outs are common. In fact, when it happened to Concorde, pieces of rubber were known to rupture the wings’ fuel tanks. It is a wonder the fire and crash that ENDED Concorde’s career did not happen much earlier.

So what can be done to minimise this SHOCK to an aeroplane’s underparts?

Well – how about a row of half-cups, attached to the wheels?

Think ANEMOMETER.

With a row of large half-cups forming the outer face on each one of an aircraft’s wheels (or perhaps two, smaller ones – or a row of sloping slats) – if positioned correctly, when the gear was lowered they would cause the wheels to ROTATE in the direction of travel.

And once the optimum size had been established (through experimentation) the wheels would reach a speed that would almost be that of the groundspeed – ensuring that instead of them having to overcome that monumental INERTIA as they made contact with the ground, they would be rotating at the right speed to ensure a landing so soft, that no longer would little old ladies ask the trolley-dollies whether they had just landed – or been SHOT DOWN.

Bliss.

But like my roulette system, the concept is hardly rocket science – so why has no-one THOUGHT of it before? Aeroplanes have been around for over a century and some pretty wild ideas have been tried (many with fatal consequences).

As with the roulette thing, I have tried to think of snags. Obviously, aeroplanes’ landing gears present major DRAG – which is why they took the expensive and difficult step of making them RETRACTABLE. Thus, the half-cups or whatever would exacerbate that problem.

However, by simply dropping the gear more gradually and accounting for the drop in airspeed…

Then there is the speed of the wheels. But I would have thought that balancing the force exerted by the half-cups against the friction set up by the wheel’s axles (by designing the SIZE of the half-cups correctly) would allow the wheels to PEAK at the desired speed.

Plus any major amount of head-wind could be dealt with using some sort of governor – or simply by ensuring (again, by design) that the wheels’ speed was significantly LOWER than the groundspeed.

Indeed, even if the wheels were only rotating SLOWLY – surely this would still EASE the shock caused by the INERTIA of those STATIONARY wheels?

If anyone who has stumbled across this piece and read it this far has specialist knowledge (perhaps YOU are an aircraft designer – and I do not mean paper darts) I would be obliged if you would leave any information you possess as a “comment” on this piece.

I (and I am sure, others) would be fascinated to know if this Clever Idea HAS been tried – and if so, why it DID NOT WORK.

Morpheus on… Cleggy, A/V And The British Voters

I don’t want to say “I told you so” but…

I TOLD YOU SO!!!

My foot remains intact.

Morpheus on… Me And The Lord

Clive Sinclair and Alan Sugar were born on opposite sides of the track.

Sinclair was a posh lad from Surrey – the son of an engineer.

While Sugar – a Jewish East End “wide boy” – was the son of a tailor.

Clive was a swot, who started selling little radio kits while still at school.

Sugar began by selling electrical goods out of the back of a £100 van.

But these very different men’s careers would eventually reach a point where similarities would occur – thanks to their realisation that the way forward was PERSONAL COMPUTERS.

However, there were a number of stages to go through before – and after – this epiphany.

Clive launched his infamous C5 – a recumbent tricycle, driven by a washing machine engine powered by a car battery.

It had two problems. One – its small size meant that on the road, trucks would run over it without even noticing. And two – battery technology in those days severely limited its range. It became a national joke – and a financial disaster.

Of course today, the Segway and Tesla Roadster have enjoyed major success – but Sinclair was not involved in either.

However, his ZX range of personal computers made him a fortune and financed his hobby – poker – a pastime in which he usually loses.

Meanwhile, Alan acquired an old warehouse in Hackney and entered the hi-fi market. Amstrad (an acronym of his name and “radio”) joined the field and quickly prospered.

And when he began making computers, his future was assured. He even took over Sinclair’s PC line.

This financed HIS hobby – football. He bought Tottenham Hotspur. However, this move proved as unsuccessful as Clive’s poker career. He eventually got out – and proclaimed the exercise, “a waste of my life.”

More successful was his attempt to emulate his U.S. counterpart – Donald Trump*. He starred – and continues to star – in the British version of “The Apprentice”.

Then came The Rewards. Clive got a knighthood. But Alan – who had made far more MONEY – became a Baron.

Which is where I come in – or rather, came in (and the title of this piece finally becomes relevant). I once MET and TALKED to Lord (then plain Mister) Sugar.

You see, back around 1972 I lived NEXT DOOR to that warehouse he had just taken over – and I wandered in, to see if he had any positions going (the old “handy-man” joke – I only live next door).

He didn’t – which is a shame – because in those days, I generally got fired after two or three months in a job. And it would be nice, today, to say – I’ve been fired by Alan Sugar.

 

* Talking of Trump – did you see SNL’s Seth Meyers RIP The Donald, at the White House Correspondents Dinner? I don’t think Trump has been that angry since his hairdresser committed suicide. If Seth turns up in the Potomac wearing concrete wellies – I for one will not be surprised! If you didn’t see it, hit http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7YGITlxfT6s – the best bit is twelve minutes in - watch it on 1080p, fullscreen. The post has garnered over a million hits in 48 hours. People are viewing just to see the STEAM coming out of Trumps EARS! Seth had better hope he DOESN’T become POTUS…

Morpheus on… “The Hall”

I only obtained my first computer three years ago. For decades, I had resisted the lure of the Interweb – but eventually succumbed, when other methods of communication (texting, snail mail – semaphore) became so unreliable that I was left with little choice.

But I soon discovered that this “new” medium had its advantages – one of which was, as a record collector, the ability to fill my “wish-list” of recordings that had evaded me – some for nigh on fifty years.

While I BOUGHT some recordings, I also soon discovered that YouTube was about more than just young idiots filming themselves in low-res, jumping off garage rooves to see if they could break a bone – and those dumb enough to want to watch them.

RECORD COLLECTORS had begun to upload the gems from their collections too. In some cases, the collectors would only upload snippets, to advertise themselves as buyers, sellers and/or file-sharers, but in most cases, they were simply philanthropic – uploading everything they had, for all to ENJOY.

Back in the Seventies, I had theorised that in the distant future – but probably before I was dead – there would exist a giant computer which would have EVERY record EVER recorded on it, that would enable people to download ANY record they wanted.

Of course, the reality is somewhat different. Various download PAY-services exist for MODERN records – but for VINTAGE stuff, there is only YouTube. And its use as a file-sharing medium for record collectors is TOTALLY unofficial.

After all sorts of too-ing and fro-ing, the “Big Four” companies who “own” most of the World’s music came to an agreement with YouTube. Their computers would LINK to YouTube and as a piece of their music was BEING UPLOADED, said computer would identify it – then issue a decree on what would happen to it, BEFORE it got posted.

Thus some pieces get blocked in some countries – some World-wide – but most are ALLOWED to be posted – with FREE ADVERTISEMENTS, for the companies concerned.

Which means posting copyright material is like Russian Roulette. Most pieces are allowed – some are restricted - while pieces owned by SMALL companies who COMPLAIN, can earn you COPYRIGHT STRIKES.

In addition, a quick flash of BOOB will get you a “community guidelines” strike – but San Francisco’s Metacafe and France’s Dailymotion (which sounds like a constipation medicine) are less tight-arsed, so I post grown-up material there. 

And so it was that, about two years ago, I began “giving back” to the community of collectors, by uploading gems from MY record, tape and disk collection – I had already uploaded the best of my WRITINGS.

It started small – but then like Topsy, it GROWED. I now have nearly TWO THOUSAND posts up, if one includes my written pieces.

Over FOURTEEN HUNDRED pieces of music, movie clips, TV material and my restored photographs and “movie”. Plus another FIVE hundred-odd written pieces, many reworked from my output over the last seventeen years. And in addition to these columns (of which this is just ONE) there are my IMDb write-ups, self-help book and short story. THREE YEARS’ WORK – so far.

For security reasons (the words “basket” and “eggs” immediately spring to mind) the material occupies thirty-seven separate “channels”.

And these channels have become my LIFE. A chap’s life can be divided into four segments. 0-19: Childhood. 20-39: Young Adulthood. 40-59: Middle Age. And 60-79: Old Age (to which could be added 80-plus: FREAKISH Old Age). Thus it is that I am fast approaching the Fourth Quarter of my time in This Place.

Which, a few years ago, gave me cause for concern. What would happen to my almost 5,000 records, tapes and disks after I had LEFT This Place? For fifty years, I had been collecting and RECORDING The Extraordinary – pieces of genius from The Century Of Mass Entertainment.

In many cases, collections end up having the marketable items stripped from them – while the rest ends up in a SKIP. NOT a prospect I found acceptable. So what could I do, to JUSTIFY all of that work? I mean, in the early years, I USED the material I had gathered. Mostly for my own entertainment – although I also ran a discotheque for a while.

However – now having retired to Thailand, all of that is behind me. I rarely have TIME to play stuff from The Collection. Satellite TV – and assorted British A/V material sent on disks by my son – give me an unending supply of NEW stuff to watch and listen to.

Then along came YouTube.

At first, I uploaded a mere few gems, just to “pay back” those collectors whose generosity had enabled me to fill that wish-list. But then slowly I began to realise – here was an OPPORTUNITY. My fifty-year-collection of records, tapes and disks were just so much PLASTIC – but now I had a medium through which I could place the MATERIAL on them into the Public Domain.

Even if I COULD find someone to take on The Collection after I croaked, they would still only be ONE PERSON (and even if they were able to devote eight hours every DAY to the task – it would still take them over a YEAR to play the lot) whereas if I uploaded it onto the Information Superhighway, it could be accessed by the WORLD – a sort of Cosmic Library.

And so it was that I began The Project.

So far I have uploaded, into the ether, the best and rarest bits from my video-tapes, albums, 78s, 45s, 12″ 45s, DVDs, VCDs and CDs and am currently on the LAST phase – my audio-tapes. But my philanthropy has created a phenomenon I had not reckoned with.

I now have FANS.

The thing is, for the afore-mentioned security reasons, I could not upload all my material onto a single channel – I dare not even LIST all of the channels in one place. Thus only I KNOW where they all ARE. But put TOGETHER, the channels’  visitors and followers – number in the MILLIONS.

And every now and then, I go and check my “fan-mail” – and have discovered what it is like to be a minor celebrity. Of course, MAJOR celebs have PEOPLE to answer their fan-mail (the bit in “Hard Day’s Night” where the Beatles answer their own fan-mail was FICTION – NO-ONE could keep up with THAT amount of mail).

Most of it is just “adoration” – which I can now see gets a bit BORING after a while. However, where it gets INTERESTING is when someone tells you WHY something you uploaded means something SPECIAL to them. Like the two separate comments I got on an obscure failed TV pilot I uploaded in full, from two technicians (one on sound, the other on lighting) who, back in the Eighties, had worked on the show – but never actually SEEN it.

And this is why I cannot just IGNORE my mail. It is far more important than mere HITS. Some upload pieces of utter CRAP and, by giving them “sexy” titles, get MILLIONS of hits. But while the stream of abuse they get as comments (and the huge number of “dislikes”) may be TROPHIES to them – I do NOT need thousands of people telling me I am a PRAT.

Also, one has to break up the occasional SCRAP. By this, I mean delete trollish comments before they get out of hand. These can become something like those bar-room brawls you used to get in Westerns.

Example: you post a piece where some Americans died, attempting to further science. Next thing, someone posts a comment saying “served them right, for playing God”. Or pointing out that the MILLIONS who died in Vietnam…

Sometimes, quite innocuous comments can turn into WARS. The cowboy jogs another’s arm, spilling his beer – that guy takes a swing at the first guy, but misses, clouting another – and pretty soon half the stuntmen in Hollywood are demolishing the saloon, while the pianist in the corner rattles away like mad.

And it does not take long for a comment column to degenerate into something like that. Thus, POLICING is necessary.

But while the comments one receives are one’s main source of redemption, one cannot TOTALLY ignore those seductive HIT NUMBERS. Which brings me (and not a moment too soon) to “The Hall”.

Right now, my hits total for ALL my works (not including IMDb, who do not DO hits) is seven point eight MILLION. And with a current DAILY rate in excess of THIRTY-TWO THOUSAND, I am presently getting around TWELVE MILLION HITS A YEAR – and growing.

Now a while back, I established VISUAL ways of putting my hit statistics into PERSPECTIVE. Twelve million is more than the population of BELGIUM. While thirty-two thousand equals fourteen full houses at the London Palladium. And so on.

But more recently, ANOTHER picture emerged – The Hall.

The question had occurred: since I was reaching out to someone, somewhere in the World, every TWO POINT SEVEN SECONDS – how many people were viewing AT THE SAME TIME?

This was rather tricky to establish, given I had no statistics with which I could work out the AVERAGE LENGTH of my posts. So at this point, I had to get a bit creative. Inevitably, most of my more popular pieces are Pop videos – average length: three-and-a-quarter minutes.

Likewise, my records tend to average two to three minutes.

But I have a lot of TV pieces up – and they usually run from five to fifteen.

Plus I have SOME pieces that last up to an HOUR or more.

Then there are the WRITTEN pieces – THIS one is already pretty long.

And of course, there is always the question of how long people STAY with my pieces. YouTubers have notoriously short attention-spans!

In the end, I came up with a figure based solely upon my own GUT FEELING (having spent years uploading it all) on the matter – four-and-a-half minutes.

And if you divide that by the two point seven seconds, you get a conveniently ROUND figure – ONE HUNDRED. Hence – The Hall.

Somewhere in the Cosmos, I picture a church hall (which would be about the right size) and it is occupied by one hundred people, twenty-four-seven – my CONGREGATION, if you will. They each remain for the four-and-a-half minutes – then every two point seven seconds, someone gets up and leaves, passing someone at the doorway who is coming IN.

And since my hit numbers are constantly INCREASING, one day that hall might actually grow to the size of the afore-mentioned Palladium. But for now…

…WELCOME, MY BRETHREN!

Morpheus on… Pub Stories

One lunchtime, I met this chap in a pub who told me he’d just encountered the most amazing thing he’d ever seen in his life – a man who could tell the time by weighing his horse’s testicles.

This I had to see, so I hurried down to the market and found the old man he’d described, sat on a three-legged stool, next to a moth-eaten horse. Sitting down next to him, I casually asked him the time. Sure enough, the old boy placed his hands under the animals goods and gently lifting them said, “Tha’s nearly five and twenty past three.”

Surreptitiously checking my digital watch, I saw that it was indeed 15:23. “That’s amazing!” I said. “How can you tell the time so accurately by doing…that?”

“Oh easy,” he replied, “by doing…this…I can just see the town hall clock.”

(Da-da-da-daah…my name’s Morpheus. Don’t forget to tip your waitress).

Morpheus on… The Airliner In Russell Square

When I left home, in 1969, with a five pound note, a bag of sandwiches and a change of underwear, to try my luck in the Big City, I ended up in a hotel in Bloomsbury – where the likes of Virginia Woolf and E.M. Forster had achieved greatness.

Sadly, by the time I got there, Woolf was dead and Forster had retired to Warwickshire. But there I was, in a decrepit double-room on the top floor of the Goodwood Hotel, Rathbone Place, London W.

I say hotel – in those days it was more of a boarding house, run by an alcoholic ex-boxer called Jack. He had knocked two town houses together and nailed a sign that just said “Goodwood” (he enjoyed a flutter on the gee-gees) to one of the front doors. It must have cost him all of six shillings.

After living there a year or so I had a conversation with Jack, where he said he had discovered the Secret Of Life. It involved a diet of gin – interspersed with tins of soup. We buried him a few weeks later.

At this point, a relative came into the picture and announced that he was turning the place into a REAL hotel and we all had to get out – or begin paying hotel rates for our accommodation. But to be fair, he gave us several MONTHS to find alternative living quarters (the “season” was still a long way off).

And so I moved to… well, actually this is now veering a long way from the TITLE of this piece. The fact is, the other day I decided to see what had become of the place in the intervening FORTY-TWO YEARS.

It turned out to STILL be called the Goodwood Hotel – but now, it boasted colour TV and hot and cold running chambermaids. What I believe is termed a “boutique hotel” (sic).

  

 

However, since I could not remember which street it was in – but knew my way there from Russell Square – I started my Google Earth search from that place.

And the first thing I noticed was someone had parked an airliner in it.

  

 

It took me all of one second to realize what had occurred.

Geostationary satellites balance the Earth’s gravitational pull against the centrifugal force of orbit to stay at the same location, relative to the ground. But at that distance – around twenty-five thousand miles – they are much too far away to get high-resolution photographs of our planet.

Thus Low Earth Orbit satellites are used. Being less than a thousand miles up, these have to whiz around the Earth in order for the centrifugal force to balance the much GREATER gravitational pull of the planet.

But they are still way higher than aircraft. Also, when planes are flying over London, they are usually on their final approach – or being stacked – therefore their height is much less than the seven miles up they normally travel at. And they have generally slowed to far less than their cruising speed of 550 mph.

And so it was that while flying over Russell Square, a plane had just happened to be photographed by one of the satellites from which Google get their Google Earth pictures. Plus, the photo had been taken on high-speed film, making the aeroplane appear stationary.

Nevertheless – it was still weird seeing an airliner apparently PARKED in Russell Square.

Morpheus on… “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”

I recall an incident, many years ago, when I was working as a service engineer and got a call from a British Army base. They had a low-level alert on – but as they knew me, they allowed me entry, with an escort.

The escort proved to be a little squaddie who looked about nineteen.

As we walked about the camp, we naturally enough talked. But after a few minutes, unbidden by ME – the subject turned to what this little prat would like to do to all GAYS he could encounter. It involved knives and BLOOD.

I murmured non-committal agreement.

It occurred to me it has been proven that most rabidly homophobic men are in fact GAY, but – due to peer pressure, religious beliefs, upbringing or whatever – are unable to come to terms with their sexual orientation and thus “over-compensate” by displaying MAJOR anti-gay tendencies.

However, given this little turd was ARMED, I decided it would be wise to keep this information to myself.

It also occurred to me that if Martial Law were ever declared, any street HE was patrolling had better not be occupied by any citizens who MINCED.

But the experience showed me how delicate the situation with sexual orientation in the military is.

And a lot has recently been made of the American “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” ruling.

Now, as a left-of-centre, liberal, straight man (or as near as dammit – see http://damienatloppers.wordpress.com/2011/01/27/damien-on-so-you-think-youre-straight/) this writer is FINE with gays serving in the military.

If a person wants to protect their homeland – or just get a chance to shoot some wogs for Queen and country – no problem.

But why should they have to declare their sexuality?

I mean, they are there to strut around and obey orders like little robots – not PARTY.

According to Wiki, the law was originally brought in to allow gays to serve in the military, provided they did not openly ADMIT to being gay – since faggots were officially BARRED from the American services.

This is understandable, since only a fool would want to join up (they have recently banned SMOKING in the US military – apparently, second-hand smoke is DANGEROUS – more so than bullets).

And therefore, in the interests of keeping up the NUMBERS in The Most Powerful Force In The World – they are now looking to lower their standards.

For more information on this serious subject, hit http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iSqIr3DaDkE

Morpheus on… Censorship On Public Sites

…like YouTube, Metacafe, Dailymotion (sounds like constipation medicine) Internet Movie Database and - THIS illustrious service.

They all have two things in common – one: they are businesses that get their “stock” from the public (for FREE) and two: the AMOUNT of stock they receive exceeds by FAR – their ability to monitor it.

Which gives them a problem. YouTube do not want their service filled with PORN. IMDb do not want “user reviews” containing defamatory remarks about litigious celebrities. And WordPress do not want articles filled with racial hatred, paedophiles’ exploits – and bomb-making instructions.

But even an aircraft-hanger filled with “checkers” would be unable to read and/or watch all of the material uploaded, in real time – never mind what it would COST.

Thus all of these companies rely on their consumers to FLAG “inappropriate material” – then one of their little band of people scans the piece and has about two seconds to decide whether or not to PULL it – all of which results in some BIZARRE take-downs.

And only if the uploader COMPLAINS, does someone take a closer look, to evaluate context, etc.

Therefore, if YOU feel you have been hard-done-by, for goodness sake DO complain. With freedom comes responsibility – but provided you BEHAVED responsibly, any piece you uploaded that got pulled was PROBABLY flagged by a MORON – and the person who pulled it had NO time to examine it properly.

So be responsible – but stand up for your RIGHTS.

Morpheus on… The Days Of Our Weeks

At the bottom of the screen of this computer, sits a calendar. And on it, the days run from Monday to Sunday. Fine.

However, when I FIRST became old enough to understand calendars – about fifty years ago – it was not such. They ran from Sunday to Saturday.

And when I pointed out to a grown-up that since Saturday and Sunday are known collectively as the weekend – that’s the week END – they answered, “Oh, Sunday is GOD’S day – so it has to come first.”

I was only about five at the time – but it still sounded fishy to me.

And when, at nine, I realised God was no more real than Santa Claus, fairies and goblins – I decided the system was NONSENSE.

So while many calendar manufacturers still stick to the “traditional” layout, it’s nice to see that computer programme designers – people of SCIENCE – are moving ON.

Morpheus on… Schadenfreude

In Another Place (Sumpnado) I used the above word.

It is German and there is no known one-word equivalent in any other European language. In English, you would have to go with “serves-you-right” or Zen justice. But even those do not fully convey the visceral MEANING of the word.

One can only relate an example of it…

Many years ago, I was awakened – more than an hour before my alarm was due to go off – by a car-alarm doing the same thing. On and ON it went, thus totally negating its intended purpose.

For a while I lay pondering the reason we SAY an alarm goes off – when it obviously goes ON. Perhaps it is the same reason we say a building was blown UP.

Anyhay, I eventually bowed to the inevitable and got up. After a full HOUR of “parp-parp-parp-parp…” quietness suddenly returned to our suburban North London street. It was followed by “click-rurr-rurr-rurr… rur.” Then, “click-rurr-rur….” Then, “click… click…”

GOOD! I thought. The swine who ruined my sleep – whilst himself sleeping through the CAUSE – now has a flat battery. Justice.

But then he tried again. “Click-rurr-rurr-rurr-VEROOOOMM!” DAMN, I thought. Against all logic, his engine had started. I looked out of the window and frowned as I watched him drive off, down towards the main road.

At this point, I should set up what happened next. At that time, my journey to work involved a train – and to reach the station, I used a shortcut through some flats that lead across the side-road next to mine.

And the turn into that road, from the main road, had a “no right turn” sign (since it was a bit near a blind hump-back bridge, which meant anyone going over said bridge too fast might plough into a turning car).

And since anyone ignoring the sign was easy meat for beat-cops, they would often lie in wait a hundred yards up the side-road, for offenders.

So, ten minutes after the guy who had started my day off BADLY had driven away – I set off for work.

And as I passed that next side-road – I saw him being NAILED by a cop.

THAT – is Schadenfreude.

Morpheus on… Kenneth Williams: “Diary Of A Madman”

If you want to HEAR this piece, hit http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W6-xtJX5aJ8

It was recorded – in STEREO – in 1963, with a small orchestra, for a Richard Williams animation that never happened. Richard (no relation to Ken – he’s Canadian) like most cartoonists, prefers to record the audio first, then match the animation to it.

But when the project foundered, Ken’s extraordinary reading of Nikolai Gogol’s 1835 short story, detailing as it does – in the first person – a man’s descent into schizoid paranoia, REMAINED.

I first encountered it twenty years ago, while driving alone very late at night, across a desolate Scottish moor. I turned on the radio scanner and suddenly, a voice I immediately recognised filled the car.

The piece had reached the part where Poprishchin COMPLETELY LOSES it and Ken’s insane cackling – with echo – FLEW around my head. It was a bizarre experience.

A while back, I tried to find it on the Interweb. It was available, but being twenty-eight minutes long, only as a “torrent” – and a right pain in the arse THEY are.

But eventually I managed to capture the work and – now that YouTube are allowing longer uploads – to save others the aggravation, I have placed it into the Public Domain.

Enjoy!

Morpheus on… Civility

So I’m watching this “Daily Show” ep from about three months ago – and they did a montage of sound bites from various news pukes, including two from Fox “News” bimbos.

One was from the fake blonde with the crazy eyes – the other, from an African-American I’d not seen before (I say African-American – she was barely 30% African – but I guess that’s as close as Fox “News” will EVER get to having an ACTUAL black presenter).

Anyhoo, the 30% African-American presenter said someone had been “u… incivil” – i.e., she had changed the word, mid way through the first syllable, from “uncivil” to “INcivil” – which made me laugh, since I was convinced NEITHER word existed.

But before nominating her for the Sarah Palin Award for playing fast and loose with the English language, I decided to check my facts. And whilst I’ve NEVER used EITHER word – it turns out that “civil” CAN be given a prefix to turn it into an antonym.

The word is “UNcivil”! If the bimbo had just GONE with her first thought, she would have been CORRECT – albeit by sheer, dumb LUCK!

The late, great British newsreader, Andrew Gardner, said it best – “If you suddenly come across something unfamiliar on your autocue, look the viewer straight in the eye and with all the authority you can muster… say the first thing that comes into your head.”

Words to live by. If the Fox “News” bimbo had DONE that – I would never have written this piece!

Footnote: the WordPress SpellChecker accepts “uncivil” and rejects “incivil” – ’nuff said.

Morpheus on… The “America’s Got Talent” “Million Dollar” Prize

…which, if you read the SMALL print at the end of the show (you’ll have to freeze-frame it) is paid as an “annuity” over FORTY YEARS. Or the contestant can elect to receive a “lump sum” straight away.

So what is that ACTUALLY worth?

Well – if you are a member of a dance “crew” (cringe) – not so much. Let us say you go with the forty-year deal: it takes little mathematical skill to work out the annual payment – twenty-five grand.

So even if you are a SOLO act, the annual payment is less than a mediocre wage, in America. But if you are one of, say, TEN people – assuming you go for an even split – it works out to fifty bucks a week.

And then, there is depreciation. Fifty bucks, forty years AGO – would be worth about TWO bucks today!

Okay, what if you settle for that Lump Sum? Well – again, some simple maths reveals that the ACTUAL amount you would receive would likely be less than HALF of that million dollars. Then, in America, you’d have to pay TAX on it.

However, it is not all bad news. If you do WELL on AGT, you’ll become a STAR (albeit probably signed to Simon Cowell’s record company) and could get REAL millions for your appearances.

The real bugbear in all this is how Piers Morgan keeps BANGING ON about that “million dollar prize” in the show – like it’s a BIG DEAL. It ISN’T.

And given it is just ONE payment, on a top-rated Summer show that runs for WEEKS (the first season was only nine eps, but each year it GROWS – the last season ran for THIRTY-ONE eps) and the fact it only costs SYCO (AGT’s prod. co.) around HALF that amount – their expenditure is MINIMAL, compared with the series’ overall budget.

So why don’t they just come CLEAN and say that an appearance on the show will make you FAMOUS – and that SEVERAL appearances will make you VERY famous – and that if you WIN, you’ll be VERY, VERY famous – and pick up a prize of half-a-million bucks, to BOOT?

Morpheus on… John Barry

The Catalogue for my five thousand records, tapes and disks has five names that occupy more space than any others. They are – in alphabetical order – Burt Bacharach, John Barry, Kenny Everett, Dudley Moore and Buddy Rich.

These five men have been a big part of my life for nearly fifty years now. Kenny, Dudley and Buddy are no longer with us. Burt was a force of nature in the Sixties, but like many who ruled that decade, he had a bad Seventies – and after a short flurry of activity in the early Eighties, has virtually retired.

But while John Barry too had a lean Seventies, he rose above it and continued to display greatness until yesterday, when at 77, he joined my other three heroes.

A tough Yorkshireman, his evolution from a Fifties Pop singer, to the World’s foremost composer of film scores was rapid. In those Fifties, he composed and arranged most of the hits his John Barry Seven had – then, via advertising jingles and TV themes, he quickly rose to film music.

And on the way, he created innovations that influenced the entire musical industry.

Style – in spades. I could list his miriad achievements, awards, etc. But if you were not there you can never understand. I’ll just leave you with two examples of his genius…

The first is a tip. Rent, buy or if you possess it, play your own copy of the movie Goldfinger. But as you screen it, forget the dialogue and action – just listen to the score. It is Lesson One for any would-be film composer.

And the second is one of his later works – composed for himself, rather than a movie. It is called “The Beyondness Of Things” – and he created it on the idyllic island, outside New York, where he lived during his later years.

The accompanying video is one I created, on Phi-Phi Island in the Andaman Sea. The visuals are spectacular and beautiful – thus only one man’s music could do them justice.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QmGjvvfoons

Morpheus on… Dorothy Provine

As a kid in Sixties Britain, the only exposure I had to Ms Provine was “Don’t Bring Lulu” – played INCESSANTLY on “Uncle Mac” (a BBC radio show for kids) and her performance in “It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World” – in which she played a surly, brittle housewife.

But when I put “Don’t Bring Lulu” onto one of my YouTube channels, I had a revelation. In “…Mad World” her vivacity only surfaces for a brief moment, when her brother passes a truck she is riding in and she leaps up and points at him, excitedly (totally out of her character).

However, “Don’t Bring Lulu” (the words to which BAFFLED eight-year-old me) turns out to have been far more typical of the Dorothy Provine AMERICA knew. It is a song that goes back to the Twenties (hence the strange lyrics) and was featured in a TV show called “The Roaring Twenties” which starred her.

And so far, “Don’t Bring Lulu” has had over 4,000 hits!

But on YouTube, it is linked to a SLEW of other material from the show. And watching it, I now GET IT. Dorothy Provine was a highly talented and utterly GORGEOUS woman! No WONDER America loved her. I am now SAD that this lovely creature was DENIED me, by British TV. BASTARDS!

“Don’t Bring Lulu” can be found on http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HjjRQwX1nGw

Morpheus on… Mr Health And Safety

This one really carries on from the below piece on the absurdity of a woman’s claims, following her encounter with a Mr D Duck – this time, the insanity is Health And Safety.

Apparently, a teacher in Wales has just been found guilty of a number of charges relating to his allowing two pupils to ride a SLEDGE. He barely managed to hang on to his JOB.

It seems he brought the Scandinavian high-tech sledge to school as part of a course on design and technology. But then it all went horribly WRONG.

He allowed them to RIDE the thing without “risk-assessing the activity – in writing” and with no “protective masks” (protection from WHAT?) or “protective headgear, knee or elbow pads” and so on and so on - nine charges in all – of which he was found guilty of four.

In My Day (the SIXTIES) we were allowed to turn a Morris Eight into a HOT-ROD and DRIVE it around the school FIELD, unsupervised. In fact, we took one of the teachers for a spin and he fell OFF (we forgot to tell him the passenger seat wasn’t secured). I rode it with my feet straddling the rear chassis, while holding on to the front seat-backs. I also drove the thing for a couple of laps. We were all fifteen and had never driven anything more than bicycles. Happy days.

But years later in the Eighties, when I visited the same teacher, he told me he had QUIT teaching and gone back into industry. Why? Health And Safety.

He was the Head of Engineering – and as such, taught “metalwork”. Now I studied this subject for four years and worked with assorted power tools, a FORGE and several LATHES.

When I first entered the Engineering Department, aged twelve, it occurred that this could be a dangerous place. And indeed it was. We were working with heavy machinery and red-hot metals.

However, during the next four years, neither I nor my classmates received so much as a SCRATCH.

Yet as early as the late Seventies, he told me that Health And Safety was making his job IMPOSSIBLE. And he pointed out that the new “molly-coddling” regulations would ensure future students would be sent out into the industrial workplace – completely UNPREPARED for the dangers that existed there.

Out here in Thailand, Health And Safety is just beginning to bite - but dangers are still all around. People ride comedy step-through motorbikes with little kids balanced on the TANK.

As for electrics (my speciality) – only recently have they begun fitting circuit breakers and EARTHS to houses. Mine was built in the mid-Nineties and features ONE FUSE for the WHOLE HOUSE. Not to protect ME – but to protect the rest of the street FROM me. All wiring is SURFACE (without conduit) – and the only earths are the ones I PUT IN.

And while in Britain, a full ashtray will get you an MOT fail – here, if the vehicle makes it into the MOT station under its own power…

HOWEVER – despite being surrounded by dangers, the Thais have fewer accidents than people back in Blighty. Why? Because, being AWARE of the dangers – THEY TAKE CARE.

All Mr Health And Safety manages to achieve, is to create a nation of people who are so cosseted – they float through life unaware they live in a DANGEROUS WORLD. And when shit happens – as it always does – they are totally unable to DEAL with it.

Morpheus on… Laughable Legal Actions

Let’s start the year (and decade) with something TRULY absurd.

ALLEGEDLY, while a 27-year-old woman (let’s call her April - since it’s her name) was visiting Disney’s Epcot, a guy in a Donald Duck outfit fondled her boob and said something lewd.

Now of course, a reasonable response would have been to have kicked Don in the nuts (which would have been easy, since he doesn’t wear trousers) – or to simply have complained to security – in which case the “cast member” (which Disney call their theme-park characters) would probably have gotten canned and ended up as a football mascot – or Ronald McDonald.

But NO. She is SUEING the Disney Company (whose equity and assets currently total nearly a hundred BILLION US dollars) claiming that – two-and-half-years on – she still suffers from… wait for it… “post-traumatic stress”, “flashbacks”, “cold sweats”, “acute anxiety”, “insomnia”, “muscle-contraction headaches”, “nausia”, “nightmares”, “digestive problems” and “other permanent injuries”.

Oh dear – you’ve gotta laugh, haven’t you? If THIS reporter got GROPED by Donald Duck – he’d settle for a pair of tickets to “Tron: Legacy”.

Morpheus on… The New Decade (there was no Year Zero)

The Noughties are gone – few will mourn their passing – and now the Teens are with us.

The War Came Home to America.

A Moron commandeered The White House – finally being replaced by a Wise Man – but he’s surrounded by Idiots.

Political Correctness ran amok.

Air-travellers submitted to mild Rape.

And The West began its inevitable Decline.

Things Can Only Get Better – except they can’t.

Since 1973, only Technology has gotten better – with our ability to understand it ever slipping behind.

Recording technology is now Absolute – but Pop Music Died.

Only the Spirit of Man and Woman survives.

Let us use it Wisely…

Morpheus on… The Fence That Leaked

Whenever I am feeling down – all I need to give me a lift, is to recall an incident that occurred when I was about eight years old. I had walked to my Grandad’s house and, it being a cold afternoon, I REALLY needed a PEE.

So as I walked up his side passage, being screened from the road, I let one go against the fence. Now the fence was a standard vertical-overlapped-plank job – with the inevitable occasional KNOT-HOLE. And since there was one such near my stream, I redirected my aim towards it.

But what I had failed to take into account was that on the OTHER side of Grandad’s fence was his next door neighbour’s house. And the humourless crone’s kitchen window FACED said fence, across her driveway.

The next thing I knew was a head appearing over the fence – giving me a right ticking off for doing what I was doing! But all very forgettable, you could be forgiven for thinking.

However, what makes ME chortle – is what it must have LOOKED like, from her perspective.

The thing was, at eight years of age, I was SHORTER than the fence – therefore invisible from the other side. Thus it would have appeared that the FENCE was having a slash!

Maybe it’s just me – but the vision of what it must have LOOKED like from this woman’s point of view has me peeing MYSELF, every time I think of it!

Morpheus on… Driving In The Snow

I understand The Old Country has had a spot of SNOW recently (here in Thailand, it is currently 26 degrees – CENTIGRADE). This reminded me of an amusing occurrence I observed, many years ago, when I was taxiing in the better parts of North London (a PROPER car – not a black cab).

I was crawling down Hampstead Hill on sheet ICE, behind an old geezer in a Merc. He was trying to hold his car on the BRAKE when suddenly, PHYSICS took over and it began to slowly ROTATE – the whole still travelling in its original direction.

From the straight-ahead position of his front wheels and the continued presence of his brake lights, it could clearly be seen that he was hoping for a MIRACLE – whereby his car would magically RESUME its original direction and the tyres would regain their GRIP.

At this time, I was gently cadence-braking my Volvo (this was too far back in time for EITHER of our cars to have anti-lock brakes) in order not to JOIN him in his little thrill ride – which enabled me to stay right behind him and watch the comical expression on his face as he watched things going past across his windscreen, instead of by his side-windows.

But some people are just LUCKY. The road at this point was STRAIGHT – thus he slowly came to a halt, without HITTING anything. This was merely caused by his wheels (which now had all the directional control of table-legs) having big, fat, expensive TYRES on them – not any action HE was taking.

By now, I had cadence-braked to a halt and – there thankfully being no traffic BEHIND me – was able to sit and chortle at him, as he slowly did a fourteen-point turn, to reposition his vehicle in the direction of TRAVEL.

Eventually he managed it and began to move on down the hill once again – this time even MORE slowly.

And the moral to this tale? Do as I have always done – when you first obtain a vehicle you expect to spend some time in – find a wet, empty car-park and CHUCK your chariot ABOUT. This will teach you all you need to know about controlling skids, drifts and slides.

Do NOT wait until your car loses adhesion to find out how to CONTROL it. By then, it will be far too LATE!

Morpheus on… The Absurd Is Now Commonplace

In October, 1999, I wrote the following piece for a Mensa® publication – word for WORD, it went:

My predictions For The New Millennium Are…

 

(1) Pamela Anderson will become the first woman President of the United States of America.

(2) Taiwan will become a World Power.

(3) Richard Branson will become the first man to set foot on Mars – and will then run tourist trips there.

(4) Patrick Moore will host the Centenary Edition of ‘The Sky At Night’.

(5) Sir Clive Sinclair will invent an A.I. computer which will successfully execute a hostile takeover of his own company.

(6) A law will be passed making it illegal to smoke whilst driving.

(7) Chris Evans will buy the Millennium Dome and turn it into a disco.

(8) Prince William will marry Barbara Windsor – who will become Barbara Windsor – but commit adultery with Emma Bunton.

(9) Global Warming will cause the oceans to rise to the point where Watford will become Hertfordshire’s premier coastal resort.

(10) At least three of the above will ACTUALLY HAPPEN.

So where are we, eleven years on?

Well, Old Ma Clinton NEARLY made it to P.O.T.U.S. CHINA now dominates the World. And Branson IS about to start tourist trips into low Earth Orbit.

But it’s number SIX I want to discuss…

It occurred to me, back in the dying months of the Second Millennium, that Health & Safety-obsessed British bureaucrats might just realize that lighting a fag (or dropping it in your lap) whilst driving – is at least as distractive as using a mobile phone.

Thus to have included that activity, would have made some sense. However, the truth is just absurd.

In Britain, smoking was banned “in The Workplace” and obtusely, company cars were classed as extensions of The Workplace. Even if – as is usually the case – one’s workmates never rode in it.

And company cars are often FORCED upon employees – who now have to PAY for them, through the nose. Of course, they are yet another way – along with “private” (commercial) healthcare plans, pensions, dental, etc. – of keeping your employees under your THUMB.

So these days, it is possible for Police to see a man smoking while driving – run an I.D. on his vehicle – discover it is owned by a company – then pull him over and as he winds his window down, sniff and say, “Good afternoon, SIR – have we been SMOKING?”

(As opposed to the traditional DRINKING).

Naturally, it has nothing to do with health OR safety – as with most anti-smoking regulations, it is about MONEY. Today, companies buy or lease cars for short periods (3-12 months) and they are then sold off as Almost New.

And their value is LESS, when – as with offices and aeroplane cabins – the PLASTIC surfaces with which they are COVERED become SMOKED. No amount of “valeting” will remove all traces.

Thus, Big Business was DELIGHTED when Parliament passed this stupid law – which was hardly surprising, given they are one and the SAME.

So now, in addition to dealing with “money-boxes” (speed cameras) traffic “calming” measures and a myriad other abhorrences, whilst enduring their daily two-hour forced SLOG to and from work, in their company cars – the millions of those who are tobacco ADDICTS cannot even SMOKE in them.

Thank GAWD I’m retired.

Footnote: I know that word was distractING – but “distractive” OUGHT to be a word. Maybe next year, Sarah Palin will MAKE it one.

Morpheus on… How To PROVE The Beatles Were The Greatest

Elsewhere in these columns, I have explained WHY the Beatles were The Greatest: they had not one, not two, but THREE of the greatest dozen or so songwriters of the Twentieth Century in their number.

But how do you PROVE they were The Greatest? Simple.

When any artist or group have completed their Golden Era, their record company issues a “Greatest Hits” album. Thousands have been issued – but how many are truly deserving of that title?

Fact is, if you take a cold, hard look at them – you will discover that out of, say 14-18 tracks, only maybe 3-8 of them are GENUINE hits. Several more will be near-hits. And the rest will be FILLER.

Only a few hundred of these albums will contain nothing BUT hits.

But then, what of those artists whose record companies had the temerity to issue a DOUBLE album of their Greatest Hits? Same story. VERY FEW are the artists whose Greatest Hits DOUBLE albums contain ONLY genuine hits.

Elvis, Sinatra and at a pinch, the Beach Boys – that’s about IT.

Which brings us to the Fab Four. THEIR record company issued a companion set of TWO double albums of Greatest Hits. And all FIFTY-FOUR of the tracks included genuinely WERE.

THAT is what makes the Beatles The Greatest.

Furthermore, you could fill ANOTHER double album with the hits they GAVE AWAY to other artists and the ones they had as individual artists, post-Beatles.

There are many good arguments for other artists. Elvis had the same number of Number Ones as the Beatles (curiously, he beat them in the UK, but was beaten BY them in the US) and Sinatra did all right. But both those guys had their hits written FOR them.

And while the Stones are all pensioners now, they are still rockin’ and next year will tour once again, selling out stadium after stadium. And they DID compose most of their hits.

But great as the Stones are, they don’t have TWO DOUBLE ALBUMS of Greatest Hits to their name. NO-ONE does – apart from the Beatles.

And that is why THEY are The Greatest. I rest my case.

Footnote: for those too young to remember “albums”, I would refer you to the Beatles CD – “1”. It contains their Number One hit singles. All TWENTY-SEVEN of them.

Morpheus on… Gender-Specificity In The Workplace

“In Penny Lane there is a fireman with an hourglass…”

Thus it was in 1967. The job of firefighter was considered too tough for women. But things have changed. Now women find themselves on the front line of the Fire Service – facing the same dangers as the men. Therefore, to be called a fireMAN would be an insult. And so – “fireFIGHTER”. Fair enough.

Of course, women have been recruited into the Police Force (although they too prefer “service” these days) for decades – and while the term Policewomen was invented for them, they now prefer Police Officer. Again, fair enough.

Futhermore, you now have “chair-person” (or just “chair”) post/mail carrier, bartender, etc. Still fair enough.

But what of actors and actresses? Well, many actresses now prefer to be called actORS – which is where THIS writer draws the line.

“Best Actor In A Female Role” – gimme a BREAK!

The thing is: fireman, policeman and so on, were all jobs designated for MEN – there WERE NO feminine versions of their job titles. But despite the fact that actresses were once little better than prostitutes (in fact, many WERE) – that situation changed DECADES ago.

Today, actresses have equal status with actors. And while it is conventional for a GROUP of people who act to be called “actors” (although I don’t see a problem with “actors and actresses”) it really JARS to see an actress interviewed and hear her refer to herself as an actOR.

So far, actresses still have to endure being called an actRESS when they go up to collect an OSCAR – after eighty-odd years, A.M.P.A.S. are not about to change the tradition of issuing THEIR awards to “Best Actor” and “Best Actress” – but one suspects that when picking up one of THOSE, the women concerned do not care WHAT they are called. If I ever got one – they could call ME a prostitute.

However, S.A.G. have now removed gender from THEIR awards – so how long before A.M.P.A.S. bows to pressure?

Then there are standups. The women now demand to be called “comedians” instead of “comediennes” – again, BOLLOCKS.

My point is: when a job title only has a MALE version – and women now occupy the posts – it is entirely fair to find a new, gender-neutral term. And likewise, if there is BIAS against female workers in a particular industry.

But we are talking SHOWBUSINESS here. If a person creates a character to tell a story or tells a joke well – their gender matters NOT. Did their performance MOVE you? Did their joke make you laugh? If so, that person did their JOB. They are a PROFESSIONAL.

And IN The Profession – gender is EVERYTHING. Showbusiness is about PEOPLE. Characters. It is the Cult Of Personality. Remove gender from it and you DEVALUATE it.

So by all means remove gender from the mundane workaday jobs. But The Business is SACROSANCT – leave it ALONE.

Morpheus on… “Refudiate”

Americans wonder why the World HATES them – well, the word “Hummer” followed by the word “limo” might be ONE clue. However, they might also look to the fact that the “Oxford American Dictionary” (the Oxford ENGLISH Dictionary should SUE) has just declared “refudiate” – their Word Of The Year.

Are they KIDDING???

The word does not EXIST. It was merely another one of legendary right-wing airhead Sarah Palin’s many BLOOPERS – she mistakenly mashed up the words “repudiate” and “refute”.

Thus, in addition to SLAUGHTERING the Queen’s English on a daily basis, America is now REWARDING IGNORANCE of it!!!

Morpheus on… Remember, Remember…

…The Fifth Of November. Except you appear to have FORGOTTEN it, Britain. Guy Fawkes Night? No?

Sadly, since you went all American, you have REPLACED this venerable celebration with Halloween (a festival YOU originally invented). This is where kids go knocking on strangers’ doors… …have you really thought that one THROUGH?

Of course, your GOVERNMENT is DELIGHTED you have stopped celebrating an event which applauds a terrorist’s attempt to blow up their Parliament (where is Guy Fawkes now – when you NEED him?)

But it is sad to see you playing their game…

Footnote: as you are passing this way anyhow, please check out the COMMENTS on this piece – they’re WAY better than the original piece itself!

Morpheus on… The Difference Between The English And The French

A few weeks ago, the new British government (in the twin-forms of Pinky And Perky) AND the French government (in the diminutive form of Nicolas Sarkozy) decided to start chiseling its pensioners.

In the case of Britain, they announced they intended to raise the state retirement age from 65 to 66.

In France, from 60 to 62.

Leaving aside the fact that the French are allowed to retire five years EARLIER than the British, this means that instead of LOWERING the age – thereby reducing unemployment and giving school-leavers a chance – both are trying to RAISE it, to save MONEY.

But the REACTION to this THEFT (British people pay TAX to fund state pensions – and one assumes the French do too) has been noticeably DIFFERENT.

In France, the MOMENT the announcement was made, the population took to the STREETS.

Yet when the British government made ITS declaration, a short while earlier – NOTHING.

Not a PEEP from the British proles. Are they now SO beaten down, they cannot even raise their voices in protest, when their government announces it intends to RIP THEM OFF for about FIVE GRAND?

Morpheus on… Where Nick Clegg Goes From Here

Nick Clegg has painted himself into a corner.

During those five fabulous days when he was in the cat-bird seat, he appeared to have a FUTURE – but then he blew it.

It was really all that man Brown’s fault. We don’t like Brown (SERIOUSLY obscure reference there). Having never been elected as Prime Minister by the British people, he was about as popular as a fart in a crowded lift.

Of course, if the Labour Party had put up Ed (not Balls – are you kidding?) BEFORE the election, things might have been rather different. David Cameron, Clegg and Miliband would have looked like brothers, rather than a grouchy old man and his sons – which was what the three eventual prime-ministerial prospects looked like.

And once the numbers came in, it was always INEVITABLE that Cleggy would marry Cameron. But now that he has (and I think we all know who the WOMAN is) where the HELL does he go from here?

Well, there are a number of scenarios – but few of them look good for Nick. Let us examine them…

(1) Cameron gets SHOT – and Cleggy becomes Prime Minister, vowing to hold HIS (for the moment, anyway) coalition party together and step up the fight in The War Against Terrorism (TWAT). Unlikely – given the level of security these days, thanks to nice-but-dim Blair’s misbegotten decision to follow Bush into Iraq.

(2) Cleggy actually WINS the referendum on the Alternative Vote system. Again, unlikely. During the last thirty years, Britain has had TWO decent chances to END the CORRUPT two-party system that it has had for eighty-odd years now – and both times, her electorate BLEW it.

Add to that the fact both Labour and the Torybastards will campaign against it and this writer will eat his FOOT if the referendum goes Cleggy’s way.

But assuming it doesn’t – we have three more scenarios.

(3) Having lost the referendum, Cleggy decides his position is untenable, RESIGNS and his other party members become gradually marginalised.

(4) Cleggy elects to HANG ON IN THERE. This gives CAMERON two options. (4a) He allows the coalition to remain in force – but with a somewhat subdued set of Lib-Dem members. Or – (4b) – if the polls look good for him, he calls a snap General Election and declares the coalition to be over.

Either way, Cleggy will be finished.

(5) This one is my personal favourite. Cleggy loses the referendum, but decides to stick around – however the numbers do NOT and NEVER look favourable for Cameron to hold another General Election – thus forcing him to keep his marriage to Clegg ALIVE (maybe they adopt some kids) for a further five years.

And then suppose, during those five LONG years, David and Nick actually end up BONDING? It may sound like a plot from a Hallmark TV movie, but could Cleggy actually ACHIEVE a change in British politics – by (as it were) the back door?

Morpheus on… Political Colours

I never thought I would see the Green Party in control of Britain.

But since the Torybastards’ colour is blue and the Lib-Dems’ colour is yellow…

Morpheus on… Classics That Never Made Number One

Little Richard’s “Tutti Frutti” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X7pjP_XkK4U) “Rip It Up” and “Lucille” were all great classics from the golden age of Rock ‘N’ Roll – so surely they all made Number One, right? Sadly, no. In fact, not one of them rose higher than number SEVENTEEN. “Lucille” did not even make the Top Twenty.

A check of the US Fifties charts reveals that Pat Boone’s appalling COVER version of “Tutti Frutti” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZFxTvffJqOg) actually did BETTER – but who remembers THAT today? (Ironically, Boone’s OWN classic – “Speedy Gonzales” – only made number six in the US and two in the UK, despite being enormously popular there).

The reason is not hard to find. Having just struggled through a WAR, American adults were in no mood to take crap from their KIDS. Ignoring the fact that men are genetically pre-programmed to go “walkabout” around age thirteen – and hit their sexual PEAK at fifteen – they demanded their kids remain VIRGINS until EIGHTEEN – and abstain from alcohol until they reached TWENTY-ONE (and in many states – they still DO).

And they wondered why their kids REBELLED.

Unable to bring themselves to look INWARDS when their progeny became “delinquent” – the parents blamed it all on Rock ‘N’ Roll.

Of course, the music was only a SYMPTOM of rebellion – not the cause. But since the major record companies and radio stations were owned by ADULTS – the music still got BANNED.

And the situation in Britain was little better. The BBC (where the news-readers wore evening dress to read the news – on RADIO) was also dominated by fogeys and only devoted a couple of hours a week to the phenomenon.

The BULK of the records which occupied BOTH Top Twentys through the Fifties was MIDDLE-OF-THE-ROAD.

But in the SIXTIES, “yoof” finally got recognised (they now had MONEY) and once America’s small radio stations – and Britain’s “pirate” stations – took off, Pop ruled the day.

So no more problems – right?

Well – not necessarily. Elvis’ 1964 movie title track, “Viva Las Vegas”  (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9fuGCxQE14w – you can sing ALONG to that one – you’re welcome) never made the Top Twenty either.

Despite its inclusion on various compilation albums (and a recent airing in the film “The Boat That Rocked” [US title: “Pirate Radio”]) Lorraine Ellison’s 1966 rendering of “Stay With Me (Baby)”  (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8tVwIfiO8q8) originally only reached number sixty-four.

And in the Seventies, the story continued. Remember The Ides Of March’s “Vehicle”? Possibly not – but I promise you will know it when you hear it (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hRu93TEcSl8). A classic, covered by every show-band that ever played – however in the UK, it only got to number thirty-one. Even in the US, it was kept off the number one spot by the appropriately-named The Guess Who. Who? Precisely.

Then came a number that can be guaranteed to be in every British All-Time Top One Hundred – Peter Skellern’s endearing ballad, “You’re A Lady”  (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fpoRPej88ik) – but it only peaked at number three in the UK charts (although granted while other records stormed to the top – only to be forgotten the following week – “You’re A Lady” sold steadily for MONTHS).

And what of Eric Clapton’s “Layla”? (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C74sjfGUQXo). The album originally flopped and it was not until two years later that the single was released – and THEN it was only a US number ten and UK seven.

But the undisputed KING of records that never made the prime slot but should have – was Ultravox’s 1981 hit, “Vienna” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W77LBPHQzl0&feature=related). This classic spent FOUR WEEKS as a UK number TWO. For the first week, thanks to John Lennon’s “Woman” – but infamously, for three further weeks it was denied its due by a ghastly novelty record called “Shaddap You Face” – the composer and performer of which received DEATH THREATS from Ultravox fans.

Joe Dolce has never lived it down.

Footnote: The Little Richard, Elvis karaoke and Clapton uploads above were posted by yours truly, but curiously the “You’re A Lady” clip was NOT – yet you will hear a piece of  “Muppets” at the end that I used to play when I was a DJ. Great – or perhaps not so – minds?

Morpheus on… Britain: An Old Production car

Standard production cars are made to last in serviceable nick for about five years – then as old bangers, for another five. Five years after its introduction, the car’s manufacturer introduces a “face-lift” model and after another five years - its replacement. Fine.

But sadly, this sensible way of doing things has never been taken up by governments. Thus Britain’s once-shiny economy is now like a 20-year-old production car. Totally knackered, with HMG constantly patching and botching it up.

Elsewhere in these columns, I have droned on about how Western countries have sewed the seed of their own disaster by dropping their trade barriers, permitting “outsourcing” and automating everything they could.

There is nothing WRONG with these policies – the trade barriers were unfair to the emerging countries – outsourcing labour to the Third World which the West does not like doing makes sense – and the first person who placed a chunk of tree-trunk under a heavy load started a process that got Man on the Moon.

But they radically CHANGE things. And if Man fails to change WITH them, he is DOOMED.

It is no use governments pretending Full Employment can EVER again be a reality, without a DRASTIC shortening of the working day – or the working life.

In other words, governments need to ADDRESS the whole CONCEPT of work and reward. Employment, taxation and state pensions are interlaced and HAVE to be treated as a single issue.

The current situation will lead to (more) civil unrest and ultimately, the total breakdown of society. Patching and botching will NOT save the day.

A government’s first duty has ALWAYS been to raise taxes to pay for things the population cannot or will not pay for. Education. Health. Street-lighting. Even a far-right policy HAS to include this. And a far-left one REVELS in it.

In a perfect socialist society one would work for a state company, live in a state-owned house, drive a state-owned car, eat food made by state-owned factories… Yeah – dreadful. Very 1984.

Pure socialism does not work for a variety of reasons. It fails to reward (or even encourage) individual effort – which leads to technological torpor. And it tends to lead to a utilitarian society. No style. No flair. No joy. Grey. Yech.

On the other hand, pure Free Enterprise doesn’t work EITHER. We laughed when Communism collapsed in 1989 – but in 2008, FREE ENTERPRISE collapsed too. Well, almost.

Billions of Dollars, Pounds and Euros being pumped into it may have kept it from TOTAL collapse – for the moment – but if Western governments continue to bury their collective heads in the sand and do not begin to examine the TOTAL CONSTRUCT of our economic system, like the 20-year-old production car – its BLOODY WHEELS WILL FALL OFF.

FOOTNOTE: For more on this – see my evil twin, Damien, at http://damienatloppers.wordpress.com/2010/09/19/damien-on-pensions 

Morpheus on… Lew Grade

Back in the Sixties, Lew Grade RULED British TV. Denied a franchise, he was nevertheless responsible for a SLEW of action series that formed the mainstay of what is now the classic period in UK television history.

His word was his bond – and he was shrewd. His studio made around three 26-episode series each year and financed others. Without Lew, there would have been no “Thunderbirds”, “The Saint”, “Randle & Hopkirk [Deceased]” or “The Prisoner” – in addition of dozens of others.

The money to make these shows – in 35mm film (colour from around ’63) – was derived from sales to AMERICA. But the talent was all British (with the occasional Canadian actor – Equity had an arrangement with Canada and Americans liked a familiar ACCENT).

And using colour film meant the shows could be sold ANYWHERE (although the channel that aired his shows in the UK did not GET colour until 1969 – so the home audience only saw them in black and white).

But even with foreign money, budgets were tiny – which meant the name of the game was ECONOMISE!

Sets, stock-footage and props were constantly recycled. The submarine set for one show cost a packet – so a sub was immediately worked into the plots of other shows.

Since clearance for pop music was expensive, Lew commissioned a pop song – and used it in several shows.

All of the shows had full scores – but while Edwin Astley provided lush, exciting main themes, the incidental music came from small groups, who recorded bits of music for every mood – which the music editor then cut and pasted into an infinite variety of combinations (the audience never realised they were hearing the same pieces over and over again).

Most of the shows featured “exotic” locations (in Sixties Britain, ANYWHERE outside the UK was exotic – air travel was still pricey then) but location filming abroad was out of the question. So Lew packed off a camera crew to get stock footage of as many foreign cities as he could afford.

Thus, most shows would begin with an establishing shot of Paris, Rio, Geneva, Hong Kong or wherever – with an obvious landmark – and the name of the city emblazoned across it. But everything else was shot in HERTFORDSHIRE (or neighbouring Bedfordshire).

Thirties Spanish-villa-style houses were borrowed for exteriors (a potted palm was always placed in the foreground, to add colour). And the studio back-lot became almost a second home to viewers (a foreign car or two, plus appropriate signs and props, would place it).

The studios themselves doubled for factories – even docks (a few crates with appropriate stencilling, a smoke canister or two and the occasional sound of a boat-horn put in by the sound editor in post, worked wonders). And the studio offices offered a RANGE of possibilities, both for interiors and exteriors.

And while the stars beavered away in the studios, the second units toiled outside. Doubles would keep their heads turned away from camera – and the panning shots of cars always tilted down to the wheel splashing through a little puddle as it passed the camera. Artistic – and it ensured the driver would not be seen in CLOSE-UP.

But my personal favourite ploy was Lew’s white Mark 2 Jag and red Renault Dauphine. Whenever a guy got into one, you knew he was in for a ROUGH TRIP.

The stunt guys ran them around the country roads for a bit – swerving from side to side – then catapulted them into a quarry. Shot from umpteen angles (the Jag even had an old, sacrificial camera mounted INSIDE – it got a great shot, before getting POUNDED) the two cars certainly earned the money Lew paid for them.

Of course, it is easy to poke fun at the way Lew’s people saved money – but without the ploys, Sixties Britain’s TV schedules would have been the poorer. These shows provided thousands of hours of excellent entertainment – not to mention work for most of Britain’s writers, directors, technicians and actors.

But – well – let’s have a few LITTLE laughs…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uISml4uZGo8

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eocx6mubACg

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6qeafutrrco

Morpheus on… David Searle and The Women’s Institute

Now fifty-seven, Dave still had a face filled with peace and innocence – but his soul was filled with passion and he had lived a life filled with pith and moment. Dave had been around.

But a couple of years ago, Dave had decided to settle down and had met and married Faith. She knew nothing of his purple past and since she was somewhat straightarrow, he decided it might be wise to leave things that way.

Her life revolved around the church and as a pillar of the local Women’s Institute, she had often asked her husband to be a guest lecturer – but he had always claimed to be too busy.

That was until one time when she had to go and visit her mother. Dave knew she would be away for several days, so he volunteered to give that lecture she had been pestering him for.

On the day in question, Dave stood on the lectern and announced his subject to the assembled ladies. “Today I propose to give a talk on sexual technique,” he said.

He then gave a lecture that would have put The Kama Sutra and The Joy Of Sex in the shade. For two hours, he listed every trick he had learned in his young, debauched life.

His audience listened in rapt silence. When he finished, he wished them good luck – and good lovemaking. The applause went on for ever.

A few days later, Faith returned. The first thing she noticed was the smiles and curious looks she got from her Women’s Institute colleagues.

And so she asked her husband how his lecture had been received. He replied that it appeared to have gone well. Then she asked him what his subject had been.

Not keen to get into THAT, he thought for a second. Remembering their recent abortive attempt to take up yachting, he relied, “Oh I spoke about yachts and stuff.”

The next day, she bumped into a group of the WI women at Tesco. “Oh, that WAS an interesting lecture your husband gave,” cried one of the ladies. The others nodded eagerly.

“Hmm,” said Faith, “I’m surprised. He doesn’t really know much about it. In fact we’ve only done it twice. The first time, he threw up – and the second time, his hat blew off!”

Morpheus on… “Castaway” Cartoons

The thing about a cartoon format is it is usually owned and jealously guarded by ONE cartoonist – normally by giving it a name. But the castaway cartoons were only a concept – and a surreal one at that – so EVERYONE did them.

I am talking of the Sixties and Seventies – when people used to READ (I get sixty thousand hits a day on my VISUAL uploads, but only eighty a day on my WRITTEN ramblings – not eighty THOUSAND – just EIGHTY). In those halcyon days, there were things called “newspapers” and “magazines” and single-panel cartoons would litter their pages, to add contrast to the print.

And the castaway scenario cropped up time and time again. It consisted of a bloke, sometimes two (it would only include a woman if the gag called for one) and there they stood, in raggedy clothes, with long, unkempt beard and hair, surrounded by ocean, the sun in a clear sky, with the ONE palm tree in the middle for visual effect – on an island about the size of a DOUBLE-BED.

I SAID it was SURREAL! I mean, where did the occupant(s) get WATER from? And aside from a fish or two – what would they EAT? And with only a single palm tree, it would be a toss-up whether they would die from exposure, sun-stroke, thirst or malnutrition. Either way, they would not last a week.

But this did not matter – Wile E Coyote would never survive a five-hundred-foot fall into a ravine, either. As previously stated, it was just a CONCEPT. A frame into which humour could be painted – an island the castaway(s) could have SURVIVED on would have required too much detail and been a distraction from the GAG.

I used to have HUNDREDS of these things in magazines – but a flooded celler KILLED them all, a few years ago. However, I have seen sites on the Interweb where vintage cartoons are displayed – so you should be able to find some somewhere.

From MEMORY, I still recall a few (and if a cartoon can stay with you for forty years, it must have been pretty good!) Even the great Don Martin, of “Mad” magazine, did some.

There was the one (which was a STRIP) where the bloke sees a crate floating towards him and risks a shark-attack to recover it. On opening it, he discovers it contains a HAMMOCK! (Remember, he only had the ONE TREE).

And what about the poor chap with FOUR trees which are now only STUMPS, because he has chopped them down to build a boat – but he has only managed to half-finish it, so now he is watering four TINY NEW trees…

The above were universal, needing no dialogue – but my all-time favourite is another single-panel one with TWO guys – and just one line of dialogue. From their standard raggedy clothes and long, unkempt beards and hair, it is obvious they have been on this pin-prick of an island for YEARS and one of them says – “I keep thinking it’s Thursday.”

Morpheus on… Keir Dullea

In films, an actor or actress often has to AGE. At which point, in come the make-up and prosthetic artists – and they almost always get it totally WRONG.

What I mean is – if the career of the actor or actress manages to endure, when they actually REACH the age they were portraying all those years ago, they look NOTHING like their made-up self.

However Keir Dullea is an exception. You will remember how, at the end of “2001: A Space Odyssey” (1968) his character Bowman goes through several stages of ageing – finally emerging as a foetus (the “Star Child”).

Well, two stages earlier, he is portrayed as a man in his mid-seventies.

And right now (2010) he has REACHED that age – and, in his rare contemporary film appearances, he looks JUST like made-up self in “2001…”

Check it out!

Morpheus on… The War On Terror

…is, like The War On Drugs – entirely BOGUS. To find out why, we must examine its origin.

After WW2, America SHOULD have heavily reduced its military. But it LIKED being a Superpower, so decided instead to find an Evil Empire – to justify the expenditure on same to its citizens and the rest of the World.

And former ally Russia conveniently obliged, when it tried to get Japan to surrender – with terms – to THEM, instead of America. This pissed off  The States no end, them having just fought said Japanese tooth and nail right across the Pacific – at great cost in men and hardware.

So for decades, the U.S. and the Soviets vied for supremacy in terms of the numbers of their bombs, tanks, aircraft and military technology. The problem for Russia was they had a political system that failed to reward individual effort.

Thus their technology steadily slipped back, while their expenditure climbed, to compensate. Therefore, when America announced its utterly absurd SDI (“Star Wars”) programme, the Soviets, who were blowing half their GNP on “defence” – as opposed to The States’ 25% – finally put their hands up and said, “We don’t want to PLAY anymore.”

Which left Uncle Sam with a PROBLEM. He needed that Evil Empire. Who could he nominate? China? No fear! She was big, nuclear – and was making megatons of cheap, plastic crap for America’s consumers. Africa? – don’t be silly.

No, The States decided the ARAB NATION would be ideal. It had most of the OIL they desperately needed – and ISRAEL. Given that half of Hollywood and Washington was Jewish – not to mention America was heavily Christian and Israel contained a large slice of The Holy Land – it was an easy sell.

Therefore, a War Against The Arabs would enable them to get a lock on the whole Middle East area. And since the primitive tribes therein were fragmented and disorganised, they would not be THAT hard to control – surely?

The 11th of September, 2001.

After ”9/11″ they realised they had SERIOUSLY underestimated the religious fanaticism that permeates the whole area. Furthermore, they discovered even THEIR military might was insufficient to calm the sh*tstorm they had stirred.

And so their spin-doctors came up with The War Against Terror. However, they soon discovered that the acronym – TWAT – was a rude word in Britain. So they quickly changed it to The War ON Terror.

The thinking was that while no-one would follow them into battle against The Arab Nation – if they called it a war against ALL TERRORISM, they could convince the rest of the World to JOIN them.

Britain – in the form of nice-but-naïve Tony Blair – fell for it. And until the Madrid Train Bombings occurred – so did Spain. Australia lent their support – but when THEY narrowly missed getting hit, they too cooled. Meanwhile, most other countries had more sense.

Which leaves us where we are today. Those countries which HAVE upset the Middle East find themselves with THREE OPTIONS…

One – do as America has done: introduce a “security” system that is an utter NIGHTMARE. Their paranoia has made World air travel intolerable. And it is a NONSENSE – you CANNOT have 100% security.

Imagine having to go through the sort of crap you have to endure before strapping on a plane these days – every time you entered ANY building or vehicle. Buses, boats, shops, clubs, pubs, cinemas, theatres – even churches and schools.

And even then, you are not safe. What about parks, plazas – ANY place where more than a dozen people gather? Plus, once inside – what about bullets and bombs? Following the LOGIC of security, every building would need to be turned into a FORTRESS. So…

How about option two? Neutralise the killers. Except you have MILLIONS of “suspects” – most of whom are benign – but will BECOME radical, if you start locking them up in places like Gitmo. And if you introduce a Shoot To Kill policy – then you are no better than the terrorists.

Which brings us around to option three. Americans like to BLAST their way out of trouble – but even the DUMBEST Yank has realised by now that that rational simply does not WORK.

So America, swallow your pride and TALK to the terrorists. Ask them what they WANT.

Granted most of their demands will be unacceptable – but at least you are now TALKING. Given time and sensible negotiation, compromises can be reached and ultimately, you will eradicate the REASONS for terrorism.

Of course, there will always be MAJOR arseholes who want everybody to live in ways that are totally unacceptable to any reasonable, thinking person. Those people you CANNOT reason with. But most of THEIR power comes from subverting the hearts and minds of MAINSTREAM people.

However, mainstream folk do not NEED the aggravation of living in constant FEAR – they just want to get on with their LIVES.

So by COMMUNICATING with those mainstream people – AND showing them some respect and tolerance – you will eventually DISEMPOWER the radical elements.

Then, once they are marginalised and isolated - you can DEAL with them. It’s THAT SIMPLE!

Morpheus on… Crime

Specifically, regarding those small jewellers who have secure entrances – you know, with an intercom and entry button under the counter. How does THAT work?

I mean, if the bell rings and the shop assistant looks over at the door and sees three guys with striped jerseys, stocking-masks and sawn-off Purdeys standing there – they probably won’t buzz them in.

But supposing it’s a normal-looking guy in a suit? Buzz him in – and then he pulls out a Glock.

Or what if it’s a well-to-do-looking woman – and as soon as you buzz the door, three evil-looking blokes join her?

On the other hand, what if a black guy with tats and a reversed baseball cap is standing there? No? But he may just be a successful rapper who is looking for a gift for his bitch – I mean girlfriend.

How are you supposed to KNOW whether a customer is kosher?

Let’s face it – having cased a joint, any potential stick-up artist is going to make SURE they look kosher.

So what IS the point of the entry-phone? Anyone?

Morpheus on… Nick Clegg’s Choice – A Rebuttal

Yesterday, my evil twin Damien posted a piece CONDEMNING Cleggy for taking Cameron’s offer of a Coalition – with a referendum on the Alternative Vote system – claiming he only did so to secure the position of Deputy P.M.

And that since part of the deal was that the Tories would be free to campaign AGAINST it – as Labour surely would – he had NO chance of WINNING the referendum.

As a result of which, Cleggy might well find his one-year career as Deputy P.M. was OVER.

Damien said Cleggy should have gone with the Bill-By-Bill option, thus holding sway over the Tories – and being a pain in the arse of Cameron.

The full piece can be found at http://damienatloppers.wordpress.com/2010/08/01/damien-on-cleggys-choice/

But he did NOT think his argument THROUGH.

If Cleggy HAD gone for the independent, Bill-By-Bill option – forcing Cameron to take power with a MINORITY (it seems unlikely, given the numbers, that LABOUR would have attempted to carry on – even with a new leader) then he, Cameron, would STILL have been able to screw Cleggy.

All he would have had to do (and would surely have DONE) was put through a couple of harmless bills that Cleggy could hardly argue with – plus a couple he would definitely have voted AGAINST – then, when they failed, go BACK to the country, begging the electorate to give him the MANDATE to do his JOB.

And provided the bills he had got through – and the ones that had failed – were not too unpopular, he would likely have GOT that mandate. And Cleggy would have remained where he started – with NO power.

Furthermore, while in opposition, Cleggy could NEVER have got a bill for a referendum on the Alternative Vote system passed, since BOTH Cameron and Miliband (?) would have unified for once – to keep their corrupt two-party system intact.

Thus the ONLY chance Cleggy had, and has, was and is, the deal Cameron offered him – that bloody referendum which he will LOSE (Damien at least got THAT right).

After all – you never know – perhaps the British electorate WILL vote to overturn the corrupt two-party system they have had for almost NINETY YEARS and introduce the Alternative Vote system.

And perhaps Nick Griffin will collect the Humanitarian Award for 2012.

Morpheus on… Prokofiev’s Third Piano Concerto

Prokofiev composed his First Piano Concerto when he was barely twenty – it’s a nice piece.

His Second, finished in 1913, is brilliant. Impossibly difficult to play, it features a “solo” that is MANIC. In fact, knowing some conductors would lose their place in the score – he utilised a ploy which is familiar to Big Band jazz musicians today. A distinctive figure designed to WAKE UP the orchestra and tell them, “This is where you leap back IN!”

But then, in 1914, came World War One. Its effect was BRUTAL on Russia – and coupled with the Revolution, caused death, destruction and misery on a monumental scale.

Had the still-young Sergei been a poet, he would have expressed his feelings in prose. But he was a COMPOSER – and used (some would say ABused) that medium instead. As the conflict raged around him, Prokofiev put all of the horror he felt at the atrocity that was ripping his country to pieces – down on music sheets.

Eventually, the hostilities ran their course and the composer left Russia to seek his fortune. His First Piano Concerto was an immediate success – although his Second (which was pretty avant-garde for its time) took a while to gain public acceptance.

But after it had, his publishers started pressing him for the Third he had promised them. This gave Sergei a problem.

It is said that a good novel tells you as much about the WRITER as it does their story’s characters. And this was certainly true of Prokofiev’s Third Piano Concerto. Sergei had put all of the hurt and angst he had felt – while witnessing the obscenity unfolding about him – into the piece.

He had never expected it to be PERFORMED. Aside from the fact that it was even more difficult to play than the Second – it stripped his soul BARE. He knew anyone listening to it who had any perception at all would immediately feel the emotions he had infused it with.

It is a monstrous piece – there is not a single happy note in it – and so he told his publisher he had LOST it.

However, this did not satisfy the publisher one bit. A composer does not LOSE a piano concerto – that would be like a boat-builder mislaying a BOAT. The publisher pressed Prokofiev. “You WROTE it – can you not remember how it GOES?”

Eventually, as the passage of time mellowed the memory of the fury that had generated the piece, Sergei produced the work. He even began to PLAY it in concert (at that time, he was one of the few people capable of DOING so).

Thus this terrible musical outpouring came into the public domain.

It has been described as the total abuse of a piano. But given the fact that music in its highest form is the expression of emotion, this is not quite fair. Certainly, music is normally used to express joy, sadness, melancholy – even humour – but there is no rule that says it cannot also express anger, frustration and OUTRAGE.

Which his Third Piano Concerto DOES, in spades. WAR – it’s all there.

In fact, any player who can HANDLE the piece (and few truly can) must beware of being sucked IN – and DOWN – by it.

Which is why you will rarely witness anyone REALLY GOING for it.

Oh sure, these days the musical conservatories are churning out HUNDREDS of clever buggers who can PLAY the work – hit all of the piece’s notes in the right order.

Some players can even maintain the SPEED required – although few can manage the speed AND STRENGTH needed.

And those few rarely allow themselves to ABSORB and PERFORM it. To do so requires the soloist – and the accompanying ORCHESTRA – to submit to emotions they would rather keep HIDDEN.

A rare exception was Michel Beroff and the Gewand Orchestra of Leipzig, in 1974. They TOTALLY went for it – and gave a good reading of the Second. Last I heard, the two recordings were still available on CD – however, they might have been “restored” (thus wringing all of the “live” feel out).

But if you want to SEE what a proper reading of this piece does to a player, you can watch Cecile Ousset having a go – I put the last two minutes of her 1991 performance on YouTube on http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fOfUUlT0nXs  and the FULL work on http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vMxJW1poEqk

This is an extraordinary performance. Women rarely attempt the piece, given the physical STRENGTH and STAMINA required (look, I don’t want to sound sexist: but women drive off forward tees and only have to play three sets to win Wimbers – okay?)

The full three-movement work lasts around half an hour. And Cecile having now retired, you will rarely see anyone REALLY go for it. But if you do – and it reduces you to tears – don’t say I didn’t WARN you. Alright?

Morpheus on… Thailand’s Street-Elephants

I understand that the latest Bangkok police “crackdown” – ordered by its bureaucrats – will be on tourists who feed Thailand’s wandering pachyderms.

These can be found – with their “mahouts” – in a number of popular tourist haunts. One even wanders past my house now and again (a sight which, even after having lived here for nearly a decade, I have never QUITE got used to).

And I have often paid their mahouts 100 baht (about £2/$3) for some bananas to feed these noble creatures (even though I have plenty of them in my own GARDEN – bananas, not elephants – keep up!) But sadly, no more. If caught, I now face a Police fine of 10,000 baht (about £200/$300).

At this point, I would have loved to have done a gag about a “trumped-up charge” and left it at that.

But tragically, it’s NOT funny. While the bureaucrats’ decision to heavily fine TOURISTS is obviously a monumentally STUPID one – which will do little to help Thailand’s already DESPERATE tourist industry, after SARS, Bird Flu, the Tsunami and recent Bangkok riots – there is actually a legitimate reason for it.

These leviathans should not BE on the street. Every time I see one of these poor beasts lumbering along a busy public road – often at night, with a little red light dangling from its tail – which would be funny were it not pathetic – I try not to imagine what would happen if one got HIT by one of the cars and trucks that go speeding past, inches from its flank.

And the suffering does not stop there. I understand that the life expectancy of these beasts is, statistically, only HALF that of one in the country. And not just because of elephant v traffic accidents – rather a myriad of other street-related dangers. Exhaust fumes, diseases and constant minor injuries from the many obstructions that fill the tiny side-streets.

Thus the crack-down IS justified. But while many mahouts are very poor – and elephants are expensive to maintain – and tourists are generally rich – it will likely make little difference. They’ll just employ lookouts.

And the bureaucrats setting the POLICE onto the mahouts (who now risk a 10,0oo baht fine AND six months in a Thai jail) AND Thailand’s much-needed tourists - are not HELPING the problem.

They claim they are going to put SIGNS up in tourist areas – as if signs are the solution to everything. The bureaucratic mind for you.

I would love to have an ending for this piece, but life does not always have neat endings. Crushing poverty and animal cruelty are problems where overnight solutions rarely offer themselves. I only pass on this information in the vain hope SOMEONE who reads it might be in a position to do something POSITIVE about it – something the Thai bureaucrats are signally UNABLE to do.

Morpheus on… Andrew Joseph Stack III

The expression “going postal” is well-known and relates to a series of high-profile shooting sprees by employees of the U.S. Postal Service – where they flipped out, obtained a gun (in many states of America, these can be obtained in six-packs from “Guns ‘R’ Us” – soon they will be able to obtain them at 7-11) and proceeded to blast away at their colleagues.

However, this activity is not limited to the postal service – in fact, the prevalence is higher in other industries – it is just that the Postal Service is considered innocuous and therefore, when their sorting offices became more like the OK Corral, it garnered attention.

So what DRIVES people to suddenly go ape-sh*t and take it out on their fellow man?

Well that is not hard to see. Our modern World is dominated by large, faceless corporations, self-serving bureaucrats and other organisations whose prime directive appears to be to find as many ways as they can to f*ck with us.

And how can you respond to this constant assault? “Call-centres”, that is how. Except most of those centres are merely peopled by poor shlubs like US – the REAL bastards are tucked away where only the likes of Michael Moore can find them – usually on the golf-course.

So, filled with fury and hatred acquired through YEARS of dealings with banks, employers, tax inspectors, teachers, cops and rude shop-assistants – every now and then, someone SNAPS and goes on the rampage. And it is people like YOU who face the result.  

People debate over what makes a killer. But while MOST killers are morons who lack the grey matter to appreciate the enormity of taking a human life – or psychotics who lack the reason – the fact is, push ANYONE far enough and we ALL have the power within us. It is merely a question of having the right buttons pushed often enough.

And when someone DOES finally explode, our System is geared to dismiss them as nut-jobs – and we tut-tut and struggle on with our lives.

But while YOU may think you are only at risk of some OTHER guy blowing up – think again. Sure, you are a SANE person. Intelligent. A person of sensitivity and understanding. Except, so was Joe Stack – right up to the time he set fire to his house, then flew his Piper Dakota into his local Austin, Texas tax office, earlier this year.

The event being in America, at first everyone assumed the incident was another terrorist attack – in fact, even Wiki describes him, erroneously, as a terrorist – but then, a number of people read Joe’s “mission statement”.

In the past, suicide notes were rarely made public. But we live in The Age Of Information. Joe POSTED his note on the WEB.

And it made interesting reading. It showed the guy was NOT a loony. He was an intelligent, reasonable, hard-working man whose buttons had just been pushed one time too MANY.

He could have been ME – or YOU.

True, he was still dismissed by most as a head-case. But his gesture had its desired effect. Along with injuring a dozen people, he took OUT an Infernal Revenue Service manager – one Vernon Hunter. Whether Vern was a good guy in a bad job (such jobs quickly corrupt the best of us) or a right bastard, we will never know. But Joe had certainly sent him a MESSAGE.

Of course, incidents like the Stack one are rare. The excrescences who plague us with their poison mostly get AWAY with it. Backed by the System that corrupted them from the decent human beings they once were, they prevail.

And you and me – for the moment – are reduced to listening to piped music on another bloody call-centre line. But one day… ONE DAY…

Footnote: if you would like to READ Joe’s statement – you can find it on http://graphics8.nytimes.com/packages/pdf/us/20100218-stack-suicide-letter.pdf

Morpheus on… Wind-Ups

I like a good wheeze as much as any other smoker – like, pushing a cucumber through the letter-box of an elderly spinster, then phoning her up and yelling, “The Martians are invading!” – or going into a Christian bookshop and asking if they have a copy of the Necronomicon.

Better yet – a copy of the Bible that includes the Gospel According To Judas Iscariot (they HATE that!)

But here is one I actually DID…

Back when I still lived in Asboland, I found myself walking down a side street, just off Southend’s main shopping area. And it was there I came across a new shop (actually, the shop had been there for centuries – it was the BUSINESS that was new).

It was called “Candles ‘R’ Us” (the ‘R’ was the correct way round – they obviously did not want to get sued by a certain chain of toy-stores) and did what it said on the tin. The premises contained candles of every conceivable shape, size and colour – except of course, ONE.

But I noticed it had a large sign in the window, claiming it stocked EVERY colour.

As I had a few moments, I decided to have a bit of a laugh. The shop was empty, save for a young, female assistant. I entered, smiled at her and asked for a dozen BLACK candles.

I had figured that was as far as it would go – she would laugh and tell me, “Okay, I’ll grant you we don’t stock THAT colour!” But she was YOUNG and did not GET it. I felt slightly guilty as she smiled, said certainly, then went off to search the boxes of candles, looking for the articles I had requested.

Finally she returned, looking crestfallen. “I’m sorry – I can’t find ANY black ones – I thought we had ALL the colours.” I was about to explain to her WHY she could not find them when she suddenly said, “Actually, I’m new here – the woman who owns the shop is at lunch – but she’ll be back in half an hour. Can you come back then?”

“Alright,” I replied, turning to leave. Then, unable to resist, I said, “Actually, I have some more shopping to do – Eye Of Newt and so on – I’ll pop back when I’ve finished, in a couple of hours. When she returns, can you tell her what I need? My name’s Mr Diablo.”

“Okay,” she replied, brightly. As I left – never to return – it occurred to me that I wished I could be a fly on the wall for THAT conversation!

Morpheus on… Solstices

I believe it is time to RECLAIM the Solstices – in particular, the Winter one.

As a now-thankfully-ex-resident of the UK, I got so BORED hearing Politically Correct bozos say “Happy Holidays” at CHRISTMAS. Of course, they had got it from America. Both of these CHRISTIAN countries like to consider themselves “multi-cultural” – so now seek to avoid “causing offence” to those who are NOT.

Well, as an ATHEIST – and proud of it – I can assure you “Happy Christmas” never offended ME. I knew that three-quarters of Blighty’s population had outgrown religion and that the greeting was merely a token of friendship.

But if Christmas HAS to go, why not substitute “Happy Solstice”? Given they are six months apart, it hardly seems necessary to specify which ONE.

I mean, Christmas is a crock anyway. Even if you BELIEVE in God, it is a fact that Jesus was born around March, several years after Year One. The early Christians merely HIJACKED December the 25th, to try to wean people off what they saw as a “pagan” ceremony.

Well now, I say it is time to get it BACK. As Christmas, December the 25th is a Day Of Good Cheer. People exchange gifts, eat lots of food, drink lots of booze and are generally NICE to each other.

What is wrong with THAT? Christ (just an expression, okay?) I wish it could be Christmas EVERY DAY (apart from the presents – my budget would not stretch to THAT).

M’point is – what you have here is a ready-made period of celebration. The TRUE Christmas Spirit has nothing to DO with Christianity. It is a HUMAN event – tied to a natural one – the Winter Solstice.

So why not simply RE-NAME it thus?

Morpheus on… The Beat Goes On

On the same day, two announcements…

Barack O’Bama – after the Gulf OIL “spill” – “Beyond the risks inherent in drilling four miles beneath the surface of our Earth, our dependence on oil means that we will continue to send billions of dollars of our hard-earned wealth to other countries every month – including many in dangerous and unstable regions. In other words, our continued dependence on fossil fuels will jeopardise our national security. It will smother our planet – and continue to put our economy and our environment at risk.” All of which is true – this reporter has been saying as much for years.

But at the same time, the B.B.C. went with “Afghans Say U.S. Teams Found Huge Potential Mineral Wealth. A joint team from the Pentagon, U.S. Geological Service and U.S.A.I.D. has calculated Afghanistan’s mineral deposits are worth at least $900bn… …valuable deposits of LITHIUM… …used in batteries… …key to the future of the electric car.”

Out of the frying pan, into the fire?

Morpheus on… Sleep-Riding

I have oft-declared that there are two kinds of driver in this World. Those who cut a graceful swathe through the traffic – and those who ARE the traffic. I am one of the former.

But there was one occasion when my driving skills entered the realm of the PARANORMAL.

Back in the Seventies, I lived in N.E. London. And for several months, I worked nights at a West End all-night multi-storey car park. I could tell you a number of bizarre stories about THAT – but this one concerns an experience I had while commuting TO it.

Every evening, around nine, I would ride my BSA motorbike along the same route, to Leicester Square. I had done it hundreds of times – so I could do it in my sleep. I just never thought I actually WOULD.

On this occasion, I had been busy, so had been up all day. But since there were a number of guys on duty until midnight, I figured I could get forty winks after I arrived – and forty more, during the night, after the clubs had chucked out.

But as I passed Mount Pleasant sorting office, it suddenly HIT me. I realised I had hit a wall – metaphorically speaking. I knew if I did not find somewhere to sleep for a few minutes – and quickly – I would FALL asleep where I was.

My mind raced through alternatives – there were hotels where I could walk in, sit in a chair in reception and gather the required few minutes sleep (I was dressed reasonably – so figured I would not be abused as a derelict).

But the hotels were nearly as far away as my destination – I would never make it. There was only one solution. The pavements were dry and at that time, quiet. Extraordinary though it was, I would park up my bike and lay down for a few minutes and………………..

…the next thing I knew, I was approaching the Shaftesbury Theatre. And the last four minutes were MISSING. I had SLEEP-RIDDEN!!!

Since I was still moving – and after my impromptu nap, slightly refreshed – I continued on my way to work. But after our “rush” period was over and I was alone, I had time to consider what had just happened.

I had heard of sentries falling asleep standing up – and sleepwalkers performing simple, familiar tasks, like making a cuppa. But I had also heard of MOTORISTS who had nodded off at the wheel and woken up in HOSPITAL – or in The Next World – however, they did not have to retain their BALANCE.

And with what I knew about sleep, this all made sense. When asleep, the upper areas of our conciousness rest – but the lower areas continue. If they did not, we would stop BREATHING. Thus, being able to ride a motorbike along a frequently-traveled route while in the Land Of Nod ought to be JUST possible.

It HAD to be – I had DONE it.

But while keeping my balance and following a familiar route might be possible – sleepwalkers seemed to manage that okay – could I detect a red traffic-light, slow down, change gears, de-clutch, stop, put a foot down, note the green, balance the clutch against the accelerator and move off, changing up again?

NO WAY! Which meant I had just gone through SIX traffic lights – ASLEEP!!!

Over the next few weeks, I carried out a little survey, to determine what the odds were that all of the lights had been GREEN. And at the end, I worked out they had only been ONE IN SIX!

To be fair, two of the lights were pedestrian-only – but that only lowered the odds to one in four. Which means there is still a SEVENTY-FIVE PERCENT likelihood that I went zooming across a red light – like in a Keystone Kops movie – narrowly missing DEATH.

But I will NEVER KNOW…

Morpheus on… The Welsh Language

The Welsh language is an offshoot of the Celtic languages. The Celts were originally spread all over Europe, but due to their bad tempers, red hair, freckles and skin that burned if the sun even THOUGHT of shining, they eventually found themselves pushed back to Scotland, Ireland and Wales.

By the twentieth century, English now having become the dominant tongue in those countries, the Celtic languages had all but died out in Scotland and Ireland – the only remaining traces being reserved for place names – but in Wales, their version somehow remained.

However, it too would have expired, had it not been for one thing – the Welsh Nationalists. Like the Scottish Nationalists and Irish Republicans, they despised the English – whom they saw as oppressors.

Of course, devolution has now come to those countries. But around the turn of the Sixties, this would have been unthinkable – in particular, because OIL had been discovered off the Scottish coast.

And whilst Wales might not have been similarly blessed, no-one at Whitehall wanted to create a precedent. So the protests of the Welsh Nationalists were ignored. At which point, they decided to become MILITANT.

This militancy took the form of torching the country cottages of rich British industrialists and politicians. It came to a head when Walter Wall-Carpeting, the then-Minister of Welsh Affairs lost HIS home-from-home.

Furious, he ranted at the then-Prime Minister, Harold Macmillan, “Now those bloody sheep-shaggers have set fire to MY cottage! I’d been using it to get away, with Sally.” “Your wife?” Harold murmured. “Don’t be ridiculous,” answered Walter.

Something had to be done. Most Welsh people had no desire to be separated from Britain, but Whitehall knew it had to throw SOME sort of bone to the rabid Welsh Nationalists. Finally, they came up with an idea.

Remembering that the Welsh had a nearly extinct and totally unintelligible language, it was decided to convert all of Wales’ road signs to dual language – English of course coming first. This would fool the Welsh into thinking they had their own National Identity.

It worked. The Ministry Of Transport had no problems with the idea, as they were busy putting the finishing touches to a new set of European road-signs that used PICTURES to warn of hazards, etc.

An outline of a sheep meant “Sheep Crossing”, a car falling off a jetty meant “Dock Ahead” – and a man apparently having trouble opening a golf umbrella meant “Road Works Ahead”. Headrooms and inclines only had NUMBERS – which were the same in Welsh as everywhere else.

However while Whitehall was happy, at local level the new dual-language signs were producing major headaches. Local signs – most of which had WRITING on them – were the responsibility of local councils. Many of which had no-one working there who knew any Welsh.

Thus they had to fall back on getting translations from local experts on the language – University professors and the like. And so it was with a recent case.

Producing official-looking signs is easier than it appears. All it takes is a sheet of aluminium coated with a white reflective covering, a set of black self-adhesive letters and numbers – and a jig which enables one to place the characters in an evenly spaced straight line.

The final touch is to laminate the sign with a sheet of plastic (in order to stop naughty boys peeling off the letters and rearranging them to spell rude words) and it is ready for putting up.

But it can go horribly wrong. A recent case in point was when Swansea council wanted to erect a sign near an ASDA supermarket which read: “No entry for heavy goods vehicles. Residential site only.” Simple enough – except no-one at the council’s office had enough Welsh to be able to handle the translation.

And so they duly e-mailed the local expert: “Please translate the following into Welsh – No entry for heavy goods vehicles. Residential site only.” And in due course, they got a reply. It read: “Nid wyf yn y swyddfa ar hyn o bryd. Anfonwch unrhyw waith i’w gyfieithu.”

Now what followed was not really Swansea council’s fault – it was down to their translator. He KNEW no-one at the council was fluent in Welsh – if they had been, they would not have required his services. Thus it was HIS fault for not replying in English.

Because after the department of signs had erected the sign, it began to get huge LAUGHS from those members of the public who WERE fluent in Welsh. This was due to the fact that while the upper, English half DID have “No entry to… [etc.]” and the lower, Welsh half had “Nid wyf yn… [etc.]” – only Welsh speakers knew what that lower half actually MEANT.

In English, it translated back as:”I am not in the office at the moment. Send any work to me to be translated.”

Morpheus on… The REAL Unemployment Figures

Whenever the Torybastards claw their way back into power, it is worth while organising a pool for how many days it will take them to start talking about their new plan to screw the PENSIONERS.

Last time, the plan was to means-test them – this time, they want to raise the retirement age. Last time, they were thwarted by the courts.  This time – ?

Of course, any DECENT government would be trying to find a way to LOWER the age of retirement. Thanks to “out-sourcing” and automation, any concept of Full Employment in the UK went the way of the Dodo, some forty years ago.

But what are the REAL figures for unemployment? Well, by definition, they would have to include ALL people who are NOT working – but given half a chance, would LIKE to.

The current unemployment figure is 8%. The worst for three decades. But the current EMPLOYMENT rate is 72%. And of course, 72 plus 8 is 100.

HANG ON!!! No it is not – it’s EIGHTY! What happened to the other 20%? Well, that is what I meant by the TRUE figures.

You see, the 8% are those who REGISTER as unemployed, to get the paltry sum called “Job-seeker’s Allowance” – love that spin – not Unemployment Benefit, but JOB-SEEKER’S ALLOWANCE.

But let us not dwell on semantics. The point is, there are another TWENTY percent of the employable population who are NOT registering. Why?

Well, there are a number of reasons. Let us examine THOSE…

First come the “fringe” people. Those who do “fringe” jobs. Often for Third-World wages. In a First-World country.

Then come those over fifty who, knowing they do not have a rat’s chance in HELL of gaining employment – and knowing they cannot EXIST on “Job-seeker’s Allowance” – have managed to convince their GP they have a long-term disability, in order to qualify for SICKNESS Allowance.

Indeed, there are many GPs (particularly ELDERLY ones) who HELP these people – knowing that by doing so they are, in a way, fulfilling their duty under the Hippocratic Oath (like, their patients would soon become GENUINELY sick if they had to put up with the horrors visited on Britain’s unemployed by HMG).

Which is why the government employs other, DODGY doctors to “test” people on long-term disability, to try to force them OFF the system.

Next come women whose children have now reached the age where they can be trusted not to burn down the house.

Some are blessed with husbands earning a decent wage – and are thus content to continue being “homemakers”. Having no marketable skills, they are happy to cook, clean and garden – ensuring their husband will have a home-cooked meal when he returns to his nice, clean house, with its tidy, manicured garden.

And their husbands are fine with this, realizing that if their wife worked, THEY would have to share 50% of the cooking, cleaning and gardening duties – not a happy prospect.

But what of those women whose husbands do NOT earn a decent wage? Rather than waging a constant battle with an inadequate income, many would be more than happy to return to work – and SCREW the house and garden.

However, when they take into account the expense of a second car, meals out and never-ending takeaways for their kids – not to mention their house and garden will soon look like sh*t – and the fact that employers prefer YOUNG women (they work for less, look more attractive and are still EAGER) – plus their work-skills are fifteen years out of DATE…

Nevertheless, a fair proportion of those women would STILL take a job if it were available, rather than endure perpetual POVERTY – so those women should be added to the list as well. But since their husbands work – which means they would not qualify for benefit – they do not REGISTER.

There have been a number of ”Family Tax/Credit” schemes designed to help working families on low wages – but they have never received enough finance to make them attractive.

Thus most of these women struggle on, doing home piece-work – if they can get it – again, for Third-World wages. But either way, as far as HMG is concerned, they are NOT unemployed.

And finally there are those at the BOTTOM of society. Those with no home, no income and no hope. They are the down-and-outs you pass quickly, as they stick their hands out for alms.

In La Belle France, begging is legally classed as a VOCATION, provided it is non-aggressive. I even heard of an English guy who lives, modestly, on the RIVIERA, thanks to this law and the Single European Act of 1993, which allows Europeans to work anywhere in Europe. Hah!

But in England, beggars are despised – and treated accordingly. And without an address, getting government benefit is DIFFICULT. Which is why, every year, untold numbers of them die of hypothermia.

So there are most of your invisible twenty percent of the unemployed: “fringe” people, “sick” people, women who would work if they COULD – and bums.

Therefore, the TRUE unemployment figure for the UK is TWENTY-EIGHT PERCENT – not EIGHT.

Nearly a THIRD of Britain’s workers – AREN’T. Which means that in every group of three people, two are BEAVERING away to support themselves – and said THIRD. Which is MADNESS, when most of those thirds WANT to work.

What is the solution? Well, it is not easy.

An obvious answer is to cut WORKING HOURS for the first two people – and EMPLOY the third. Except that because of the INSANE cost of company cars (which are often not actually NEEDED for a person’s job – but rather, are used by employers to “hold” their employees) and the similarly insane cost of employee INSURANCE, the only way a company can remain competitive is to employ as FEW people as possible – while encouraging them to work for as LONG as possible.

And the cost of living being what it is – those employees will TOLERATE the long hours, for the extra PAY.

So do not look to employers for an answer. They are trapped by the SYSTEM.

No, the only way to relieve unemployment is for GOVERNMENT to LOWER the age of retirement – which would require the RAISING of taxes to support it, so don’t look for THAT solution coming anytime soon from the TORYBASTARDS!

Cleggy – now’s your chance! GROW A PAIR!!!

Footnote: for another take on this issue, from my evil twin Damien, click on – http://damienatloppers.wordpress.com/2010/05/22/damien-on-how-to-solve-unemployment/

Morpheus on… “The Left-Brained Man”

My name is Cauldwell Hall – and I am a left-brained man. The left hemisphere of the brain controls logical thought, while the right controls the more esoteric.

At school, my lack of artistic skills, coupled with a voracious appetite for calculation, soon lead to my being advised to take up accounting as a career.

This certainly seemed logical – the World will always need number crunchers – so I set my sights in that direction. But I had a year to wait before I could get into Eastcote University, so I elected to go and explore the World, before resigning myself to an academic, then office-bound life.

Thus eventually, at age 28, I found myself working for Spurrier’s, a firm of chartered accountants who were based in a large office block, in a small town called Oakdene.

And work I did. Assumed by my boss, Mr Rathbone, to be a nerd with no private life – it usually fell to me to come in on Saturdays, to round up the week’s inventories. I did not really mind, as he was right – I had no private life. And I could always use the extra money.

One of the small inconsistencies in my life was my love of Heavy Metal music, which I generally had blaring away on my MP3 player – paradoxically, it helped me to concentrate on the boring figures.

Which is why I never heard the fire alarm.

My first indication something was amiss, was the distinctive smell of burning carpet. Walking out into the corridor of the empty building, I returned quickly – having been beaten back by the flames.

I later learned that one of the installers working on the new central heating system had absent-mindedly left a blowlamp on – then gone for lunch with his work-mates.

But at that moment, all I knew was – I was in deep shit. Alone in an office on the seventh floor of a blazing building – and the nearest fire station was ten miles away in Colvestone. I went to the window and looked out. The sixty foot drop yawned at me.

Then I got a break. Just below the window-sill, I noticed three thick, plastic-covered power lines, anchored to the outside wall. They stretched across the road to our parent building where they terminated, just below the parapet of its flat roof.

I looked around the room – then I got a second break. Piled against the opposite wall were several radiators, left there by the installers – and a number of ten-metre lengths of copper pipe.

Sighing – as I knew what I must do to save my life – I walked over, grasped four of the pipes and returned to the window. Propping their ends on the window-sill, I took off my shoes, tied the laces together and slung them around my neck.

Then I heaved myself over and still grasping the sill, tested the strength of the wires by jumping up and down on them. They held.

And so, with my back to the sill for support, I pulled the bunch of pipes out of the window and ran them through my hands. With my hands in the middle of the bunch, I lowered them across in front of myself and steadied my nerves.

Finally, I gingerly placed my right forefoot on the wire in front of my left, putting most of the weight onto it, then swiveled my ankle until my hindfoot – heel – was resting gently on the wire. Then I focussed all of my attention on my objective – the other end of the wire.

Slowly, I steadied the bunch of pipes – then, when I was as ready as I would ever be, I began to move forward. Away from the safety of the window-sill.

Placing one foot carefully in front of the other, I began to pace along the wire. I was aware of a tingling sensation in my feet, which I put down to the current it was carrying. Then I heard the crash of a fender-bender in the street below.

I could also hear the shouts of the watchers under me. When I was about half-way across, I saw Rathbone come bursting out of the rooftop door in front of me. He seemed about to say something then thought better of it – figuring I needed all my concentration on the job in hand.

He was not wrong. While being aware of the melee in the street below – and peripherally, Rathbone – my concentration was fixed on the end of the wire, as I mentally pictured my feet curling around it.

Pace by pace, my goal crawled towards me. Time was suspended. The noise below soon became drowned out by the rushing of blood in my ears.

Pace – pace – pace…

Then suddenly, I was there. Slowly raising the bunch of pipes, I threw them over the parapet and grabbed it for dear life. Rathbone grasped my wrists and pulled me to safety – landing both of us, panting, onto the ground.

“How the hell did you do that?” he exclaimed.

“Buy me a beer and I’ll tell you,” I replied, putting my shoes back on.

          -          -         -          -          -          -          -          -           -          -          -

We made our way down to the ground floor and out through the main entrance, then turned left and headed for the watering hole most of our employees used. Just then, the fire engines began to arrive and I cast a look up to the window I had made my escape from.

A huge bar of fire was shooting out of it.

Once inside the Roundwood Arms, I collapsed into the warmth of one of its leather chairs. After a bit, Rathbone returned with two pints of beer. I downed most of mine in one go.

“Okay,’ said Rathbone, “I’ve heard of people gaining superhuman strength in a pinch, but I’ve never heard of anyone doing what you just did.”

“It came from my gap year,” I said. And then I told him what I had done during it…

Realising I would not need personal transport for a few years, I had sold my old banger to a friend and with the money in my bank and a Visa card in my pocket, had taken off across Europe.

Paris, Berlin, Vienna – I had had a fine time in all of them. But I needed more, so I continued to head east – Eastern Europe had begun to open up to Westerners by then. Eventually, I arrived in a little Românian village called Codlea.

Its backdrop was the Carpathian Mountains – Dracula country, then. But it was a sweet place – and the circus was in town.

Having never actually seen a circus in the flesh, I attended. It was a wonderful experience, but the highlight came at the end. A gorgeous young girl in a satin catsuit came out and climbed up a long ladder - almost disappearing into the gloomy top of the tent. Then a spotlight picked her up and she began to walk back and forth along a tightrope.

She did not appear too confident, wobbling alarmingly as she picked her way along. Then suddenly – disaster! She appeared to slip and as she hurtled down towards the centre of the ring, the audience – including me – screamed.

But then her descent slowed. And slowed. And finally, she came to a graceful halt, just a few inches off the ground. At which point, she twisted, stood up and unclipped a harness she had on underneath her costume. It was attached to a black rope.

The crowd went mental. They had never seen anything like it.

That night, in my small hotel room, I lay awake for hours. I could not get her out of my mind – and not just because of her spectacular trick, either.

The next day, I returned to the circus. They were just finishing bringing down the big top, in preparation for heading to their next engagement. Then I saw her. I ran up to her and began burbling my appreciation of her tightrope skills.

Then I stopped, realising she would not have understood anything I had just said. But I was wrong. In pretty good English, she thanked me for my kudos, told me her name was Helga and invited me to take coffee with her.

It turned out that having toured Europe for years, the whole circus company were fluent in all the Romance languages. We talked for hours. I was fascinated by her. She was about my age, but a generation wiser.

She asked what I was doing so far from home and I explained to her about my gap year – and said I still had about seven months left. Then she asked if I had ever considered a career in the circus.

Well, long story short, I joined the company, sharing Helga’s caravan – and bed.

But the problem was, my left-brained-ness meant that my aptitude for show-biz was limited. I coughed and nearly died when I tried fire-eating. So they began training me on the tightrope. If I had mastered that, I would probably still be there – but while I found doing it with a balancing pole was quite easy, take that away and I was useless.

Eventually, the clowns saved me. They had a routine where they would take a “volunteer” from the audience and totally humiliate him. In street clothes, he would be thrown around and end up soaked and plastered with custard pies.

The guy they had used for the bit had quit a few months before and unable to find another willing victim, they had dropped the routine from their act. Now, they decided to revive it – with me.

And so every night, I was put through the mill by these amiable lunatics. It was okay at first – but eventually, I began to see why the last guy had quit.

But even that was not the limit of my discomfort. In the circus, everyone is expected to muck in. And the less status you have, the muckier the jobs you get given. My status as clown-fodder meant I got the muckiest. Shovelling animal clouts, etc.

As the end of my gap year approached, so did the feeling that despite Helga’s charms, the end of my circus career was approaching too.

Thus, after a tearful goodbye (my tears – Helga was fine) I headed back to a life of academia, followed by a nice safe, warm office – except I had not expected it to get THAT warm.

Rathbone looked at me for a long while. “So you remembered how to tightrope walk,” he said.

“Like riding a bike,” I replied. “It’s easy with a pole.”

© JOHN BELLAMY 2010

Footnote: I do not usually DO fiction (and having read through the above, you can see why) but I had a little bet with myself that I could write a piece, working in EVERY ROAD-NAME where I had lived, during my life (except my current one – which is foreign – and twenty-one letters long).

I won my bet. In chronological order, they are Oakdene Road, Withipol Street, Roundwood Road, Cauldwell Hall Road, Rathbone Place, Colvestone Crescent, Spurriers, Eastcote Grove and Station Road (although granted, Withipol was a STRETCH – with a pole?)

Anyhoo, if you desire to wander through ANOTHER of my fictional ramblings (you must be weak in the head) check out “A Year To Remember”, in my bogroll – sorry, BLOGROLL – at the top right of this column.

Morpheus on… D.J. Searle

…is on my bogroll – sorry, BLOGroll – but I HAD to direct your attention to his latest post. You GOTTA read THIS! Click on http://littlealfie.wordpress.com/2010/05/04/the-sequel/

Morpheus on… The Premier’s Progress

Elsewhere in these ramblings this chronicler has droned on about how for the past forty years, while technology has gone forward in leaps and bounds, our quality of life has gone down the DUMPER. Political correctness, rules, more rules, restrictions, cut-backs, crack-downs, etc.

While science has been busy improving our lives, all measures involving social issues have made our existence more difficult. For every technical step forward, there has been a societal step backwards.

So what can be done? Well, don’t look to The Man At The Top to fix it.

The problem with being a National Leader is that it is far easier to f*** UP a country than it is to UNf*** it. And the reason is “executive power”.

Obviously, it is impossible to protect a country from an imminent THREAT, if its Number One has to push a motion through “due process”. By the time the pen-pushers have authorised your use of the military – the Other Side will already have them confined to barracks.

Thus, when The Monkey said, “Let’s bomb Iraq!” – America got dragged into another Vietnam. But when Barack Obama says, “Let’s have a National Health Service!” – he has to get the initiative past hundreds of hostile Senators and Representatives.

Hell, Obama is a smoker – but when he wants a puff, he has to go out into the GARDEN, like a naughty schoolboy. (If THIS reporter was in his shoes, he would put them up on his desk and light up in the OVAL OFFICE – and if anyone gave him grief, he would remind them that he is The Most Powerful Man On The Planet and if he wants a fag, he will goddamn well HAVE one!)

And it is no better in the U.K. While, unlike in America, the Prime Minister of Britain is at least guaranteed a MAJORITY in the Lower House – he still has to sell the Queen, the Upper House, appease his Back-Benchers (senior MPs who are not so easily bullied by the “Whips”) and convince his (theoretically) non-political Ministers.

And NEITHER Premier can make their desires a reality unless they can ALSO persuade various people at regional and local levels to comply (Governors, Councillors and the like) – particularly out in the sticks.

At least in the realm of Washington and Whitehall, The Elected Supremo can use SOME clout – “When you have ‘em by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow” – but provincial politicians have their own LOCAL agendas and are rarely impressed by the aspirations of their national Lords and Masters.

All of which is why measures that F*** UP our lives are constantly coming down the pike – while measures to IMPROVE them are seemingly IMPOSSIBLE to implement. Discuss…

Morpheus on… “60 Is The New 40″

As a Child Of The Sixties, I keep hearing how “Sixty is the new forty.”

And since, like all other Children Of The Sixties, I am now rapidly sliding from Middle Age into Old Age – the turning point of which IS sixty – I should feel encouraged by this dictum.

However, carrying the logic through means that in another twenty years, the dictum will then be…

“Death is the new sixty.”

Discuss.

Morpheus on… How To Stop Kids Smoking

First, forget about warning them of the HEALTH risks – when people are kids, they think themselves IMMORTAL. No, tell them the TRUTH; they are being RIPPED OFF.

Explain that a packet of fags only costs THIRTY PENCE to manufacture. Then, when they ask how come they cost SIX POUNDS to BUY – tell them THIS.

NOTHING is spent on advertising – fag ads have been illegal in the UK for years now. Thus after allowing for the normal manufacturers’ profit, ditto the retailers’ – plus shipping – a pack of fags OUGHT to cost no more than NINETY PENCE. That’s just FIFTEEN PERCENT of the money they have to part with.

Of the remaining EIGHTY-FIVE PERCENT, some goes to the corporation, who manufacture their products in a way that makes them as ADDICTIVE as possible – while the rest goes straight to the GOVERNMENT.

Point out that at least the greedy corporations are HONEST in their greed. The government on the other hand, are the biggest HYPOCRITES on earth. While bringing in ever more laws to ensure that smokers are the ONE minority who are segregated and abused in a fashion which, if such treatment were visited on any OTHER minority, would have them rioting in the streets – the government appeals to people to QUIT. But if everyone actually DID that, Britain’s fast-dwindling economy would COLLAPSE OVERNIGHT. THAT’S hypocrisy.

Finally, you might mention the fact that while the RIP-OFF might seem a small price to pay NOW, to look COOL – when they become ADULTS (as they surely must) they will find that giving the government HALF their wages (assuming they can FIND a job) in cigarette tax will result in their WHOLE LIVES being financially BLIGHTED. FORGET about holidays – even having KIDS.

And if they come back with, “Oh, I’ll give UP by then,” get them to talk to those who HAVE. Ask how easy it was for THEM – and how much they would give to have a blow RIGHT NOW!

Morpheus on… Eternal Life: Another Wrinkle

For the last decade or so, this writer has penned many pieces (some of them in THESE columns) on the prospect that we might be the FIRST generation for whom the holy grail of eternal life could move from the arena of myth and superstition into the realm of scientific ACTUALITY.

For years, he has theorised, mused and mithered on the political, practical, philosophical, sociological, economical, ecological – even PSYCHOlogical ramifications of the issue.

But of late, another aspect of the subject has impinged upon his conciousness. A JUSTIFICATION for having to endure yet MORE years of living in a World which, thanks to ever more rules, regulations, restrictions and repressions, is becoming increasingly untenable.

And he believes he has found one. Indeed, it is the very CAUSE of our having to consider this problem in the first place – TECHNOLOGY.

The thing is, while over the last three decades, the West has turned the quality of people’s lives into SH*T, technology has been beavering away, trying to develop ways to make our lives EASIER and more INTERESTING.

F’rinstance, a computer with the capabilities of the one which Your Humble Scribe is currently typing these ramblings on, would have cost a FORTUNE thirty years ago – and size-wise, it would have occupied most of this room. While SIXTY years ago, he would not have been permitted to OWN such a device – and if he had, it would have filled a CATHEDRAL.

Such are the benefits of technology. And if we are spared, things can only get better. Who can IMAGINE the toys that will be available in the future? Not sci-fi writers, for sure – they cannot see past the variables. Who could have foreseen integrated circuits, syldenafil citrate or Dolby ProLogic II, before they were announced?

Thus, while the WORLD is going to hell in a handcart, its technology reaches for the stars. And when they finally wheel THIS scribbler out for the last time, he will have seen all he ever WILL of those technological wonders.

Which is a PAIN. Kinda like pegging out half-way through an Agatha Christie book – one would at least like to take a peek at the last page…

Morpheus on… The Rise And Fall Of Japan

This story really begins with the attack on Pearl Harbour (Harbor).

It seems incredible today, that a tiny country like Japan would even CONSIDER taking on the might of Uncle Sam – until you realize in 1941, both the military and population of America were considerably SMALLER than they are today.

Furthermore, most of that population was concentrated near the coasts and while the heartland was large, it was sparsely populated and strategically unimportant.

However,  Japan was more concerned with neutralising the U.S. fleet so that its S.E. Asian campaign could continue, unimpeded by the interfering Americans, than taking over Washington – at least, for that moment.

As a Warrior Society, it had conquered large areas of S.E. Asia – and with its formidable navy, Japan considered itself unstoppable.

Whether Churchill – or even Roosevelt – actually KNEW Pearl was coming, is now a matter of speculation. But what is certain is that no-one foresaw the DESTRUCTION that would be visited on the U.S. fleet that day.

Indeed, if Yamamoto had pressed his advantage, the Battle For The Pacific (oxymoron?) might have ended with a Japanese victory. But Isoroku had caught the Americans with their trousers down – and CLOBBERED them, with little loss to his own forces – and he did not care to push his luck.

This fatal move resulted in America pulling her collective trousers back up and fighting tooth and nail, island by island – at enormous cost, in both men and machines – to drive the Japanese back to their homeland.

And when the cheeky Russians offered TERMS to Japan if she would surrender to THEM, Roosevelt understandably went BALLISTIC – and dropped a few mega-tons of persuasion onto the Japanese population.

But when hostilities ended, America felt guilty for having perpetrated this genocide and so began funding Japan’s industry, in order for her population to rebuild their country. Any industry – provided it was not likely to result in a rebirth of Japan’s military.

Thus Japan began manufacturing EVERYTHING. At first, the products were merely cheap knock-offs of standard American goods. “Made In Japan” was a JOKE in the Fifties.

But by the Seventies, the joke had soured.

The reasons were varied. The Japanese car industry got its boost in England when companies began allowing reps, engineers and the like to choose their company cars from lists. Each employee would be given the choice between a particular “level” of Ford, GM or Toyota.

Now these levels were CRITICAL for these men. Spending eight hours a day in their vehicles gave them a PASSION for the “toys” that came with them. And motorways soon became playgrounds for Ford Cortina GXL-driving reps who would wind their windows down and yell “Wanker!” at reps driving lowly Ford Cortina XLs.

But as Toyota’s workers were paid less than their British counterparts, Toyota could afford to “load” their entry-level model with the same toys Ford and GM’s “L” model had. And their “L” model with the same toys Ford and GM’s “XL” had. And… you get the picture.

Of course, the reps and engineers could hardly admit their choice of the rice-burner was driven by their desire for TOYS – so they claimed their preference favoured the Japanese cars’ RELIABILITY.

But the truth was the Japanese mass-production cars were built to the same quality as the British ones – LOW, where all parts were designed to be BARELY strong enough – but the lie guaranteed that sales rocketed among private buyers as well.

Meanwhile, in The States, the rocketing price of OIL was making Americans think. If they had REALLY thought, they would have realised their gas prices were STILL A FRACTION of those in many other countries – but as usual, they knew nothing of what went on outside America.

All they knew was pump prices were going up – and cars from Japan (where petrol has always cost a FORTUNE) achieved FOUR TIMES the mileage their gas-guzzlers got. And being small, they made better use of cabin space. Plus they had the same toys as American cars (Japan made sure of THAT).

Then there was Japan’s micro-electronics industry. The transistor and its smarter brother, the integrated circuit – or “chip” – were essentially invented and developed in America. But it was the Japanese who developed their use in TVs, radios and “music-centres”. Then in computers, mobile phones, etc., etc.

And once again, what started as a joke quickly became a mega-industry.

Ironically, with their cars and consumer electronics, the Japanese did WAY more damage to America than the entire Japanese fleet could EVER have achieved in ’41. Just ask any old person who has lived their life in Detroit.

By the Eighties, Japan was on a roll. Their big corporations had cleverly taken advantage of the Japanese “tribal culture” – replacing the traditional tribes with corporate ones. Japanese workers took pride in being “A Honda Man” – or Suzuki, Toyota, Nissan, Yamaha, JVC, Mitsubishi, Toshiba, Sony, Panasonic, Technics, etc., etc.

But all good things come to an end.

Slowly, the Japanese workers came to realise the boss who got down and did floor exercises with them every morning was making a sh*tload more money than THEY were. And so they began organising. Unions started. Wages went up. And soon, the Japanese giants began looking elsewhere for cheap labour.

“Outsourcing” is thought of in the West as new – but the Japanese pioneered that science too (did you see what I did there?) First in Hong Kong. Then when THEIR workers got organised – in Taiwan. Then Korea. Finally, they hit the newly opened-up China.

The result of this was for the first time, Japan had less than full employment – something previously unheard of. The Japanese workers were SHATTERED.

And worse was to come. The myth concerning Japanese reliability – always a tenuous one – began falling apart when it became known certain companies (court cases are pending, so I’ll avoid specificity) had sent goods out KNOWING they were defective.

It will be interesting to see how a current American court case plays out – given the kicking America’s industrial base has taken from the company involved.

Morpheus on… The Elixir Of Life

Ever since Man began to think, he’s wondered if there was a way to cheat – or at least delay – DEATH. To radically slow down, arrest or even REVERSE the ageing process.

And thus have evolved myths, superstitions and the books of H. Rider Haggard, featuring Trees, Rivers and Fires Of Life. Countess Bathory had hundreds of virgins killed so she might bathe in their blood (it didn’t work – and they walled her up alive, for her crimes).

But after thousands of years of hocus-pocus, SCIENCE has finally emerged as the medium which threatens to make the dream a reality. Thus WE could be the first generation to actually ACHIEVE what for millennia has only been a FANTASY.

It’s all down to our having “unlocked the human genome”. But therein lies the problem. Thanks to public ignorance (genetics = Frankenstein, Hitler, etc.) an exploitative media and knee-jerk politicians, it may be years or even DECADES before we move FORWARDS from that point.

But even if all of these spoil-sports are bypassed, what are the ramifications of this new tech? Well of course, they are many. And MOST of them have been addressed. Issues like…

(1) Overpopulation and shortages of food and resources. Not necessarily a problem, provided people were prepared to re-think if, when and how many kids they were planning on having. And people would still die from diseases and accidents.

(2) Government interference with the new tech. Unlikely. Governments rarely look beyond the next five years – and during that time, little would actually change. Plus now that we have a Global economy, if one government banned research and use of the tech, it would simply re-locate.

(3) Jobs and pensions. Those WOULD have to change. People would need to have SEVERAL careers during their life-times. And automation would HAVE to be stepped up to a point where survival was no longer dependant on an INCOME.

(4) Given that the “cure” for ageing would probably be a VERY pricey procedure (it’d be unlikely to be a PILL) crimes against the rich would SKY-ROCKET. But then, would rejuvenation clinics accept clients with suitcases filled with blood-spattered cash? I think not.

And (5) Relationships. Would you (or your beloved) want to spend the next CENTURY – or maybe TWO – with the same life-partner? Sorry, this scribbler can NOT answer THAT one!

But one aspect of this issue has NOT been addressed. Would one WANT to live that long?

You may have heard the story of the young man who encounters a very, very old man. “How old ARE you?” “One hundred years old.” “Oh, I’d HATE to live THAT long.” “You wouldn’t say that if you were ninety-nine.” We cling on to life.

But as a fifty-seven-year-old, who’s been everywhere, done everything and has a large collection of tee-shirts, this scribe has, statistically, about twenty-four years left In This Place – and that’s PLENTY.

Oh sure, if they came up with a tech that’d make this writer LOOK like a twenty-five-year-old, they’d have his full attention. “You know you’re looking old and tired – And have lived too many years – When hair stops growing on your head – And starts sprouting out your ears.” But he wouldn’t want to BE one.

You can’t go BACK. Everyone knows that. And there are limits to how LONG one wants to go FORWARD. So, listen Pfiser, Glaxo, et al, forget about giving me another century or two. Just fix it so that when I DO check out – I look like Daniel Craig.

Update: I understand my Zen brother also has thoughts on this issue – which can be found by clicking: http://corneliusatloppers.wordpress.com/2010/02/10/cornelius-on-i-wanna-live-forever/

Morpheus on… How Jay Leno’s Second Term On “The Tonight Show” OUGHT To Begin

Pre-title sequence:

Opens with slow panning shot of Jay’s dressing-room, showing “The Jay Leno Show” artifacts - Jay is stepping into shower.

Cut to close-up of Jay showering – cut to floor of shower – a bar of soap is by Jay’s feet – he steps on the soap – cut back to close up – Jay disappears with a cry [insert foley: suggest several melons dropped into a bath, filled with two inches of water] – cut to close-up of Jay lying on floor, eyes closed.

Picture swirls – insert pre-edited montage: beginning with Jay lying in front of kids on last “The Tonight Show”, continuing with highlights from the seven months of “The Jay Leno Show” – sound of knocking on door – swirling image fades – Jay wakes up and shakes head.

Jay: “Wh-at?”

Muffled page’s voice: “Ten minutes, Mr Leno.”

Jay grabs a bath-robe, puts it on and staggers to door – opens door – page is standing there.

Jay: “To what – The Jay Leno Show?”

Page: “Well – we call it The Tonight Show – but whatever you say, Mr Leno.”

Page turns and leaves – Jay closes door and looks around him – the dressing room is now filled with “The Tonight Show” artifacts – Jay goes to closet and opens it [closet is filled with suit, shirt, tie and shoe sets - joined together like overalls] – Jay selects a set, climbs into it and zips the front up in one sweeping movement – cut to close-up and zoom back to show Jay in normal stage suit – another knock on door – Jay opens it.

Another Page: “Five minutes, Mr Leno.”

Jay nods – the page leaves – Jay turns and looks into dressing room once more – shakes head and makes for studio – run opening credits…

 

Hey listen – it worked for Bobby Ewing (but if they USE it, I want a writers credit!)

Morpheus on… The Age Of Majority

There’s an old joke that goes something like, “People say that at 55, I’m middle-aged. Rubbish! How many people do YOU know who are 110?”

But of course, there’s an ANSWER to that. There are three ages of ADULTHOOD – preceded by one of childhood.

And they are: 0-19… Childhood. 20-39…Young Adulthood. 40-59… Middle Age. And 60-79… Old Age. You can add 80 and up… FREAKISH Old Age – since the natural age to fall off the twig is 79 (okay, 82 if you’re a lady).

Which brings me to my point: what berk came up with 21 as being the age of majority? Alright, it’s now mainly been supplanted by 18 (except for booze in America) but still.

I mean, the two-hundred-plus countries on our planet have various ages of majority: most go with 18, others vary from 9 to 19, a handful (including my adopted country – Thailand) have 20 and a dozen or so still use 21. But surely, the ONLY age should be 20. It’s a round figure, it’s logical, it feels right (you’re no longer a teenager) and it fits right in with the third paragraph of this piece.

Now don’t get me wrong – I’m not proposing you can’t drink, smoke, make love, drive a car or take out a library book before that age. I’m just saying, if you want a legal age at which you become an adult, it should be 20.

Where did 21 come from? What prune thought THAT up? For decades, in The Land Of My Birth, England, this silly age of majority RULED. In fact, in that country, old-timers accused of some minor impropriety can STILL be heard to say, “So what? I’m over twenty-one.”

I don’t have an ending for this bit. Try as I might (and I HAVE – all across the Interweb) I cannot find ANY reason for this magic figure of 21 having been chosen as the age at which it was thought one became a major. Anyone???

Morpheus on… The Death Of Two Legends

As one of Britain’s two favourite comedians, during the period from the late Fifties to the early Eighties, Eric Morecombe rarely “died” on stage – in the parlance of those in The Business. But after years of trouble with a dicky heart, he almost did literally.

The occasion was the 28th of May, 1984. On this occasion, he was without his small friend (there’s no answer to that) appearing in a special show organised by Stan Stennet. At the end, he just WENT for it – improvising bits with the orchestra.

Finally, to thunderous applause, he walked off into the wings – collapsed and died.

This event occurred only 44 days after Britain’s other favourite comedian – Tommy Cooper – had died ON stage – in front of a TV audience of millions.

The occasion was a live, primetime TV broadcast from Her Majesty’s Theatre, London. For those who are young, Tommy was a be-fezzed, 76″ lumbering giant with an insane cackling laugh, who peppered a “magic act” – with some of the worst jokes ever written.

A member of the prestigious Magic Circle, he would always do ONE trick that worked – just to keep the audience on its toes – but the rest of his act was a train wreck. Nevertheless, it was LAUGHS that Tommy sought – and they were the last thing he would ever hear.

Tommy had a reputation for being mean – but this writer still believes the reason Tommy pressed a TEA-BAG into the hands of those who opened doors for him – with the words, “‘Ere you are – ‘ave a drink on me” – was for the LAUGHS.

Unlike many comics, Tommy was a riot OFF stage as well as on. And anyone with sense FRAMED those tea-bags – rather like the cheques written by Picasso, on the plain back of which he would draw a small picture – usually a bird – and then sign it. Few of the cheques were ever cashed.

Anyhoo, on that fateful night, Tommy strode onstage and began a bit where he would have produced large objects from a cape, fed to him from behind a large, thus heavy curtain.

A gorgeous showgirl walked on and gave him something (I don’t recall what – although I had the VCR running, I erased the tape as, knowing what had ACTUALLY happened, it creeped me out to watch it) and Tommy swayed – leaned against the heavy curtain and slid slowly down to a seated position.

Then the curtain was lifted and he was slowly dragged behind it. The last thing the audience saw of him was the soles of his enormous shoes. They laughed hysterically, thinking it was part of the act. After which, in the spirit of Showbiz, the show seamlessly continued. Only at its END, was his death announced.

Thus the very last thing Tommy heard…

And an era was over. These two men had dominated British comedy for twenty-five years. They were giants (in Tommy’s case, literally. Although Eric was actually quite short – he was only known as “The Tall One” because Ernie was TINY).

After their demise, the face of British comedy would change forever. A whole new legion of comedians would emerge from the Comedy clubs – Stephen Fry, Hugh Lawrie, Dawn French, Jennifer Saunders, Harry Enfield, Rik Mayall, Ade Edmondson, Ben Elton, Julian Clary, Harry Hill, Paul Whitehouse, Charlie Higson and Rowan Atkinson, to name but thirteen.

And now, even THEY are classed as “veterans” by the latest wave of comedians. (SH*T! I’m getting OLD). If you want to see Eric and Tommy at work, check out “My YouTube” in the bogroll at the top right of this column. Their like will not be seen again.

Morpheus on… National Health

America’s recent hysterical ranting AGAINST “socialised medicine” has bemused us Brits. Even words like “Nazi” have been bandied around. WHY? Let us examine the issue in depth.

The British have always been HORRIFIED by the system the USA traditionally uses to care for its citizens’ health – and with good reason. It is based on THE ABILITY TO PAY – not NEED.

This IMMORAL concept means that people’s health needs are determined by businessmen – whose number one concern is PROFIT for their company.

The Americans who object to socialised medicine claim they don’t want a BUREAUCRAT between them and their doctor – so they would rather have a profit-obsessed BUSINESSMAN instead? MADNESS!

At the end of the day, health-care has to be PAID for. And there are really only three alternatives. You pay for it directly. You pay a company, monthly. Or you pay for it with tax. That’s IT.

But the care you will receive with these three systems will vary RADICALLY. Let us look at the pros and cons of each – starting with…

Direct payment. On the face of it, this is the FAIREST system – you get exactly what you pay for. However, if your body decides to give you trouble, you can soon go BANKRUPT. Also, the system favours the RICH – since only they will be able to afford the more expensive medicines, treatments and procedures.

Payment to a company. This is the system most Americans are on. It enables them not only to SPREAD the cost of their health treatments – but enables poor people who require very EXPENSIVE treatments to get them. So great, then – RIGHT?

Not when you examine the pitfalls. First, most people’s health plan is tied to their employment. Big corporations get preferential rates (for bulk sales) and this enables them to add yet another method of controlling their employees to their list. A list that includes expense accounts, dental plans, company cars and private pensions. It’s like the “tied cottage” of old – quit your job and you lose EVERYTHING.

Health-care has NOTHING to do with employers – bring THEM into the loop and you KNOW you’re going to get SCREWED.

And what happens when you retire? Your last few years In This Place are statistically the most expensive, health-care-wise. Will you still be covered?

Then there’s the health-care company itself. It is a big CORPORATION – whose sworn duty is to DISALLOW as many claims as POSSIBLE. And they have many ways of doing this. Just read the small print – Experimental Procedures, Pre-Existing Conditions, etc.

Finally, what about those who work for small companies who cannot AFFORD health-care payments (having small numbers of employees, they don’t get the preferential rates) and worse still – the UNemployed (currently at least 10% of all Americans)?

Which brings us to – tax. The number one responsibility of any government of a civilised society (after GENUINE defence) is the collecting of taxes and the fair distribution of same, for “public services”.

These can be anything. In a decent society, they will at least include the things that people cannot pay for as they use them – education, health, sewage and street-lighting being obvious examples.

Whilst in a Communist state, they can include virtually EVERYTHING – from transport to housing.

But the more choice you remove from the people, the more TOTALITARIAN your government becomes. Plus your income tax will be ASTRONOMICAL – again, you get what you pay for.

However, health-care should ALWAYS be paid for by the GOVERNMENT and be available to ALL of its citizens (rich people can still pay for superior health-care if they choose).

There follows a couple of examples of why ONLY socialised medicine WORKS…

One: once upon a time, there were two men who both needed an expensive operation to save their LIVES. One was a poor but hard-working 37-year-old man. His health was good. He had a wife and two children – and ran a small business, employing one hundred people.

The other man was 74 years old. Rich, single and retired. His health had been battered by years of over-indulgence. His organs were shot and he would be lucky to see 77.

Under a commercial system, who would get the life-saving treatment? But under a state-run system…

Two: once upon a time, there was another poor, hard-working man. He too had a wife and two children – and worked as a locksmith. One day, the sight in his left eye disappeared. His doctor sent him to a specialist who told him there was a new experimental procedure which MIGHT save the eye.

It would entail micro-surgery and require several weeks in a hospital bed. The specialist mentioned it was a very EXPENSIVE operation – but only in passing, as they lived in a country with socialised medicine, thus the treatment would be free.

The man had the operation. His sight returned – but after two weeks, it disappeared again.

The specialist examined him and declared a SECOND operation still had a fair chance of success. The man had it – with the same result.

This time, the specialist declared that a third attempt had LITTLE chance of success. The man thanked him for trying and lived the rest of his life with – thankfully – ONE good eye.

And this story is TRUE – the man was my father.

But suppose he had lived in America? The treatment was experimental, so his insurance would not have covered it. And he could NEVER have afforded to pay for it. Imagine going through life WONDERING…

Or suppose he could JUST have afforded the FIRST treatment – by undergoing HARDSHIP? Or likewise, the second?

Of course, socialised medicine has its limitations. It can only be as good as the level of funding it receives. In Britain, the National Health Service began in 1947. But in those days, medical costs were LOW. The equipment now routinely used in the likes of “House” and “E.R.” was then the stuff of science fiction. Plus labour costs were much lower, too. And pills and potions.

If your organs failed, you were allowed to simply pass on. But now, using that battery of expensive machines, a CARROT can be kept alive for a hundred and fifty years.

Thus, COMMON-SENSE has to be used. Sure, we can perform medical miracles with EVERY citizen. But can we AFFORD to? No. Therefore, we MUST rely on bureaucrats to allocate resources FAIRLY. At least it’s better than leaving it up to some MONEY-GRUBBING CORPORATE EMPTY SUIT.

Americans, take note.

Morpheus on… Trance: The Pop Music Of The ’90s – The Naustalgia Of The ’10s

Pop music has always gone in cycles. Someone comes up with a New Sound – others jump onto the band-waggon – the new sound evolves – peaks – then goes into decline, with re-hashes. The process takes about ten years. It started in 1920 and ended in 1990.

Well – not quite. When the CD killed Pop (Pop was always SINGLE-based) a void was left. And it was filled by TRANCE.

Trance had started as “Ambient” – or “Chill-out” – music, in the early Nineties, for ravers and clubbers to “come down” to. But by the late Nineties, it had become ramped up into a musical dance form itself.

Pop and Dance had been going, side-by-side, from the beginning. Essentially, Pop was music for listening to – but it had a strong enough beat to dance to – while Dance was music for dancing to – but you could also listen to it. The main criterion was whether or not it had LYRICS. Which Trance mostly DID have – as opposed to its Dance-only brother – House.

And whilst Trance started as a specialist genre, commercial interests soon picked it up and stuck it on compilation CDs, for the mass-market. But that was over a decade ago. Like all Pop cycles, it had a limited life-span, going into re-hashes (chill-out mixes of the Anthems) and then petering out.

But SOON, it will enter the LAST phase ALL Pop goes through – the Naustalgia phase. You see, Pop is part of the culture of the YOUNG – these days, the 12-25-year-olds – but eventually the young grow UP and get married, have kids and settle down.

Then one day, they suddenly realise they are in their thirties and are no LONGER young. Thus they begin to yearn for the days – FIFTEEN YEARS AGO – when they WERE young. And the record companies KNOW that – it is one of the RULES – so they continually dust off EVERYTHING they own that is fifteen years old and RE-ISSUE it.

So given that the early Trance is about to hit that fifteen year mark – watch out for “The Greatest Trance Anthems Of All Time” – volumes 1,2,3,4, – until they RUN OUT of material. It’ll happen, trust me.

Or if you cannot wait – check out MY YouTube Trance channel. It is Number Five on my bogroll. Or just click on – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g0AK7DaqOfo - for a sample. And do not forget to select HQ and fullscreen (the icon to the right of HQ – at the bottom left of the little screen) for the FULL experience. Enjoy!

Oh, and for more on this subject from my evil twin, hit: http://damienatloppers.wordpress.com/2009/12/16/damien-on-trance-mix-cds/

Morpheus on… Opticians

I have 20-10 vision. So that’s only half as good as 20-20, right? WRONG! 20-20 is what opticians try and PALM YOU OFF with, before guiding you to their most expensive “designer” frames – the ones that cost them TWICE as much as their “budget” frames – nearly $20 – for which you’ll pay $200.

20-20 means you can see letters 20 millimeters high at 20 metres distant. They are usually two lines up from the bottom of the eye-chart and the optician will invariably have underlined them in red. With 20-10, the letters are only TEN millimeters high and they’ll usually be the BOTTOM line. But when you complain that you can’t read THAT one, the optician will say, “Oh, NO-ONE can manage THAT one.” He LIES. I CAN. So can MOST people - if they have the correct prescription.

Of course, the eye-chart won’t BE 20 metres away. At most it’ll be 5, reflected through a mirror to double the distance – the actual chart being half the correct size. And even if you CAN read the bottom line, don’t imagine you’ll automatically end up with 20-10 vision. You see, 10 metres is NOT infinity.

Then there’s astigmatism. No-one KNOWS how many people have this condition – because few opticians bother to test for it. I didn’t discover I had it for FIFTEEN YEARS. Astigmatism is where you see stronger in one plane than another. It produces a fuzzy area on that chart that looks like a sunrise. A semi-circle of lines – rather like half a bicycle wheel. The condition is easily corrected by a standard lens.

So what can you DO? Okay, one: ask to see the optician’s “budget” frames. If he demurs, remind him that opticians are ten-a-penny. And two: get him to test you for astigmatism – ask for it by name and accept nothing less than the “sunrise” chart and make sure you can see ALL the lines sharply. Finally, three: once you have his lens gadget on and can see the sunrise AND that bottom line clearly with BOTH eyes – take it out into the shop and covering each eye one at a time, ensure that you can read the small print on signs across the STREET.

Don’t be afraid to be a damn NUISANCE. Doing an eye-test is EASY and frames and lenses are CHEAP. In short, the job of optician is money – LOTS of it – for old rope. Which is why there are so MANY of them. You are STUCK with your eye-sight, every second of every day. Make the MOST of it.

One last thing: if your optician tells you to give a less-than-perfect prescription TIME - that your eyes will get USED to it – grasp him firmly by his dangly bits and ask him if it hurts. When he wheezes “Yes”, tell HIM to give it time, he’ll get used to it…

Morpheus on… “Channel Advisor”

I have just ordered a DVD from Ebay. It’s “The Private Life Of Sherlock Holmes” – the American version.

It may be in that country’s 525-line NTSC (Never Twice The Same Colour) standard at 60 Hertz, instead of the European (and Thai, where I now live) 625-line PAL standard at 50 Hertz – but my equipment can handle it and ONLY the U.S. version has the BONUS FEATURES – including some of the legendary “lost footage” – but that’s another – and probably far more interesting but never mind – story.

And it took me THREE WEEKS. Huh? Well, I have ordered a number of similar items from Ebay during the last year – most from U.S. traders – and had no problems at all. Until three weeks ago.

It TOOK me that time to unravel the mess created by a ROGUE COMPANY. I’ll spare you the tortuous route I followed to obtain the following information, suffice to say that my mistake was to click on “buy it now”.

You see, the traders I tried to purchase this epic from – ALL claimed to SHIP TO THAILAND.

But when I clicked on “buy it now”, I was DIVERTED to a service called “Channel Advisor” (THEIR misspelling). And when I filled out THEIR form, where it came to my address, I scrolled down the list of countries – to find Thailand was MISSING. Again – huh? Yes. So I put “THAILAND (IGNORE the following…)” and hit Hong Kong.

The next day, I received an e-mail (which turned out to be a “standard” one).

It purported to have come from the U.S. trader and said that “under their stated terms”, they could not ship to Thailand. Yet again – huh? Well of course, that was just plain WRONG. But then I noticed it hadn’t actually originated from the TRADER – it had come from CHANNEL ADVISOR. Damn CHEEK – and as it later turned out, MISREPRESENTATIONAL.

I then tried another trader and since it was attached to the first, had a similar experience. Then I tried a third, but they CANCELLED my order – because they were out of stock. Finally, I found a FOURTH trader who connected me DIRECT to “PayPal” – who took my order, no problema.

But then, my curiosity piqued, I journeyed BACK to the two original traders and looked closer. And what I discovered was interesting. If I had scrolled WAY DOWN their sites, I would have found THEIR OWN “shipping” sections – which DID include Thailand. Hah! (Well, it’s different from huh).

So what have we learned? Well, if you are in a foreign country and you purchase something from Ebay – do NOT press “buy it now”. Instead, scroll DOWN the listing until you find the trader’s OWN shipping details – then go from THERE.

Provided you use PayPal for the transaction (any LEGITIMATE trader will accept them and PayPal will COVER you – at least for the price of the goods) you’re PROTECTED from dubiosity (I bet the Spellchecker’ll love THAT one!)

But speaking of dubiosity (it SHOULD be a word) does give one pause to wonder about the role of Ebay in all this. They claim that Channel Advisor is a “third party” outfit. I.e., not attached to Ebay or the trader – thus Ebay has no control over them. But they damn well SHOULD have.

I mean, here are traders with the capability to send goods ANYWHERE in the World and their customers are being SNATCHED by Channel Advisor – who doubtless CHARGE for their “service” and – apparently without the knowledge of said traders – CANCEL any orders which THEY, Channel Advisor, are INCAPABLE of shipping to.

Thus Ebay needs to get RID of Channel Advisor, post-haste. They are RUINING their business, pissing off their customers and wrecking the relationships between said customers and the traders.

And one other thing. Whilst Channel Advisor eventually refunded my money – as did the company who were out of stock – the money from a refund turns out to take a LOT longer to RETURN to your “Cyber-account” than it did to LEAVE it. This meant I had to BOOST the funds in said account to PAY the fourth trader.

Cyber-banking and online purchasing work fine when the systems do. But if a system falls over – like when a company cannot fulfill an order, because it ran out of stock (even though it was still ADVERTISING the item) – or was using a DODGY company like Channel Advisor – everything turns to sh*t!

Altogether, the farce created by Channel Advisor has caused me no END of aggro. Umpteen e-mails – and problems with my BANK. I only hope this piece gives others forewarning of the potential perils of Interweb shopping – particularly when it involves CHANNEL ADVISOR.

They are not CROOKS – just OPPORTUNISTIC INCOMPETENTS.

Oh, and talking of incompetents – FORGET about AMAZON if you live OUTSIDE of The West. They are a TOTAL waste of time. Stick to Ebay – unlike crappy Amazon, most of their traders will ship ANYWHERE and they have much the same stuff that Amazon has. And NEW – not just used.

Forewarned is forearmed!

[Update: Using ONLY Ebay and PayPal (once I had paid more money into my Cyber-account to replace that being held, thanks to Channel Advisor and the company advertising something they had run out of) I finally RECEIVED the U.S. DVD of "The Private Life Of Sherlock Holmes" - it was WORTH the aggro.]

Morpheus on… The Great Post Office Conspiracy

This author has discovered a conspiracy. It’s the damn Post Office. ALL of the Post Offices of the World. For decades, they’ve moaned about the minuscule prices they’re allowed to charge for standard letters. And now they’re DOING something about it.

They simply DUMP up to 50% of letters – and no-one knows where.

Which forces those who want their carefully wrapped and addressed letters and packets to ARRIVE - to send them REGISTERED. Or EMS-ed. Or any one of umpteen other services that are TRACKED – and cost a FORTUNE. This scribbler long ago got fed up and reluctantly succumbed to this blackmail – and out of several HUNDRED items sent and received this way, has never lost ONE.

But what of all the stuff that he is sent UN-registered? He never SEES half of it. And the tracking system doesn’t even WORK (ever tried to trace an item on the Interweb?) All registering does is get the Post Office to DO THEIR DAMN JOB.

Morpheus on… Grandpa’s Grave

I recall the time when me and m’Dad went to check out Grandpa’s final resting place. We wended our way across the graveyard to the site. Finally we arrived and discovered that time had had its effects. The headstone looked like the Leaning Tower Of Pisa and the surround was covered in weeds.

And so we went home to gather the means required to give the old boy’s last domicile a makeover. We assembled some ready-mix cement, a trowel and other items and since they were heavy, placed them in an old sack. We also selected a spade, which would be necessary to straighten the headstone – but it was too big to go in the sack.

Then we returned to the cemetery and I parked up in the car-park. As we walked across to the graveyard, I noticed we were getting some strange looks from the people there. Slowly the reason why began to dawn on me. WE knew that we were there to perform a mundane task – but from the bystanders point of view, we were just two men going into a graveyard. One with a sack. The other with a spade.

Two words immediately sprang to mind. Burke and Hare…

For more, check out http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mFN8Wj37WYI

Morpheus on… Hollywood Credits

Huh?

I mean the lists of cast, crew and other details that precede and/or follow Hollywood’s TV and film productions. Thing is, in the Good Old Days, these told you who’d done what, where and occasionally, how.

But now, the whole exercise has been ruined by HOLLYWOOD POLITICS.

F’rinstance, TV. Nowadays, you get the stars’ names first. But unless they put ‘em BESIDE clips of the actors doing their stuff, you have NO idea who’s who. Then come the “guest stars”. AGAIN, you have no idea who was who, since most of THOSE people are merely FEATURED PLAYERS – only in their MINDS are they “stars”. In fact the irony is, only those who are spear-carriers actually get their name listed against the character they played in the show.

And to add insult to injury, those who ARE actually stars are listed in the titles like (example) “Hugh Jarce as ‘Butch McMuscles’”. SHIT! We KNOW who THEY are! (Of course, the inference is that the actor is doing a CAMEO – not SOILING themselves with a bit-part – and that some people will only be watching the show for a chance to SEE The Great Man/Woman).

Plus, all writers are now called “PRODUCERS”. Again, in The Good Old Days, you only had – or needed – ONE producer. Now you get a producer, another producer, two more producers, an executive producer, various co-executive producers, a supervising producer, a consulting producer, a line producer, a series producer and then an “executive in charge of production” – which is ANOTHER bloody producer! AAR-GH!!!

Then movies. In (yet again) The Good Old Days, only the thirty or so people who actually had CREATIVE INPUT in a movie were (quickly) listed. But now, thanks to presumably Union Requirements, EVERYBODY associated gets a name-check. Thus everyone from the unit caterer’s dish-washer to the honey-wagon driver gets a mention. About a THOUSAND people in all.

And since audiences don’t CARE to sit through SEVEN MINUTES of white print on a black background, as soon as the credits roll, they EXIT the theatre like it was on FIRE - stumbling over the die-hard film-fans like this writer who want to KNOW stuff, like where it was filmed and info about the music – which is ALWAYS at the END. AFTER the thousand people who were just doing a job of WORK – and have NO more right to a credit than the guy who bakes the bread you buy at the market.

Imagine buying a bottle of milk and finding credits on the bottle listing the milker, the delivery driver, the milking-machine manufacturer, the COW…

Even TITLES are now put BETWEEN the FILM and the CREDITS (which makes NO continuity sense) to satisfy those who just want to SEE the thing and don’t CARE who made it. But I DO! These people put their SOULS into the thing for p’raps upwards of a YEAR. And if a newcomer impressed, I need their name, so’s I can look out for it in something ELSE.

Then there are cartoons. Now this writer is a little long in the tooth for such stuff, but pities today’s YOUNG. (One MORE time) In The Good Old Days, actors who lent their voices to cartoons were ANONYMOUS to kids – listed as “with the talents of…” for the benefit of the Mums and Dads.

But now, those who do cartoon voice-overs are listed AS ITS STARS – thus DESTROYING the illusion for the kids. I mean, even KIDS know that what they’re watching is drawn on paper (or nowadays, more often crafted on a computer) but still do what we ALL do when watching a movie – suspend disbelief and imagine they’re watching real events.

Which is not EASY when you’ve been told a bunch of people you are FAMILIAR with are doing this character and that character. You spend the whole movie picturing the VOICE-OVER ARTISTS instead of the CHARACTERS they’re playing. Disney would TURN IN HIS GRAVE!

The thing is, all of the above annoyances have come about because of Hollywood’s OBSESSION with giving EVERYBODY who works there a CREDIT – which mostly only means ANYTHING to those in the INDUSTRY – while leaving their CUSTOMERS (the audience) GUESSING about who did what.

But what they fail to realize, is that by doing this, they KILL fandom. (One last time) In The Good Old Days, there were magazines DEVOTED to Hollywood. Everyone KNEW its stars. And the reason was – ONLY stars were featured in the titles and credits. And Hollywood made damn sure you KNEW who played who.

And by poncing around they way they currently are, they are KILLING the popularity of all but their biggest stars.

One last thing – given all of the above, isn’t it ABSURD how “talent” shows do the very OPPOSITE, when their wanabees shuffle on stage and mumble, “I’m gonna sing – (title of song) – BY – (artist who made it famous)”.

WHAT?? It should be (title of song) – by – (COMPOSER)!! How come THEY don’t sue? I would. Apparently composers’ unions aren’t as powerful as Hollywood’s.

Morpheus on… The Purpose Of Life

Elsewhere in these chronicles, I tackled “The Meaning Of Life”. I now propose to take a run at its PURPOSE.

“The Purpose Of Life”. There isn’t one. I thank you.

Oh, you want more. All right then. Well, in the Third World, the purpose of life is merely SURVIVAL. But if you live in the DEVELOPED World (and since you are reading these ramblings on a COMPUTER, we’ll take that as read) you should be lucky enough not to have to WORRY about THAT.

Which means you may feel there ought to be SOME justification for your EXISTENCE. Well, there ISN’T – so DEAL with it. You merely ARE. That’s IT.

But don’t feel too bad - it took me about half a century to work that out. Some clever buggers realise it sooner – while others never DO.

As we traverse this Vale Of Tears, if we are paying attention, we pick stuff up. This knowledge serves to enlighten us regarding the way the World and its occupants WORK. Which is essential, as we are only born with our INSTINCTS – and jumping on a woman in the supermarket is frowned on.

And so, armed with experience and understanding, our journey SHOULD be bearable. But what happens when we DIE? Answer – we take ALL that knowledge WITH us. Unless of course, we pass it on. Which is the purpose of fireside chats, self-help books – and scribblings like this article.

But of course, if we were “hard-wired” with all the knowledge, experience and understanding gained in a lifetime, life would be POINTLESS. It’s MAKING all those stupid mistakes and how we DEAL with the consequences of them that makes life interesting. So, is the gaining of knowledge, experience and understanding the purpose of life?

No. It’s just part of the appeal.

Then there’s the experience itself. The World’s a varied place – filled to the brim with fascinating stuff that is yours for the taking. From “Star Trek” to Shakespeare – there are great writings. From Sinatra to Trance – there are great sounds. From bungee-jumping to scuba-diving – there are great activities. From fish and chips to fois gras – there are great tastes. And from the Grand Canyon to the Trossachs – there are great places. But that isn’t it either.

Experience, like Fame, Wealth, Power and Achievement is merely ANOTHER part of what makes life interesting. But even Love, which is of FAR greater importance than The Five Imposters (I tackled those elsewhere) is not the PURPOSE of life.

Of course, many say that the purpose of life is to help others. Well, it’s certainly a better way to live than crapping all over everyone, but even THAT’S not the purpose.

How about changing the WORLD for the betterment of its occupants ? Now THERE’S a worthy purpose, right? Yeah, if you can manage it. Trouble is, even (hallelujah) Obama will have his work cut out with THAT one.

No, while any or ALL of the above may give YOU a purpose, none of it is carved in stone. What you do with your life is up to YOU. You get one shot and then you become dust. Get swallowed up into the Continuum.

You can choose to make the most of your life - or waste it. You can absorb the World and its occupants – or ignore it and them.  You can try to repair the World and its occupants – or just exploit it and them. But ultimately, unless you build a bomb big enough to DESTROY it and them – it and they will still be here long after you’re gone.

And the only trace of your having been here, will be the memories left with those who knew you – until they too become dust.

Then again, if you make a movie, a record or write something – even for worthy WordPress – you’ll leave SOMETHING. So THAT’S the purpose of life? To make your mark. Right? NO!

Weren’t you LISTENING? I TOLD you at the TOP of this piece – there IS NO purpose of life!!!

Morpheus on… The Meaning Of Life

So what IS the meaning of life? Someone once theorised it’s rather like the question, “When one sails off and falls off the edge of the World…where does one LAND?” A stupid question NOW, but a thousand years ago…

The thing is, any question is inevitably tied to its answer. I mean, if you ask Paris Hilton what colour a red bus is, you don’t expect her to say “Thursday”. Okay, bad example. But MOST people would answer with a COLOUR.

M’point is, we only know the falling off the edge of the World question IS stupid because we know the ANSWER. But back before Copernicus, the poser was reasonable and if you’d given the answer – no-one would have UNDERSTOOD it.

So relating that to the meaning of life, the theory goes that if there WAS an answer – we would be unable to UNDERSTAND it.

Elsewhere in these ramblings, I’ll tackle the PURPOSE of life, but I’m tired now.

Morpheus on… Democracy

When Westerners speak of Democracy, they do so in reverential terms. But what’s so GREAT about it? One man (or woman) one vote. But usually, that one vote is good for one of only TWO people or parties. The lesser of two weevils.

And it can go horribly wrong. Back in 2000, Ralph Nader ran for the U.S. Presidency as an independent. Now it was HIS democratic right to do so, even though he MUST have known he didn’t have a hope in hell and it would likely take votes from Al Gore – votes which turned out to be CRITICAL.

How ironic that those few votes resulted in eight years of The Monkey. Ironic, because as a campaigner for peoples’ safety, it is a reasonable assumption that Nader would have been FOR the Kyoto agreement – which, unlike George Wan…sorry, WaLker Bush, Gore would DEFINITELY have signed.

Anyhay, Democracy. The thing is, once a person or party is in – even if only a minority of the population actually VOTED for them – they pretty much have carte blanche. The only TRUE system of Democracy would be something like that portrayed in the movie “The Rise And Rise Of Michael Rimmer” – which was a comedy, but did include the inspiration for the following…

Every month, people would write in with propositions. Then, in an office somewhere, a group of civil servants would sift through the letters, converting them into bill concepts. Then, the top ten would be voted on by the population, in the form of a referendum. And whatever the people decided, the government would implement. Simple.

The propositions left over would carry over to the next month and join new bill concepts and again the top ten would… And so on.

There’s just one problem. By the end of the year, you’d have the death penalty re-instated for people whose car alarms go off all night - in fact, a system of justice that would drag society back to the Middle Ages.

And what about the REAL business of government? I once ran an M.P. to The House in my then role as a taxi-driver. After he’d gone, I discovered he’d left his briefcase on the back seat. Knowing how government likes to “leak” ideas they need FEEDBACK on (if it’s SERIOUSLY negative, they have deniability) I eagerly checked out the contents.

Farming quotas.

Most government business is BORING. And highly TECHNICAL. How many people know whether Britain should sell weapons to Mgaliland? How many have HEARD of Mgaliland? If YOU have, you’re a LIAR – I just made it up.

M’point is, the business of government is for SPECIALISTS. For the besuited tosspots who at least know something ABOUT it. And the idea that the oiks who slavishly put their little Xs in those little boxes every few years have ANY REAL CONTROL over these smugbastards is a complete FALLACY.

Of course, it’s still better than a dictatorship – at least you can CHANGE the dictator periodically…

Morpheus on… Offensive Humour

Is it POSSIBLE to tell a joke without pissing SOMEONE off? Well, yes – but only if you use ABSTRACT humour. F’rinstance, the great surreal comic, Steven Wright paints pictures of absurdity in our minds that depict events that could never happen to anybody (for an example of what I’m talking about, click on http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F5ErMolRE8M&feature=channel – but not YET – I’m TALKING!)

But while Mr Wright’s humour is GENIUS, it is just ONE kind of humour – and it’d be a pretty poor pass if it was the ONLY one. We need diversity. At its best, humour explores the human experience, the human condition and addresses our fears.

But while the nature of what is funny has perplexed people since the days of court jesters, nowadays we have an ADDITIONAL wrinkle to worry about – bloody POLITICAL CORRECTNESS.

Now this writer would be the last to sanction humour that would attack people’s race, colour, age, sex or sexual preferences. That’s just cruel. But we are all different and that difference is something to be CELEBRATED – and humour can be a way to DO that.

But any humour that deals with REAL things is ALWAYS going to disturb SOMEONE. Example: “A man bought a new hat, but as he was walking along the road, a gust of wind blew it into a garden, where a dog leapt on it and ripped it to shreds. Just then, a second man came out of the house and the first man ran over to remonstrate with him. ‘Look at what your dog did to my new hat,’ he ranted, ‘What are you going to do about it?’ The man replied, ‘Well – nothing. Dogs will be dogs – and your hat blew into MY garden. Act of God, mate.’ ‘Oh, I see,’ said the first man, ‘That’s your attitude.’ ‘No,’ replied the second man, ‘It’s YOUR ‘at ‘e chewed!’”

Harmless enough, you might think – and even funny, if told by a professional. But somewhere in an audience of a few thousand, you can bet there’s SOMEONE who has recently had a dispute with a dog-owner that lead to VIOLENCE being visited on them. THAT guy WON’T laugh.

But what can you do? EVERY story a comedian tells will strike a nerve in someone.

Another thing. Sexist humour was endemic for decades. Women had to laugh at jokes that belittled them, or be considered “bad sports”. Then along came PC, feminism – and for a while, “reverse-sexist” jokes became popular. However, after a time they just became SEXIST – but directed against MEN. After a period of moratorium, these jokes should have bitten the dust too. Failing that – in the “post-ironic” period – BOTH types should have been allowed.

So where does this leave us? Well, thankfully, comedy is left alone by the censor, these days. The humour invented by Lenny Bruce is do-able almost anywhere. Nowadays, the AUDIENCE is your censor - and a skilled gag-smith can usually turn a gag that gets groans around anyway.

Therefore let us remember – humour is universal. It comes in many forms. So keep your mind OPEN to ALL its variations.

Oh, and for Americans – “humour” means “humor”.

Morpheus on… British Trains

This author has already pointed out why many Brits are now EX-PAT Brits – and many others WISH they were. The constant rain. The absurd prices. The rules. The repression.

But here’s another one – the railway tracks are TOO CLOSE TOGETHER!

You’re sitting in your carriage, when suddenly – WHOOOOF!!! A train passes in the other direction and you nearly have a heart attack. And the reason is quite simply – it was TOO DAMN CLOSE.

The thing is, with a closure speed of 180 m.p.h., the shock wave set up is more than ANY amount of sound-deadening materials – including double-glazing – can deal with.

And it’s not the fact that modern trains are faster. The old steam expresses could go JUST as fast as today’s ones. The fault lies with the fact that British people think SMALL.

Many countries have WIDE strips of land for their trains to run on, so that the shock waves dissipate long before they hit trains on the neighbouring track.

No, the reason the Victorians only bought narrow strips of land for their choo-choos was they thought SMALL – and now, modern Brits are STUCK with the result.

Literally stuck, as those strips now have property – and bridges – surrounding them. To widen them would cost a fortune and as you may have heard, Britain is currently BROKE – which is ANOTHER good reason to leave!

Morpheus on… The Humourless

Some years back, British TV ran a number of “reality shows” that had no competitive element, no host (and no BUDGET). They were intended as “slice of life” pieces. I accidentally saw part of one, while I was waiting for a REAL programme to start.

I don’t recall the title (I’d be ashamed if I DID) but it concerned the goings-on at an airport (maybe it was called “Airport”) and featured a piece which gave me a salutary lesson.

It concerned a classical musician who gave a humourous answer to a dumb question, posed by an immigration official. The conversation went something like: “Where have you come from?” “Chicago.”  “What’s in the violin case?” “A machine gun.”

Stated baldly, it sounds either innocuous or worrisome – depending on the circumstances. But in this instance, they were benign. It was just a mild joke. The musician was a nice guy. Neatly turned out, with a disarming manner.

However, the reaction to his throwaway line (and this was BEFORE “9/11”) was INSANE. The official went APE-SH*T and the next thing, this poor dude found himself being GRILLED for HOURS, being BANNED FOR LIFE by the airline he had used – and was lucky he didn’t end up in the slammer.

And since the footage that showed all this had to have been green-lighted by the officials, they apparently thought it made them look GOOD, instead of like the paranoid, pencil-necked prats they were. Anyone with a heart and a BRAIN would have been left feeling SORRY for the guy.

It just goes to show ANOTHER reason I don’t fly any more. For the other, see http://corneliusatloppers.wordpress.com/2009/09/14/cornelius-on-cross-winds/ 

Morpheus on… Ill-gotten Gains

They say crime doesn’t pay. These days, that is becoming increasingly TRUE.

In My Day… if you wanted goods, you put on your striped jersey, your little black mask (or stocking, if you preferred) took your sack with “swag” painted on it and broke into a warehouse, shop or delivery van and nicked them.

Or if you wanted to eliminate the middle-man (the “fence” – who would grass you up, when pressured by the rozzers) you added a sawn-off Purdey to your equipment, found someone with cash, then made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. (Three paras and already I’ve given away my age about ten times).

But these days, all of that is nearly pointless. Let’s start with goods. In My Day, the prime target for most thieves was electrical goods. But thanks to Far East manufacturers, even giant plasma and LCD TVs are cheap today. And those that “fell off a lorry” don’t come with that all-important guarantee, so when they go wrong – forget it.

In any case, since all shops now have fully computerised tills, which are connected to their mainframe, which handles stock purchasing, warehousing, tax, etc. – if you try filtering stolen items into legitimate sales, it’ll stand out like a crocus on a cricket pitch.

Of course, you can always sell illicit goods in markets, or through “fringe” workers to factories, pub customers and the like – but it’s nickle-and-dime stuff and the fuzz are all over that. (Now I’m going American).

Even lowly shop-lifting is a mug’s game, thanks to modern hi-tech surveillance.

Then there’s CASH. Ah, money – what could possibly go wrong with the long green? Dosh? Folding stuff? Yeah, except no-one DEALS in it any more, other than drug-dealers, money-launderers and terrorists. Even BANKS don’t carry that much. Nowadays, it’s all plastic and electronic transactions.

But let’s assume you’ve FOUND and LIBERATED some. Great – now what? Well, In My Day, if you walked into a bank with an attache case full of  mazooma, they would invite you into the manager’s office and give you a whisky and a big cigar. They still do – but only to KEEP you there until the Law arrives.

Thing is, when the War On Drugs peaked in the Seventies and Eighties, banks got leaned on by governments to LEGITIMIZE cash. Then money-laundering and after 9/11, terrorism exacerbated the situation. Therefore nowadays, any amount over £1,000 has to be ACCOUNTED for. Gone are the days when money talked – now it has to EXPLAIN itself.

These days, many law enforcement agencies have the power to seize houses, cars, boats and other goodies from anybody who cannot PROVE their wealth came from legitimate sources. They don’t even need proof a crime has been committed. The target is guilty unless they can prove their innocence.

Okay, so if you can’t put your boodle in a bank – or show ostentatious wealth – what do you do? I mean, if you FOUND a suitcase with a million Pounds in twenties in it – say, from a “drop” that had gone wrong – how would you reap the benefits?

Well for a start, if you wanted to go abroad, you’d have to put it in with your luggage and trust the baggage handlers not to send it to the Moon. Put it in your carry-on and airport security would see it on the security X-ray and inform the bogies – who would confiscate it. You’d arrive at the Cayman Islands POTLESS.

But then what? Okay, you’re in a sunny country where they don’t ask questions and you have that million quid. So buy a safe and spend it a bit at a time? Hmm. Two problems. Number one – if your loot isn’t gaining interest, it’ll disappear faster than a tan in a British jail.

Think about it. If you’re twenty, your million quid will need to last you sixty years. That’s (calculator out) 16.66666666666 grand a year. Or 320 quid a week. Your tropical paradise won’t be so sunny on THAT kind of money.

And remember, that 320 a week has to pay for EVERYTHING. If you BUY a house, car, furniture and so on, the money left over will give you an even SMALLER weekly “allowance”.

Then there’s problem number two. In My Day, bank-notes stayed the same for DECADES – but no more. Now, thanks (again) to technology, counterfeiters are only a few MONTHS behind the manufactures of the genuine article.

Thus, to keep the percentage of funny money in circulation down to an acceptable level, all governments are forced to change their notes every FIVE YEARS – with little modifications every TWO. Which means that every few years, you will have to change ALL of YOUR money – or it’ll become worthless paper (cloth actually – bank-notes are made from a form of cloth. Moving on).

But since a million quid in twenties is (calculator again) FIFTY THOUSAND notes – and changing more than a few at a time would attract attention – that’s a hell of a lot of visits to shops. In fact if you do the maths, you’ll discover that if you spent all day, every day, buying small items from shops to get new dosh – there wouldn’t be enough hours IN the day.

And that’s assuming you stayed in the country the money came from, since foreign shops wouldn’t take it and even large holiday resorts have a limited number of “bureau de change” establishments. But if you DID stay in your own country – well, in England, sixteen grand a year is barely benefit level.

So what have we learned? Well, as stated at the top, these days crime certainly does NOT pay – if you’re an HONEST crook.

No, m’friend. These days, the only way to make crime pay is to be a DISHONEST one. Like Bernie Madoff. Oh sure, Bernie’s in a U.S. “correctional facility” – and after 150 years, he’ll certainly be corrected. But he got unlucky.

For every Bernie Madoff, there are a THOUSAND smugbastard businessmen who get AWAY with it. Who, every day, rob and cheat us all blind – and then collect awards for it. THEY have the secret.

I just wish I knew what it was…

Morpheus on… Driving On The Wrong Side

About 20 years ago, I was driving an Audi Quattro through Rome with four friends and we got pulled by the Caribinieri (makes your eyes water). When I asked what the problem was, I was informed my vehicle was overloaded. I pointed out that two in the front and three in the back was perfectly reasonable.

“No signori, quattro, quattro!” The cop yelled.

I was outraged and demanded to speak to his superior.

He told me his boss would come over and talk with me – once he’d finished booking two guys in a Fiat Uno…

(Thankyou! My name’s Morpheus – peace and love!)

Morpheus on… Writers And Readers

In My Day, if a person wanted to excrete their creativity in the form of the written word – apart from private letters, there were really only three outlets for them to choose from: newspapers, magazines and books.

The problem was – all three of these media were restricted to PROFESSIONALS. People with degrees in English and/or journalism who had dedicated their lives to becoming proficient in the science of WRITING.

And if a non-pro wanted to see themselves in print, the best they could hope for was that their letter would be picked from the thousands of submissions to a “readers letters” page. Or, of course, they could “vanity-publish”.

Thus would-be scribes who lacked the training, experience, ambition, talent or any combination of the above to BECOME pro-writers were doomed to consign their creative output to a DRAWER. But no more.

NOW, we have the Interweb. Anyone with a few hundred Pounds to spare can set themselves up with a personal computer, sign up with an outfit like WordPress and GO for it – but this new freedom comes at a price.

In short – These Days, More People Write Than READ.

An alarming statement – but could it be TRUE? Well, how many times have YOU read a piece you strongly disagreed with – then discovered it had a facility for feedback – so you wrote a rebuttal – but then realised your piece was one of hundreds - maybe thousands – and when you read them, it became obvious that most of the contributors had read the initial piece – but NONE of the subsequent COMMENTS?

And it’s the same all over the Web. Some wit once wrote, “Opinions are like arseholes – everyone has one.” And as one scans the unending outpouring of WORDS here, one begins to see the reality of the situation that now exists.

Gone is the cachet of being a pro. ANYONE can write today. And the scary part – particularly from the viewpoint of those pros – is some of those whose voices would NEVER have been heard without the Web – are actually rather GOOD.

This commentator came to creative writing late in life. I was in my early forties when by a fluke, I took over an ailing Mensa publication and began putting my stuff Out There. But it was the mid-Nineties and PCs were still the domain of techies and nerds. Thus my organ (if you’ll pardon the expression) was part of the popular media – I was a WRITER.

However, these days even the tramp in the gutter has a laptop under his vomit-stained raincoat. EVERYBODY’S at it. But if everyone is busy WRITING – who is doing the READING?

The general non-writing public? But now they have so much stuff to CHOOSE from – and there are only so many of them.

Other bloggers? But they’re too busy WRITING to READ!

The government? Well, sure. They’d be dumb NOT to. It’s the best way to keep their Finger On The Pulse of Joe Public.

But I don’t write for THEM. No-one DOES.

And while my ramblings have so far generated 60,000-plus hits, many of them might have been triggered by those who only read my first sentence, then moved on (these days, most people possess the attention-span of a goldfish).

Thus the daunting reality is that my words might actually have reached not MANY more than those written by people who wrote to “get it out of their system” – then chucked it all in that drawer.

But how many people do I WANT to reach? A million? Would that be any better than a thousand? Or ten? Or – Zen – how about ONE? Just ONE person who after reading my stuff, began to THINK – then went on to have a better life, as a result of absorbing the wisdom and experience I’ve tried to weave into these columns.

Maybe that’s the best ANY of us bloggers can hope for…

Morpheus on… Les Paul

Les (pron. “less”, not “lez” – his first name was Lester, not Leslie) Paul may not have invented Rock ’N’ Roll, but he pretty much invented everything that makes it possible.

In the late Twenties, when electronics first arrived, he invented the guitar pickup – and spent the rest of his life developing it.

In the Forties, he evolved the electric guitar.

In 1952 (as it happens, the year of this writer’s birth) he managed to convince Gibson Guitars to start producing SOLID bodied guitars (he’d been playing his “log” long before) which, devoid of the extraneous vibrations produced by the soundbox on the conventional guitar, would give a purer sound. Enter the legendary “Les Paul Gibson Guitar”.

And during the late Forties and right through the Fifties, he developed multi-track recording – without which modern recording studios would not exist.

Initially, he used acetates, but as soon as open-reel tape machines arrived, he began adding extra heads – to develop reverb (without which, Elvis would have sounded “thin”) – and ganged eight machines together to produce records where he and his then-wife Mary Ford (she divorced him in the early Sixties – she had had enough of his itinerant life-style) would overdub.

This meant Les could play lead, rhythm and bass guitars “simultaneously”, while Mary could do the same, singing melody, counter-melody and descant.

They had TV and radio shows, Les composed and they had a string of hits right through the Fifties. If you can find them, check out “Mockingbird Hill”, “San Antonio Rose” and “Tiger Rag”. Fantastic.

In the Sixties, he went back to inventing, but in the Eighties, he was re-discovered and went on the college circuit – blowing away a whole new generation who could not believe the genius of this diminutive old geezer.

He passed away yesterday, aged 94.

R.I.P., Les.

Morpheus on… Erroll Garner

Erroll Garner was the greatest post-war jazz piano player – bar NONE.

This was the result of him having TWO extremely rare gifts. One – he was a genius. And two – he was an ambidexter. Let us examine these statements.

The term genius has been seriously devalued of late. Einstein was a genius. As were Isaac Newton and Leonardo DiCaprio. Sorry – Da Vinci.

Most people think of Einstein as the guy responsible for inventing the Atom Bomb – but no. He developed the theories that enabled others to do so. The damn thing would have evolved quite happily without him.

Most people think of Isaac as the bloke who sat under an apple tree and an apple fell on his head, as a result of which he discovered concussion – but no. The man virtually INVENTED PHYSICS.

And most people think of Leonardo as the artist who painted a smug woman against a wonky backdrop – and a dinner attended by Jesus, his Lady and some of his mates – but no. He also invented the helicopter.

Okay, kidding aside, these men’s brains worked at an infinitely higher level than 99.99% of the human race – this writer included – and Erroll was one of them.

But what about his dexterity? Well, many people claim to be ambidextrous – but few truly ARE. MOST of the claimants are actually LEFT-handed people who, as kids, were BULLIED by their teachers and/or parents into using their right hands.

Left-handed people were seen as being at a disadvantage in society – indeed, primitive societies even viewed them as CURSED – thus every time they began to use their left hand, they would be rapped across the knuckles by said parents/teachers.

This constant chastisement lead them to develop right-hand skills – but being naturally left-handed, they retained those skills also.

However, TRUE ambidexterity is very rare. It is essentially a SAVANT skill. When we are born, our brains’ two hemispheres are joined by countless threads, but many of these threads wither and die from lack of use as we develop.

But once in a blue moon, an individual grows up with most of the threads remaining intact. And they find themselves gifted with extraordinary abilities – many of which are only now being understood.

Some possess incredible mathematical skills. Others can play fifty games of chess simultaneously. Still more taste numbers, smell colours, etc.

And whilst many are assumed to be mentally ill, some go on to become legendary scientists, painters, or – as in the case of Erroll – musicians of astounding ability.

Whilst never being able to read music, Erroll composed hundreds of pieces – including the evergreen “Misty” – and quickly became the foremost jazz pianist of his time.

A typical Garner concert playbill had all of the usual entries (write-ups of his career, adverts, etc.) But when you arrived at the PROGRAMME for the evening – it would be BLANK.

Sometimes, there would be an explanation for the empty space. And whilst this reporter has never seen one, he believes it might as well have gone: “We have no idea what Mr Garner will play tonight. Even HE has no idea.”

So what happened at these concerts? Well, at the appointed hour, after his bass-player and drummer had taken the stage, this diminutive (he stood a mere five feet two – thus proving size isn’t everything) be-suited figure would emerge and take his seat on the piano stool, upon which several phone directories had been placed.

He would beam at the audience and begin playing. Incredible random musical sounds would fill the hall, while his accompanists would patiently wait. Then suddenly he would LAUNCH into a number. It would usually be a standard – or occasionally, one of his own pieces.

And the guys would simply JUMP IN.

They would follow him by INSTINCT – it was all they had. But what LUCKY bastards they were! It was a TRIP any musician would have sold their SOUL to take. They were witnessing sheer GENIUS.

So how did it all work? What was his SECRET? Well, Erroll was unique. Left-handed pianists (like Elton John) have a HEAVY left-hand – their style is based around chords – while “normal” right-handed players concentrate on the right hand – which plays the melody – leaving their left hands to just fill the chords.

But Garner had a heavy left AND right hand. However, his MAGIC came from the RELATIONSHIP between those two hands. The left would pound out a “drone” whilst the right hammered out his improvised melody. And then came the trick – he would mess with TIME.

He would constantly play either AHEAD OF or BEHIND the beat, bringing it back together only when necessary, to allow his audience to relate to what was going on.

Garner impressionists try to imitate this technique by simply going out of time at random – which is why they FAIL. Erroll was doing MUCH MORE than THAT. When HE did it, the “gap” between the beat and the melody formed a SEPARATE RHYTHM. It was like listening to TWO people playing – whose brains were CONNECTED.

Which is something NO other player has EVER managed to do. Even for Erroll, it was DIFFICULT (which is why his playing was always accompanied by his little grunts every time he got it right – which was every time).

It was a bit like “triphony” – which is where you take wires from the left and right outputs of a stereo amp and connect a speaker ACROSS them. This gives you a “third channel” – actually, it is merely the DIFFERENCE between the two, which on an old “ping-pong” stereo track means you can “dump” the vocalist, who is usually in the middle, giving you the backing track, in mono.

Some amps have a circuit that will do this for you, which is activated by a button marked “Karaoke” – singing to the ACTUAL backing track of a famous number is WAY better than doing it to one produced by a scratch band or worse still, some berk on a synthesizer.

And in Garner’s case, whilst his left hand played one rhythm pattern and his right played another – the relationship between the patterns created a THIRD. And THAT was what made him unique.

Erroll WAS a genius. He knew it – and REVELLED in it. Every night was an ADVENTURE. He never rehearsed – he didn’t NEED to. He just DID it. PURE improvisation!

But for those who were not there, that genius can only be appreciated through listening to his recordings, since he was taken from us in 1977, at the age of just 55. The most famous is of course, “Concert By The Sea” – but sadly, the original recording of it was of poor quality.

Much better is Garner at his PEAK – “One World Concert” was recorded at the Seattle World’s Fair in ’63. Erroll totally KILLS – and the sound quality is much better than “Concert By The Sea”.

But avoid the recent CD re-issue – the original producer may have been involved with the re-master, but it’s CRAP. The sound quality is awful, some players “gap out” during the applause between tracks – and one of the best tracks is MISSING.

No, get the ORIGINAL VINYL ALBUM – there are currently a number of copies (some quite cheap) on Ebay as I type. It is the finest recording of the man’s very BEST work (and yes, it DOES include “Misty”). For a sample, hit: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xXWqmPdU9k4

And now that he’s gone, how long do we have to wait for ANOTHER Erroll Garner?

Well for what it’s worth, I did the maths. Although the parameters are vague (an ambidextrous genius who enjoys doing what he can do) allowing for multiple-odds reckoning, I have calculated that another Garner SHOULD emerge…

In about three hundred years.

Morpheus on… Well I Got Up This Morning…

…and I heard an ice-cream cart go past. It had a digital recording of an 8-bar tune (NOT a blues number) being played on one of those little Swiss musical mechanisms. You know the ones – they have a clockwork drum with pegs that twang the teeth of a spring-steel comb, to produce a 30-second tune. In My Day, they were put in cigarette boxes, jewelry boxes and the like.

Anyhoo, this lead me to musing on the ice-cream vans of my youth. The main two were Mr Whippy (whose S&M connotations were lost on a ten-year-old boy) which played “Greensleeves” (public domain) and Tonibell – who had their own custom tune. And all of these vehicles had one of these little acoustic Swiss music mechs – attached to an AMPLIFIER. You could hear them coming, three streets away.

All of which reminded me of one of the most ABSURD moments of my life.

It was back around ’69 and I had a Very Important Appointment the next morning (a job interview) and not being a Morning Person, I was PARANOID that I would oversleep. The thing was, at that time in my life, I only had ONE alarm clock – and I was getting used to its alarm, thus could “tune it out”.

Now the clock in question was a (Swiss) MECHANICAL clock that for an alarm, had one of the above-mentioned music mechs, which played “Good Morning” from “Singin’ In The Rain”. And it was those ice-cream vans that gave me an idea…

Being a “handy” chap, I connected a microphone to the clock, plugged it into my large amplifier, placed a couple of pillows on top, to avoid feedback – and ramped up the volume. Trouble was – I hadn’t thought it through…

TICK!! TOCK!! TICK!! TOCK!! TICK!! TOCK!! TICK!! TOCK!! TICK!! TOCK…

Yes - it hadn’t occurred to me that the amp would ALSO amplify the damn CLOCK!

I figured I’d get used to it. I was WRONG! After four hours, I finally nodded off – from total EXHAUSTION rather than sleep – and just two hours later…

DING!!! DING!!! DING!!! – DING!!! DANG!!! DING!!! – DING!!!-DING!!!-DE!!!-DANG!!!-DANG!!!-DANG!!!…

IT SOUNDED LIKE THERE WAS A FREAKIN’ ICE-CREAM VAN IN MY BEDROOM!!!

I got – nay, SPRANG from my bed. Oh, I was AWAKE alright. As was everybody else in the BUILDING!! Not to mention half of freakin’ LONDON!!!

I didn’t even get the damn job…

Morpheus on… Sandi Toksvig

I feel another biography coming on…

The thing is, as a fifty-something, I resisted going online (or “on the air”, as I prefer to call it) for YEARS, since I figured the whole Interweb business was a huge, steaming pile of POO. But I eventually succumbed when the established forms of communication (the mail service – see elsewhere in these ramblings – and texting) began moving that way TOO.

And I discovered that while most of the gazillion bytes of stuff on it are indeed a huge (etc.) – possibly including MY scribblings – there is still much there that is useful. Like I’ve been able to FILL my Wish-List of obscure records, tapes and DVDs – some of which I’d been after for HALF A CENTURY.

Then there’s the info. You can look ANYTHING up on the web – just type in “Why do cats eat grass?” and you’ll get the answer. But like everything else on this system, you sometimes have to wade through a lot of garbage to find it.

One of the GIANT CONS is the number of services that promise to give you a Bio of someone – then when you check the site, it says “We don’t actually know sh*t about this person – would YOU like to write up a piece on them?” CHEEK! And stupid; if I KNEW about them, I wouldn’t be coming to YOU to find out, now would I?

Anyhoo, I have watched and listened to Sandi Toksvig for about twenty years now. She first appeared on (British) Channel Four in various shows, including “Whose Line Is It Anyway?” and a short-lived sitcom with rolly-polly American comedian, Mike McShane. Then she did a run as team captain in “Call My Bluff”, opposite the late Alan Coren.

At the same time and since, she has made appearances on many other comedy programmes, culminating in her present main gig – The Chair of “The News Quiz” – a popular topical radio panel show. And it was her appearances on this show that triggered my curiosity about Ms Toksvig’s private life.

She has made several references to her children – but at the same time, has dropped hints that she’s gay. Now of course, the one does not necessarily preclude the other – but nevertheless, I wanted ANSWERS. And of course, the Interweb GAVE me them. So for OTHER nosy people, here’s what I’ve gleaned…

Apparently Ms Toksvig was born fifty-one years ago, to a Danish couple (obviously) and her Dad was a foreign correspondent for Danish TV – which resulted in her moving around a lot. She seems to have spent most of her formative years in the U.S., but at fourteen, her family came to England where her (again, obvious) intelligence lead her into academia. I.e., she ended up at Hull Uni – then Cambridge.

And it was at that place, she fell in with a bad crowd – the legendary Cambridge Footlights artists - which have included Peter Cook, Dudley Moore, Clive Anderson, Morwenna Banks, David Baddiel, Tony Slattery and pretty much the entire cast of “I’m Sorry I’ll Read That Again” and “Monty Python’s Flying Circus”. Her contemporaries included Hugh Lawrie and Stephen Fry. 

Furthermore, all traces of her American dialect disappeared, to be replaced with an accent that makes this diminutive Dane sound like the young Margaret Rutherford.

Okay, but what about those kids and her sexual orientation? Well, it transpires she came out fifteen years ago. At the time, she was supporting the Save The Children Fund – but they got snitty over her announcement regarding her sexuality and dumped her. However, after a demonstration by a lesbian action group, the S.T.C.F. backed down and apologised.

As for the kids – yes. She has three. Two girls – now aged nineteen and twenty-one – and a boy of fifteen. She appears to have had three serious relationships, the first of which produced the kids. Their father (by means of artificial insemination) was Christopher Lloyd-Pack. Little is known of him, apart from the fact that he works as a stage-manager.

He may be a son of the late, distinguished character-actor, Charles Lloyd-Pack, which in turn would make him the brother of Roger (“Trigger”) Lloyd-Pack – but this writer has found no evidence to support this (apart from the possibly-coincidental, unusual surname). But now we are straying from the subject.

Although this subject is just about finished anyway. Ms Toksvig is a hard-working professional comedienne, writer and performer whose life might well make interesting reading. Perhaps, as a writer herself, she may put it into book form someday. And having actually BEEN there, it will likely be a tad more comprehensive than THIS effort.

And if she does write it all up, this author will be sure to read it. In addition to having known some very interesting people and having been everywhere and done everything – she might deign to answer the one question I’ve been unable to, during my research…

As her current civil partner has taken her name – Toksvig – it seems likely that Ms Toksvig wears the trousers (literally and figuratively) in their relationship. But if that is so – how come it was SHE who gave BIRTH in her earlier union?

Of course, that’s really none of my – or your – damn business!

Morpheus on… William Roache

As a young boy, this scribe actually SAW Bill’s 1960 debut as Ken Barlow in “Coronation Street” (yes, I am that old) and whilst he grew out of watching soaps by his teens, he has noted that Mr Roache is STILL THERE.

In fact many people believe Bill is the World’s longest-serving actor in the same role – however, the truth is a bit more complicated.

A man called Don Hastings has played a doctor in a U.S. soap which started in ’56, called “As The World Turns”. But unlike Bill, he was not there from episode one. He joined it – just two months before Bill began HIS run.

Plus two old biddies have been with As The World Turns for even longer. But as both had spells OFF the show – unlike Bill and Don, their runs cannot be classed as CONTINUOUS.

Moreover, As The World Turns is not itself even the World’s longest-running soap - THAT honour goes to “Guiding Light”, which – like this author – has been going since 1952. However, none of THAT show’s cast has done a run as long as those endured by Bill and Don.

Incidentally, despite holding the record for longest-running TV drama – with a previous 15 year spell on radio (72 years in total!) – CBS have now CANCELLED “Guiding Light” due to failing ratings. It will finally end, later this year.

Anyhoo, Bill has another distinction. Being a soap, As The World Turns runs in the AFTERNOON – not in PrimeTime, as Corry does. Ergo, Bill can still claim the record for PRIMETIME drama’s longest-serving actor in a continuous role.

But until one of these old geezers (Bill, at 77, is two years older than Don) falls of the twig, the argument will likely remain unsettled.

After all, it seems unlikely either of them will QUIT, having both now been in the job for nearly 50 years (Corry will celebrate its half-century late next year, while As The World Turns celebrated its own, some three years ago) – and Bill may have more reason than Don to keep going.

Back in the ’90s, a British trash-paper called the Sun, printed a piece claiming Bill was as BORING as his character on “The Street”. Incensed, Bill sued. The Sun offered £50 grand in compensation. On the advice of his lawyer, Bill took it on to court, where he won – £50 grand.

However, under British law, since this amount was already “in court”, he became liable not only for his own costs, but for those of the Sun’s expensive battery of lawyers as well. A total amount doubtless well in excess of fifty grand.

He then tried to sue his lawyer for giving him bad advice – but LOST (lawyers are not easy to sue, anywhere). A couple of years later, Bill was forced to declare himself BANKRUPT.

As for what his CURRENT finances look like, this writer has no idea – but it may well be that poor old Bill has NO OPTION but to keep Ken Barlow alive. At least, for as long as HE is.

Of course, both of these men have other strings to their bows. Apart from earlier being a singer, Don is also a writer – whilst Bill has his One Man Show and an autobiography.

But while Don’s second wife still lives – sadly, Bill LOST his second wife just last month. Whether THAT will be a factor in Bill’s decisions on his future remains to be seen - at the moment, he has pledged to carry on.

Despite exhaustive research, this writer can find no evidence that these two men with strangely similar – and bizarrely UNIQUE – life-stories have ever MET. It would be interesting to be a fly on the wall at THAT encounter. Two guys who have lived their entire lives as another person – seen by millions of other people.

But that which holds the main interest on both sides of The Pond – is which of these guys can carry off the Undisputed Crown as the World’s longest-reigning continuous-role actor. For THAT one, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see…

Morpheus on… The Golden Toilet

So I was walking down the road – nothing fancy, just one foot in front of the other – when I encountered Dave ambling slowly toward me, looking the worse for wear. “Where’s your hat, Dave?” I asked him (Dave had favoured hats ever since he discovered his hair was going AWOL – his current one was a black fedora – he figured it made him look like The Shadow).

“Gawd knows,” he croaked, “I had it on when I went out last night. But someone at ‘The Cricketers’ was having a birthday party – and I sort of got swept along. I ended up at some posh house… and the rest is a blur.”

“Okay,” I said, deciding he needed help, “Let’s retrace your steps. Did you go uphill, when you left the pub?”

“Yes,” he said, brightening slowly.

“All right. Now, you said the house was ‘posh’ – could it have been on Fonnereau Road?”

“Yeah, but that’s a long road. Hang on, it’s starting to come back now… There was ivy over the front door… and they had a gold toilet!”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“Yeah. It looked like it was gold-plated or something.”

“Well there you are,” I said. “All you have to do is go up Fonnereau Road, look for a house with ivy over the door, ask them if they have a gold-plated loo – and held a birthday party last night – and if so, do they have your hat. Simple.”

He looked glum, so I added, “I’ll tell you what, I’m going that way myself,” (I wasn’t, but I’d never seen a gold-plated khazi before and my curiosity was now piqued) “I’ll help you look.”

“Okay,” he said and off we went.

As we walked along the row of grand, Victorian houses, Dave suddenly stopped. “That’s IT,” he cried. Sure enough, the front door had a swath of ivy running over the top. “I don’t know…” he began.

“Oh, come on,” I said, “It’s a sunny day – your head is already beginning to peel.”

We strode up the front path and I knocked gently on the front door. After a while, the door slowly opened to reveal an attractive but equally hung-over young woman.

“Excuse me,” said Dave, hesitantly, ”But you wouldn’t happen to have a gold toilet, would you?”

Just then, a man’s voice shouted from deep within the house, “Who is it, Debbie?”

The woman turned and shouted back, “I think it’s the man who crapped in your tuba.”

(My name’s Morpheus – don’t forget to tip your waitress!)

Morpheus on… Film Critiques

Back in the Golden Age of Hollywood, the studios controlled ALL publicity regarding their business, resources and products. As a journalist, you played things their way – or you’d Never Work In This Town Again.

In other words, if you went off-message, you would never again be granted an interview, preview or ANYTHING that allowed you to WORK. You were frozen OUT.

In fact the only journalists who managed to make Hollywood moguls wet themselves were a couple of old crones named Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons. Hedda was a failed actress, so was fêted with cameos - but Louella was totally unbribable.

These two columnists wielded serious power, but even they knew their limits.

Then in ’52 (coincidentally, this author’s birth year) along came Confidential Magazine. Originally intended to be an exposer of Mob activities, they decided Hollywood would be a safer target. So they began using the LITTLE people in The Business – waiters, hookers, grips, chauffeurs, etc. – to obtain the dirt on the BIG people.

Of course, they were constantly being sued. In an age when being gay got you LOCKED UP (with a bunch of blokes – did they think that through?) people like Rock Hudson and Liberace had no option. But with low costs and a high circulation, they prevailed – and were soon joined by other “scandal sheets”.

Thus, during the Sixties, Seventies and Eighties, it became open season on Hollywood. ANYONE could voice their opinions on the personalities AND products.

But film production budgets always include obscene amounts of money, which are earmarked for “publicity”. Thus, SUBTLE bribes – in the form of lavish junkets and other “perks” – were freely handed out to the more important columnists and TV film critics.

However, all of that was to CHANGE in THIS decade, with the boom in mobile-phone texting – and this media.

For years, blockbusters had prospered by “opening big” - which meant hyping the bejesus out of a movie, then releasing it EVERYWHERE over a holiday weekend, thus ensuring the all-important “word-of-mouth” could not take effect until the movie had done four days of business. By which time, many turkeys had managed to cover their costs.

But suddenly, those who had seen a movie on its opening day could become FILM-CRITICS. Within hours of a film’s first showing, people could Google the film – and view HUNDREDS of crits from “ordinary people”. Furthermore, people walking out of a cinema, having just viewed a turkey, would send simultaneous TEXTS all their friends, to WARN them. Power To The People!

And now we have Twitter. A World-wide Notice Board.

Its first victim appears to have been “Brüno”. Sasha Baron Cohen’s last outing, “Borat”, made a fortune all through its opening weekend – but while his latest effort did boffo business on the Friday, by Saturday the box-office had dropped SHARPLY. Thanks to adverse comments on Twitter.

However, before calling this a victory for free speech, let us step back for a minute. Say the people watching Brüno divided into three groups: 50% LOVED it, 30% liked it and 20% HATED it – for whatever reason. Which of those people would feel MOVED to send out Tweets?

I remember a number of (premium rate) telephone “polls” being conducted by a certain British publication, on all sorts of issues. But every now and then, they would ask, “If a General Election were held tomorrow, which party would you vote for?” And since the publication had a largely right-wing demographic, the results would be LAUGHABLY off from the TRUE figures, which were compiled by the legitimate polling organisations.

And therein lies the problem with this new “freedom”. When The People are allowed to shape available information, since it is impossible to know who those people ARE - one cannot know whether they represent the majority.

For decades, the “silent majority” have dictated things like censorship, whilst not representing the REAL majority at all.

Which is how it is with Tweets. Only those who feel STRONGLY about a film they have just seen are likely to bother expressing their views, while those who merely ENJOYED it - will simply head for the nearest McDonalds.

The thing is, at least PROFESSIONAL film critics know what they are DOING (to a degree) and will attempt to provide considered, BALANCED reviews. And with time, most people find critics who think the way THEY do – and know they can trust their evaluations.

So by all means read Tweets about current movies, etc. But then go and make up YOUR OWN mind.

Morpheus on… The Police In The Electronic Age

The fuzz don’t always understand technology.

F’rinstance, there was the time a police station received six identical faxes from another station. When asked why they had sent the same fax six times, they replied it was because the machine kept rejecting them. Further questioning revealed the officer who’d sent them thought the machine PHYSICALLY sent the document to the other machine – so when it came out, he assumed the device had “gorn wrong”.

It is hard to imagine what sort of brain reckoned a machine was capable of spindling up a piece of paper and then sending it down a phone line. However, astounding technical ignorance is not limited to the cops. Their adversaries aren’t too smart either.

Some officers at another cop-shop found themselves up against a suspect who was even more technically inept than they were. They told him they had a new LIE-DETECTOR, then placed a colander (the kitchen utensil that strains veg) on his head. The colander had a wire attached to it that ran to their copier, in which was a piece of paper with the words “HE’S LYING” printed on it.

Every time he answered a question, they solemnly pushed the “copy” button and of course, the machine spewed out a piece of paper with the words on it.

Eventually, the suspect CONFESSED!

One can only imagine the ribbing he took from his fellow inmates, once justice had taken its course. There he’d be, talking to another con, when suddenly the man would hold a plastic coffee cup to his ear and say, ”Hang on a minute, I’ve got a call coming in…”

Morpheus on… Miracles

The other day, I performed a miracle in Tesco (they have them here in Thailand – miracles AND Tescos).

I spotted a dead bluebottle (a large fly, if you’re not a Brit) on the ice, on the fresh fish counter. So I picked it up and placed it on the palm of my hand. Slowly moving my face towards it, I made some passes over it. My wife and a couple of shop assistants watched, transfixed, as it began to move around and as I raised my hand - FLEW off across the shop. Ta-daaah!

They might have been less amazed had they realised I’d just performed a classic magic trick. Flies are not too smart and if they land on ice, the cold fools them into thinking it is Winter and they go into hibernation - merely APPEARING to be deceased.

My “magic passes” over the tiny creature had less to do with its rejuvenation than the fact I had simply removed it from the cold, put it onto my warm hand and moved my face close enough for my warm breath to thaw it out!

Of course, I’d also released a disease-carrying creature into a FOOD store – but I figured that was a small price to pay for being able to create the impression I was a GOD.

Morpheus on… Rubber Wrist Straps

Now I’m as generous and public-spirited as the next man (if that man is a mean, miserable sod) but I draw the LINE at wearing those blasted coloured rubber bands to show support for something.

I had ENOUGH of those when I was a kid and they forced us to wear them on Sports Day, to show which team we belonged to.

I mean, what was wrong with those little coloured silk ribbons everyone used to have on their lapels?

Isn’t it enough that I’m showing generosity and public-spiritedness – without having to cut off my blood-flow as well?

Morpheus on… Time Travel

I do NOT propose to drone on about the paradoxes (paradices? Whatever) and chronoclasms inherent in the science. Oh all right – if I go back in time and kill my father before he meets my mother, I can’t EXIST to go back in time and… Or if I kill Hitler as a baby, WW2 won’t happen – unless his Mother steals a baby from a push-chair outside a shop and HE goes on to… (then I become part of a “causal loop”).

Indeed ANYTHING I do in the past, changes events that have HAPPENED – just BEING there displaces AIR. And future travel is only okay if I don’t RETURN. Knowledge from the future could change the present – and suppose I STOPPED future events from happening? The possibilities are endless.

Basically, PHYSICALLY appearing in the past and even SEEING into the future is fraught with problems (and impossible anyway, assuming time is linear). However, just SEEING into the PAST is harmless – it doesn’t alter the time-line and merely improves our knowledge of it. Like finding a fossil – or a lost episode of “Dr Who”. But here’s the THING – it’s something we do EVERY DAY.

Really? Of course. Just look at the Sun (but not for too long) and you’re seeing an event that took place eight minutes and twenty seconds ago. That’s how long light takes to travel here from it. Even as you gaze up at the Moon, you’re seeing it as it was, one-point-three-four-four seconds ago.

And when you talk to someone face to face (and this is why I’m troubling you with this) you are seeing them as they WERE – approximately two nano-seconds AGO. Okay, they won’t have AGED much in that time, but technically, you are reaching through TIME to talk to them.

Oh yes – and since sound only travels at one-eight hundred and ninety-two thousand, eight hundredth of the speed of light – their lips will be out of sync as well.

Morpheus on… The Rise And Rise Of DiggerVision

Rupert Murdoch’s rise in the world of “news” is well known. His acquisition and promotion of right-wing rags and subsequent development of their televisual equivalent – Fox News – is legendary. Producing heavily biased low-brow reporting which no intelligent person would linger over for longer than it takes to wonder how he gets AWAY with it.

But less well known is his rise in ENTERTAINMENT television.

For that, we need to travel back to 1985. For it was then that he effectively took over Twentieth Century Fox – plus a slew of TV stations. The result was the first serious rival to the American Big Three – CBS, NBC and ABC.

However, progress was slow. He discovered starting a TV network from scratch was not easy. It would take years before the Fox Network (properly, the Fox Broadcasting Company) was a serious ratings-winner. And the method by which this was eventually achieved came from his BRITISH experience.

In 1989, Murdoch launched Sky broadcasting. It was one of two satellite broadcasting companies that won the U.K. franchise – the other being the ill-fated British Satellite Broadcasting. The latter soon encountered difficulties and was “merged” with Sky, to become British Sky Broadcasting. However, it was really a complete takeover.

Murdoch now effectively ruled British satellite TV – DiggerVision had arrived.

But he soon discovered that beginning a British network from scratch would be no easier than it had been in America. At first, his minions combed the British majors’ trash, taking burned-out formats, second-rate and aged “personalities” and forming them into something that LOOKED like a TV service.

However, the British public were not impressed and only Murdoch’s “news” media profits prevented him from going BANKRUPT. He needed HELP and he got it – but from an unexpected quarter.

In those days, there were four major TV networks in Britain. The most popular was ITV – a conglomeration of “independent” (their networked primetime schedules were almost identical) stations, funded by advertising.

Then there was the similarly-funded Channel Four – a Johnny-come-lately network who, after trying and failing to fill various niches in the market, discovered “alternative comedy”, cleaned it up and screened the results to a demographic that had been ignored for years - the 18-30s.

And BBCs One and Two.

These last were funded by an obligatory license-fee. Beeb One was the popular channel, while Beeb Two, which had started back in ’64, was more high-brow. And it was Beeb Two who unwittingly came to Murdoch’s rescue.

The thing was, a few years earlier, Beeb Two had bought the new Eighties Star Trek series, beginning with TNG, then DS9 and Voyager. Also, they had purchased other top American Fantasy/Sci-Fi shows. But the catch was they could not show them in primetime, as the ratings these shows would have garnered would have killed their own, license-fee-funded high-brow series.

Which would have been seriously embarrassing for Auntie.

So they contracted to run them as off-peak fillers, two years BEHIND America. This enabled them to get them CHEAP. The cost of syndicated programmes decreases DRAMATICALLY as they AGE, thus you can reduce their price by contracting to HOLD them for a couple of years before transmission. And since the price also relates directly to the size of the expected audience, an off-peak slot brings it down further.

But Auntie encountered a SNAG. The main slot for these programmes followed a slot for LIVE CRICKET. And having a tradition of flexibility – if said cricket over-ran, Auntie would BUMP Star Trek. This proved to be her undoing – and the SAVING of Murdoch’s TV aspirations.

You see, for decades, ITV and the Beeb had always avoided showing the same imported shows, therefore Beeb Two had seen no reason to insist on EXCLUSIVITY for the shows they had bought. And so SOMEONE at DiggerVision decided to CAPITALISE on this oversight.

During that summer, Beeb Two had bumped Star Trek OVER AND OVER AGAIN, due to the cricket over-runs. This had resulted in MILLIONS of Trekkies sitting waiting expectantly – while old men (and young men who were old-at-heart) wandered up and down a field occasionally throwing small, leather-covered balls around.

After twenty minutes of this farce - the cricket was only being watched by a relative HANDFUL of people – an announcer (they varied each week - this historian suspects they drew straws for the task) would apologise that Star Trek had been cancelled yet AGAIN. After a few weeks, you began to detect the EMBARRASSMENT in their voices.

So DiggerVision made a deal with Paramount and began STRIPPING (running at the same time, Monday to Friday) – in PRIMETIME – ALL of the Star Trek and other series being abused by Auntie, beginning with the pilots, then running straight through.

Thus every time one of Auntie’s announcers cleared their throat and said, “We apologise…” – the next day, thousands of Trekkies would go out and buy one of Murdoch’s dishes.

And despite having to endure ADVERTS (Beeb Two was license-fee-funded, remember) the Trekkies were overjoyed. Particularly when the daily-shown episodes OVERTOOK those being (occasionally) shown weekly on the Beeb. They did not even mind watching the earlier episodes again – after all, during the Seventies the Beeb had screened the original series about SEVENTEEN times.

But what they did not realize (or chose to ignore) was the fact that these new shows were LOSS-LEADERS – items that cost an unseemly amount, but bring in the customers. DiggerVision trumpeted these shows, while putting OLD, CHEAP imports into their schedules as FILLERS.

Even The Trek had cost less than might have been thought, since the deal had included the EARLIER shows as well, bringing the AVERAGE price DOWN. And just DUMPING the shows they had previously run (the majors’ leftovers) had saved DiggerVision even MORE money.

The psychology behind this new practise was simple. Just as people will often buy an album for one great track, viewers were happy to shell out big money for just a few top shows. Suddenly, Sky TV had become the television equivalent of the Premiere League.

And it is a practise that DiggerVision has continued to this very day. A glance at Fox’s U.S. schedule will show that while they have a SMALL number of primo programmes – House, Bones, Fringe, 24, etc. – in their TWO hour primetime, the rest of their slots are filled with CHEAP GARBAGE.

It is the same here in S.E. Asia. In ’93, Murdoch bought the then-fledgling Hong Kong-based Star TV and proceeded to fill its schedules with a NOSE-GAY of prime, NEW American series – whilst padding out the rest of the slots with OLD, CHEAP stuff.

At the moment, here in Thailand, Star World is on the basic package – but how long will it be before it goes the way of Sky? Back in Britain, as soon as Sky had a fair-sized audience, Murdoch did a “re-package” – which meant all of its GOOD stuff suddenly cost a hell of a lot MORE.

One is reminded of DRUG-PUSHERS who virtually GIVE you their crap – but once you are hooked, up goes the PRICE!*

It is all about packaging. For centuries, dealers in EVERYTHING have put their good stuff on display, while tying it to a load of rubbish. We buy, seduced by the goodies, but it is not until we get the lot home that we realise we have been HAD.

Furthermore, we NEED those goodies. And as the Murdoch empire grows, so does its HOLD on said goodies. But what is the alternative? Tragically, it appears to be Hobson’s Choice. Some years ago, this journalist holidayed in Portugal and caught some of their televisual fare.

And he discovered their government had decided to keep DiggerVision OUT. But their home-grown programmes were CRAP (it is not easy to KILL the excitement of a franchise like Who Wants To Be A Millionaire – yet they had managed it).

Which meant that unless you could acquire some sort of “feed” from the U.K., there were NO British shows and your Hollywood programmes consisted of once-a-week showings of…

Greenacres.

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* UPDATE! Eventually, Digger DID push up his price – by making Star World available only to people on the local SP’s Platinum package (they have Platinum, Gold, Silver and Bronze – except they call the Bronze package the Knowledge package, to make the subscribers feel BETTER about themselves).

But then he over-reached himself. He dumped the better, more expensive shows on the network – and replaced them with cheap, talent-free reality shows (some made by his company). This proved to be a MISTAKE, as said local SP had recently LOST the BBC’s “entertainment” channel (also only available on Platinum).

This fiasco is believed to have come about when the value of the Pound dropped – but Auntie’s price did NOT. And given her programmes were always two years old – the local SP decided this was not on.

Therefore, they dumped Auntie and replaced her with a channel that specialised in REPEATS – while their bullsh*t… sorry – PUBLICITY department put out a statement saying the change was in response to viewers’ preferences.

This was immediately shown to be BOGUS – when customers DOWNGRADED their packages by the THOUSAND. And it meant that now, only DiggerVision was holding the fort as far as Platinum customers were concerned.

Which meant that when Digger dropped 30 Rock, Late Night With David Letterman and various other goodies (and with Monk having just FINISHED its run) and replaced them with sundry versions of …Next Top Model – most of the remaining Platinum customers ALSO down-graded (including THIS reporter).

But Digger is fighting back. Here in The Land Of Smiles, he has now launched (in a somewhat half-arsed fashion) FOX TV – as a sort of sister-channel to Star World.

Except rather than employing his usual device of scheduling just a few loss-leaders, padded out with crap – this channel ONLY has the loss-leaders – but repeated MANY times. And the best of them are already available here, on other channels.

Nevertheless, if against all odds the channel IS successful – how long will it be before it too only becomes available on Platinum?

This chronicler will keep you posted…

Morpheus on… A Life Without Children

My associate, Corny, has already pointed out the pitfalls of having kids. They are hellish painful to deliver (like passing a bowling ball) push the woman’s mind and body out of shape (only their mind recovers) wreck your lives (forget about SEX) and are a MAJOR TRIAL to maintain. For the full piece, checkout “Cornelius on… Having Kids” on… http://corneliusatloppers.wordpress.com/

But Corny only mentions the FINANCIAL cost in passing. So let’s take another look at THAT.

Once upon a time, there was a young couple called Maude and Harold. They had met at a supermarket – Harold was a warehouseman (-person?) while Maude manned (womanned?) a checkout.

Separately, their mediocre wages barely covered their expenses, once they’d paid rent on their respective bedsits. So, realising two could live ALMOST as cheaply as one, they decided to get a flat together. And with their incomes and outgoings now combined, they found themselves relatively well off. For a few years, they PARTIED.

But in the fullness of time, having decided to “settle down”, they found a house for rent which was within their means. So they furnished it on HP and whatever they could find in local small-ads. Then Maude began squeezing out sprogs, while Harold volunteered for every second of overtime going at the supermarket, in order to supplement his meagre income.

The supermarket, in turn, was more than happy to accommodate Harold, since paying time-and-a-half to one man was far cheaper than hiring a second. Soon Harold was working eighty hours a week (he never SAW his kids) but it still wasn’t enough.

They had always figured on Maude giving up work for a few weeks while she was engaged in the task of helping maintain Britain’s population, after which she would get some “homework” until the kids went to school. But they soon discovered that this work was subject to the laws of Supply And Demand.

There were MILLIONS of people in their situation and – thanks to automation and “outsourcing” – millions MORE on welfare. Thus homework rarely paid more than fifty pence an hour. The simple fact was, forty hours of tedious work would net twenty Pounds. For many, this equalled SURVIVAL. And in order to stay competitive, companies could not afford to pay more.

But Maude and Harold figured things would improve once the kids started school, in a few years time (they had already discovered no nursery would look after toddlers for ten hours a day – this wasn’t Communist Russia). So they began opening credit-card accounts. They would pay the money back once Maude got a part-time job.

And when, finally, the last kid started school, Maude went looking. But she soon discovered no company was interested in hiring someone who had to leave at 3 pm AND would need thirteen weeks HOLIDAY a year.

Their credit-cards now maxed out, no finance company would give them another – they already owed nearly twenty grand. For years, Maude had bought scratch-cards, HOPING for the impossible, but now they couldn’t even afford those. Finally, they filed for bankruptcy.

Of course in ten years time, when her children have finally flown the nest, Maude will be able to return to the supermarket. Unfortunately, she will find they’ll want YOUNG girls who need less money, look pretty and can master the latest technology.

Once upon another time, there was a couple called Clyde and Bonnie. They had met as invoice clerks in an office. Again, individually their wages were mediocre, but put together – substantial.

Of course, since the office closed at 5 pm, there were NO opportunities for overtime. But as Clyde and Bonnie had both come from parents like Maude and Harold, they had NO intention of allowing history to repeat itself.

First, they ignored the ads for flats to rent, knowing they were RIP-OFFS. In Britain, flats commanded a disproportionate rent, compared to HOUSES. The knowledge DINKYs (Double-Income, No Kids Yet) preferred them and were MONIED, ensured rents were almost as high as for a three-bedroom semi.

But Clyde and Bonnie knew that just because a house had three bedrooms, didn’t mean you had to fill them with BEDS. Once they had moved in, Clyde kitted out the second bedroom as his study. He put his computer, books and records in it. And his jukebox.

Meanwhile, Bonnie bought a chest-freezer and put THAT in the smallest bedroom. This enabled them to buy food in bulk, whilst filling the rest of the room with non-perishable items – loo-rolls, etc. – also bought in bulk. The room saved them a FORTUNE.

And now every week, they invite their friends round to PARTY. Having chosen a semi where the entrance halls are adjacent, there are THREE walls between them and their neighbours. And thanks to double-glazing, what happens in their domicillus STAYS in their domicillus.

They watch premium satellite on their 52″ flat-screen, go on three foreign holidays a year and drive a second-hand Ferrari.

The moral of this story? Get a vasectomy – NOW!!!

Morpheus on… A/V Equipment “Fashion”

Elsewhere, I’ve remarked that style is for individualists, while fashion is for the gullible. And nowhere is this truer than with A/V equipment.

For decades, record-players, radios and televisions came in veneered wooden boxes of variable quality – or cases moulded from the ubiquitous Bakelite. But then in the Sixties, thanks to advances in plastics and the invention of chip-board, they started using plasticised fabric over this new, cheap substance.

But in the Seventies, a new phenonenon invaded the scene. It was called “brushed aluminium”. This held sway for a decade, until the manufacturers began introducing “planned obsolescence” (it had worked for the auto industry, so why not?)

First, in the early Eighties, they came up with matte black boxes. Then within a few years, they introduced “curvy” boxes (impractical, but let the sodding engineers worry about how to do it).

And just as that had become established, they went with silver again. But this time, it was “anodised”, to prevent those who still possessed brushed aluminium units from the Seventies feeling cool.

These days, the fad is SHINY black. Again, like with brushed/anodised silver, they don’t want those with old matte-black boxes to feel hip.

Of course, it’s all bullsh*t. And as with ALL fashion, the REALLY cool people IGNORE it and hold on to their A/V equipment until it conks out – no matter WHAT it LOOKS like.

(Incidentally, in my den, I have an old radiogram cabinet I use for a speaker housing. It featured in the movie ”Blithe Spirit” – which was made in 1945!)

Morpheus on… Sailing

So this rich bloke sees “Master And Commander” and decides to buy a sailing boat.

In due course, he has possession of a sixty-footer, a matching cap and a book entitled “How To Sail”.

But after ten minutes of reading about larboard and scuppers he realises he needs professional help and places an ad for two crewmen in “Yachting Monthly”.

So these two blokes answer his ad. They are two of the strangest men Rich Bloke has ever seen – one has ENORMOUS eyes – the other, GIGANTIC ears. He names them “The Owl” and “Dumbo”.

And since they are the only two to turn up, he decides to give them a go. It’s a calm, sunny day, with a slight breeze. They head slowly out to sea and pretty soon, the land has disappeared to be replaced by lots of nothing.

After scanning the empty horizon for a few hours, Rich Bloke gets bored. His two men appear to know what they’re doing, so he decides to go below and catch up on some reading. He instructs them to give him a shout if anything happens.

After a couple of hours, there’s a knock on his cabin door. It’s The Owl. “You said to call you if there was anything, Sir. There’s a boat off the starboard bow.”

They go up on deck and after being told where the starboard bow is, Rich Bloke scans the horizon. He sees nothing. “Where?” he asks. The Owl points to a minuscule speck on the horizon. Making a mental note to bring his binoculars next time, he says, “My Lord, you’ve got good eyes – what is it?”

“It’s a Russian trawler, Sir,” pipes up Dumbo.

“How can you tell?” asks Rich Bloke.

“I can hear ‘em talking.”

Morpheus on… David Carradine And Auto- Erotic Asphyxiation

This reporter once STAYED at the hotel where David breathed his last, two days ago.

The practise of Auto-Erotic Asphyxiation is not new. It began four hundred years ago, when people at public hangings noticed some men demonstrated sexual arousal – in the obvious way.

This lead to many experimenting with partial asphyxiation during sex rituals.

Of course, the technique is not without its dangers. Around 500 exponents DIE every year, in America alone. The most famous recent casualty is believed to have been rock star Michael Hutchence, of INXS.

And David was nothing if not an experimenter. The son of John Carradine, he changed his name from John Jnr to David to avoid confusion with his father who, when David began his career in the early Sixties, was still working.

His career really took off in the early Seventies as the hero of the successful TV series, “Kung Fu”. And while it seemed to many he would never shake off the inevitable identification with the role of “Glasshopper”, he nevertheless continued to work tirelessly in supporting roles, recently re-asserting himself in the “Kill Bill” movies and “Crank (2)”.

In fact there are currently half-a-dozen projects in post-, involving the actor.

But it was while filming “Kung Fu” that his interest in Eastern Studies was aroused. This lead to study of all kinds of mind-techniques – one of which was AEA. And sadly, in a town where ANYTHING can be had for a price, his exploration of the possibilities of the human experience came to an end.

Knowing the hotel concerned, this reporter has no doubt that others were involved with his misadventure – but they won’t be giving interviews…

Morpheus on… TV Show Titles

Have you noticed how US TV shows with one-word-titles are usually the best shows on TV?

Off the top of my head – and in alphabetical order – I would cite “Becker”, “Bones”, “Cheers”, “Columbo”, “Dexter”, “Dirrt”, “Frasier”, “Friends”, “Fringe”, “Futurama”, “House”, “Kojak”, “M.A.S.H.”, “Monk”, “Mythbusters” and “Taxi”.

Of course, it’s not a 100% rule – “Baretta”, “Baywatch”, “Dallas” and “Greenacres” being obvious examples.

Plus “E.R.”, “Hill St Blues”, “Lou Grant”, “Studio 60” and “West Wing” went with more than one word and they were no slouches.

And “Star Trek” begat shows with many words in their titles.

But as a GENERAL guide, if an American TV show goes with a one-word title – check it OUT!

Morpheus on… Yet Another Silly From Mr Health And Safety

Remember The Good Old Days, when you poured out your Wakey Flakes (if there actually IS a breakfast cereal of that name, this story has nothing to do with it) and a bit of plastic crap fell out with them?

My favourites were a series of little smiling “alien” chappies that came, in a variety of colours, with “Sugar Puffs”, circa 1962.

For no particular reason, their heads filled into their feet and their hands linked also. Thus you could make them into towers, daisy chains – hell, if you ate enough Puffs, you could make a waistcoat out of them.

They were particularly appealing, because as far as I knew, they weren’t part of any promotion – they just WERE.

Well, t’other day, I opened a box of Rice Krispies and another piece of plastic crap fell out. It was licensed by Disney – to advertise some mediocre product of theirs – and had been made in China.

Now you could be forgiven for thinking that little has changed in 50 years (apart from the fact that in ’62, the plastic crap was labelled Hong-Kong) but there WAS a difference. Mr Health And Safety had been at work.

You’ll note that at the top of this piece, I said fell out WITH. In ’62, that was true. But no longer.

At some point in the Seventies, despite there being NO reports of kids coming down with Yellow Fever (which doesn’t come from the Orient anyway) or getting little plastic aliens stuck in their throats, these bits of plastic crap began appearing wrapped in cellophane packets.

And now, it appears even THIS isn’t good enough for Mr H & S. This latest offering – still wrapped in cellophane – came not from INSIDE the pack of cerial, but rather from the gap BETWEEN the pack and the outer box.

Mr H & S needs to get a LIFE.

Morpheus on… Speed-Dating

Elsewhere in these ramblings, I’ve computed the odds on finding the most important thing this life has to offer – the perfect life-partner – from any single encounter, at one in seven hundred and fifty.

This was based on the The Chemistry Of Love - one in fifty - multiplied by the odds on it being mutual – two in three - multiplied again by the odds on the couple having enough compatibility to enable the relationship to prosper (compatibility having ZIP to do with said Chemistry).

Thus to be assured of finding the right person, one needs to encounter seven hundred and fifty potential life-partners. Try telling THAT to a dating agency!

However, some bright spark came up with a logical answer. “Speed-Dating”. It’s a cross between a convention and a Paul Jones.

For the benefit of people under EIGHTY, I should explain what a Paul Jones is – or rather, was. It was a dance-hall (where most unions started in days of yore) ice-breaker, popular in the Thirties and Forties, where the band would play a link-tune (usually a two-step like “Here We Go Gathering Nuts In May”) which would alternate with a series of one-minute dance tunes: a foxtrot, a waltz, a Charleston, etc.

When the link-tune was played, everyone had to leave their partners and quickly form two concentric circles – girls inside, facing outwards – boys outside, facing inwards. The two circles would then rotate in opposite directions, so when the link-tune ended, everyone would find themselves opposite a new partner.

The new couples would then dance to the next piece, until the next link-tune. How do I know this, when I wasn’t born until 1952? I know everything.

So with Speed-Dating, someone hires a hall, does some advertising and brings name-tags, scrap-pads, pencils and a bell. Easy (and lucrative).

Then tables are arranged – in a circle if the venue is big enough – with a chair on each side. Everyone gets a name-tag, scrap-pad and pencil. Then, every three minutes, the bell is rung and all of the destiny-dicers play musical chairs.

By the end of the evening, everybody has met everybody – for just three minutes. What happens next depends on the organisers. Some just leave it up to the people to swop phone numbers. But others tell everyone to write down their names, with the names of those they liked. Then at the end, the organisers place all of the pieces of paper in front of them – and try to work out who should get who.

Of course, this second method can be VERY dodgy. When the organisers pick the matches, there’s bound to be some loser NOBODY liked, which means they may have to match them with the person THEY liked – who will very likely be the hunk/babe half the HALL liked.

And while they’re busy playing God, they may well inadvertently stamp out the perfect match, while creating several nightmares – thus it’s probably best to just let the people swop numbers.

Plus there are other pitfalls – like the numbers of men and women must be the same, or they’ll have people left over (not a problem with the gay version).

Whichever, it’s still a good idea. I mean, seven hundred and fifty dates? Even if a person COULD arrange that number - anyone normal would be burned out after the first twenty. And the TIME it would take to do it at a SANE speed would exceed most people’s LIFE-TIMES – never mind the five (ten at the outside) years that society gives us to find our Soul-Mate.

But given 30, 40 encounters in ONE NIGHT - if one travelled around, at one Speed-Dating session a week, one could reach 750 in just SIX MONTHS.

Which just leaves the short time spent with each encounter. But that too is okay. The Chemistry Of Love happens IMMEDIATELY. Three minutes is all you NEED. It took me FIFTEEN YEARS of active searching, to find my perfect life-partner. But if Speed-Dating had been around then, I would have saved myself MUCH grief.

Instead, I wasted YEARS dating ALL the wrong people (granted I nailed over a hundred of them, but let’s GROW UP - notches on the bed-post are no substitute for Love).

Incidentally, when you DO meet someone at one of these dos, forget about comparing compatibilities. Try asking this question: A bedouin is riding a three-legged camel across the desert – how many legs do they have between them?

Obviously, the answer is five, but the way a person answers this question may reveal much about them in a very short space of time. Like…

(Brightly) “Five.” Smart, trusting, eager to please.

(Slowly) “Well, if it’s not a trick question, five.” Intelligent, but cautious.

“What sort of question is that?” Stroppy.

“Wot’s a bedooin?” A moron.

And so on. Of course, while you are discussing limb-numbers, all of the usual visual and telepathic signals can go back and forth unhindered by mundane crap like, “Wot’s your sign?”

I’m long OUT of “Dating Hell”, but if you’re not – check out the small-ads for Speed-Dating sessions and GO for it. Good luck!

Morpheus on… Round Cars vs Square Cars

Up until WW2, car shapes were functional. Granted, the Thirties had featured SOME exotic shapes, but they were reserved for the RICH. Plebmobiles were two-box affairs. Little box in front for the engine – big box at the back for the occupants. Throw in square doors and windows and you had a car.

But once the ’39-45 argument was settled, car companies began employing DESIGNERS. And ever since, despite all engineering innovations, every decade or so, cars have gone from ROUND to SQUARE – or back again.

Currently they’re square. Let me qualify that – thanks to the auto industry being forced to think FUEL ECONOMY, they’re actually ROUND – but with little creases to make them LOOK square.

And now they’re TALLER, as well. This helps handling not one jot – but it makes them easier to get in and out of (not that the manufacturers could care less about EITHER). However, as with the roundness, it also makes them more FUEL-EFFICIENT, since they present less wind-resistance.

But if the past sixty years is anything to go by, they’ll soon become round again. So why care? A car is a box on four wheels, right? (Sorry, Jeremy).

Well the fact is, EVERYONE HATES SQUARE CARS. I mean, which would YOU prefer? A Volvo or a Jag? Precisely. And while a new, square car might be flavour of the YEAR – once it gets old, it’ll NEVER be a CLASSIC. Think of the classics – NONE of them are SQUARE.

I drive a 15-year-old Mitsu Galant (with NO rear spoiler). It looks like a classic Jag. It’s COOL. And while the latest models gleam all around it, when THEY get old – MY CHARIOT WILL LOOK TEN TIMES BETTER!

Morpheus on… Sixteen And Two Thirds

Once upon a time, there was just one speed for records – 78 revolutions per minute (okay, during the first few years of recorded sound, some companies went with 80, but never mind).

Then in 1948, those tosspots at CBS came up with the long-player, a record that ran at 33¹⁄³ RPM. The following year, RCA (bada-bing, bada-boom) introduced the single. It ran at 45 RPM.

So for the next few decades, all domestic record players had four speeds. FOUR? Yes. Anyone who’s as old as THIS reporter will recall they had 78, 45, 33¹⁄³ - and 16²⁄³.

Now I know this fourth speed was for “talking books”, but despite my having nearly 3,000 records, comprising 78s, 45s and 33¹⁄³s in the conventional sizes – 7″, 10″ and 12″ – plus a variety of oddities, ranging from 3″ to 8″ – I don’t have ONE 16²⁄³ disc. Hell, I’ve never even SEEN one.

Of course, I’m lucky enough to be SIGHTED, so some would say I should be damn GLAD I haven’t encountered any. However, having waded through MILLIONS of discs, including test-records, library discs, slimdisks, give-aways, V-disks and what-have-you, during my 50-year search for the gems in my collection, I would still have expected to come across a FEW. But no.

In fact the only use I EVER had for 16²⁄³ was making “Pinky And Perky” records (in the US, “Alvin And The Chipmunks”) for my own amusement.

For those, you needed a two-speed tape recorder (all tape speeds are multiples of two) then using the low speed, you recorded yourself singing along to it – slurrrrrring your words – to an album track playing at 16²⁄³. Then you played the recording back at the high speed and while the music returned to its normal speed, YOU sounded like – a helium-voiced idiot (I was EASILY amused in those days).

Then again, nowadays you can just use one of those pitch synthesizers available at any branch of Radio Shack.

Anyhoo, the reason I’m troubling you with all of this, is that these words are read by MILLIONS of people (well, approaching 24,000, if my stats are to be believed) all over the World. And I figure SOMEONE out there MUST HAVE one of these 16²⁄³ RPM records. So if that person is YOU, please leave a comment on this piece. Thankyou!

[UPDATE! I have now learned the following...

Wikipedia: “16 2/3 RPM - This speed was used almost exclusively for spoken word content, in particular for the "talking books" used by the visually impaired. For this reason, the inclusion of a 16 2/3 speed setting on turntables was compulsory in some countries for many years, despite the records themselves being a rarity. Cassette tapes proved to be a far more popular format for such spoken content.”

So now we know! Of course, while 12" vinyl albums were introduced in '48, the audio-cassette had to wait another 15 years for its debut. Thus from '48 to '63, the only medium for domestic playing of talking books would have been those damn 16²⁄³ RPM records. However, if the above is to be believed, few were actually produced.

And it appears only (pre-PC!) regulation forced the inclusion of the speed on the players (the extra “shoulder” on the gear wheels would have cost the manufacturers ZIP). Still, it DID permit those with tape-recorders and an imagination to make utter prats of themselves!] 

Morpheus on… Genetics

The great Oscar Wilde was once button-holed at a party by a woman who, not realizing he was camp, suggested they get together and produce a child. She theorised it would benefit from her beauty and his brains. Oscar then pointed out this plan was flawed by the possibility the child might inherit HIS beauty and HER…

This oft-told tale leads me to another. Posh and Becks were being interviewed for a puff piece. When the hack asked how they had celebrated their wedding anniversary, Becks replied that they dined at a restaurant. When asked which one, he looked troubled and replied, “Er… Station.” “Waterloo?” suggested the word-smith. “No.” “Euston?” “No.” “Victoria?” “Yeah, that’s it. Victoria, what was the name of that restaurant?”

My point is that genetics play an important part in deciding WHO we will be. If nature had been kind, Oscar and the woman might have produced a perfect child - but when BOTH partners are as thick as two short planks, their product is unlikely to be a rocket scientist either. This is just FACT.

So when I read a chat-room strand which asked why Thai women and European men get on so well, and saw that the main assumption concerned MONEY, I felt constrained to put in my two penn’oth. I pointed out there are plenty of other poor countries with beautiful women and no welfare system, but that European males don’t flock THERE, looking for brides.

I opined the actual reason was down to GENETICS. I.e., the Thai nation are blessed and cursed with a surfeit of oestrogen, which is marvelous for the women – little body hair, small bones, smooth skin, lovely hair – but not so hot for the MEN – luxuriant hair and a flat tummy being poor compensation for a tendency towards effeminacy (hence the large number of trans-gender males - or “lady-boys” – in that country).

On the other hand, Europeans are prone to an excess of testosterone, leading to THEIR big-boned, flabby women having to shave their legs and pits every day, while their men are BUTCH. Thus, I stated, a union between a European man and a Thai woman is akin to putting a Triumph engine into a Norton Feather-bed frame to produce a “Triton” – a classic motorcycle.

I further pointed out this fortunate interracial mix is not unique. F’rinstance, Afro-Caribbean men mix well with white European women – although this has less to do with genetics than social conditioning. Afro-Caribbean boys are traditionally taught to be ASSERTIVE, while their sisters are raised to be chaste (and never caught). However, white European women are less repressed and many are fed up with wishy-washy “New Men” and prefer a partner with more CONFIDENCE.

Of course, both of the above examples are only STEREOTYPICAL. Individual people vary – some radically – from their group. But as a generalisation, it seemed not unreasonable.

So I figured these points ought to stimulate discussion, but all that happened was I began to be abused by some semi-literate P.C. arsehole called – let’s say, Harold. I responded by saying, “There are TWO ‘L’s in ‘troll’, you moron!” This resulted in some pencil-necked “moderator” DELETING all our posts as fast as we could enter them (like I needed help from HIM). Eventually, I tired of the site – but the experience taught me two important lessons.

One: the site in question often contains useful information, so it’s worth scanning occasionally - but not worth contributing to. But more importantly, two: P.C. paranoia has DEVASTATED the INTELLIGENT discussion of topics like genetics and racial stereotypes. Which is sad. I mean, provided you take one assumption as read, these subjects affect us all and SHOULD be open to people engaging in intelligent debate, without fear of being labeled a Nazi, “troll” or Frankenstein.

So what IS that assumption? Simple. All people are entitled to the same RESPECT as human beings. And while different groups of people may vary ENORMOUSLY in aspects such as race, creed, colour of skin and politics, tastes, habits, preferences, lifestyle and while TYPES of people vary in age, IQ, vocation, sex and sexual orientation, the basic fact remains we all have the same HUMAN RIGHTS.

But despite P.C. prats like “Harold” trying to convince us otherwise, people are not the SAME. Our genetic pre-dispositions, geographical locations and styles of upbringing define who we ARE. And this is not something to be FEARED, rather CELEBRATED. Think how BORING the World would be if we were all the damn same. Vive La Difference!

And an understanding of those differences enable us to COMMUNICATE with each other. And THAT helps prevent WARS. As far as the petty QUALITIES of groups and types are concerned, these have to be tolerated. After all, they are SUBJECTIVE. The qualities of a group that attract some individuals will inevitably repel others – and vice-versa.

Of course, while no-one IS “better” than anyone else, certain realities must be faced. Like, some people are more “worthy” than others. Doctors have to decide who will live and die every day, based on their worth to society. And some are just NICER. Who would YOU save from a fire? Your grouchy neighbour or his polite wife? These characteristics are fundamental.

However, when you FAVOUR – or worse, DEMONISE someone because of their RACE – THAT is where it comes off the rails. Racial hatred is born of ignorance. A primitive desire to beat the crap out of anyone perceived as different, in the interests of racial purity. But then, cavemen were unable to travel more than a few hundred miles from their place of birth. Whereas now, air-travel enables us to travel from anywhere to anywhere on the PLANET in a matter of HOURS – at worst, a few days.

But with this ability comes RESPONSIBILITY. Thanks to genetics, we will encounter people who are DIFFERENT from us. We have to understand and TOLERATE those differences. And burying our heads in the sand and declaring those differences don’t EXIST – is COUNTER-PRODUCTIVE.

So there it is. I welcome comments on this piece from thoughtful souls. And provided they are coherent and civilized, I will publish them – even if they are diametrically opposed to my stated views. It’s called Healthy Discussion. Let the Revolution start here…

Morpheus on… Argos – A Tale Of Redemption

Okay, this one is for under-35 Brits. Watching a couple of recent standup concerts from England made this historian realize there’s a whole generation in The Old Country who do not understand the concept of Argos – or its latter day imitators. You see, the success of Argos is the Commercial World’s biggest FLUKE.

For its origins, we need to travel back over a CENTURY, to Victorian America (now THERE’S an oxymoron if I ever heard one) for it was then and there that a device called the Trading Stamp made it’s debut.

These days, most people are aware of “loyalty cards” and the fact that they tie you to ONE shop or chain of shops. But trading stamps had no such limitation. ANY shop that displayed the logo of the stamp company issued them. Collect enough and you got STUFF for them.

And one of the first was a company called S & H Green Stamps. But we don’t care about them, so let’s travel forward to 1958. A British entrepreneur named Richard Tompkins was travelling across The States and observed this phenomenon – and since Britain was now beginning to recover from the financial constrictions of WW2, he decided the time was ripe to introduce the experience to its citizens.

He called his products Green Shield Stamps. The way they worked was he bought stuff, put it into a catalogue, then sent reps round to shops – ANY shops - who would buy the stamps, the books to stick them in and window stickers to advertise the fact they issued them. Then they undertook to GIVE the stamps away with their goods, while Green Shield undertook to redeem them.

For the shops, it represented a small drop in profits. But in exchange for increased turnover, it made good business sense. “Do you give stamps? No? I’ll go elsewhere.” Thus it was that before long, not wishing to be outdone by their competition, EVERYONE gave stamps. Food shops, petrol stations, tobacconists (remember them?) chemists, hookers, EVERYONE.

Even S & H Green Stamps belatedly hopped across The Pond and set up a rival concern. But since Dick had called HIS outfit GREEN Shield, they had to change their name. So in a blinding flash of inspiration, they renamed THEIR products (just for the British market) S & H PINK Stamps. The War Of The Colours was ON – but having established themselves first, Green won.

However, what goes up must come down. In the early Seventies, Britain suffered a major recession and companies were getting TIRED of issuing interminable stamps – and now that everybody gave them, the playing field was level, the advantage gone. But to KEEP it level, they had to dream up a worthwhile REPLACEMENT. Enter: loyalty cards. A bonus – AND a way of monitoring customers.

Which meant Green Shield’s bubble had burst. So Dick did what all business- men do when their business is falling apart. He went on holiday. To Greece, in fact. Specifically, to a city called – you guessed it – ARGOS. It was then that he had a Silly Idea.

The thing was, the major part of his business were the many hundreds of “Redemption Centres” where people would come with their books of stamps to swop them for the STUFF. But when setting up the concern, Dick had realised that giving people more of the same goods they had been buying to OBTAIN the stamps in the first place would seem like nothing more than a piffling DISCOUNT – which of course is what it was.

And so he’d come up with the idea of filling his redemption centres with little “luxuries”. Gifts to oneself – or others. Thus the redemption centres had become treasure troves of slightly luxurious GOODIES. The sorts of things one wouldn’t normally buy as everyday items. Dick had unintentionally cornered a market. The then-rare, but now-common, Gift Shop.

Also, the redemption centres were unlike normal shops. Since it was easier to warehouse goods and just display one of each item, he had come up with the idea of The Catalogue. You came in with your books, looked through one of the by-now ENORMOUS catalogues of Delights, selected your delight, filled in a little slip with its Number, took it to the counter where a school-leaver would shuffle off through The Doorway To A Place Of Enchantment to find it – and sit expectantly.

So Dick figured since he had cornered this market and peculiar style of shopping, why not just carry on with it, using CASH? Sure, he’d continue to honour the stamps, for as long as they kept coming – and even accept part-cash, part-stamps. They wouldn’t last long. One of the perks of his business was the amount of stamps that got lost or just thrown away by those who disliked the taste of the gum or couldn’t be arsed sticking them in the books (and another was that his redemption centres were shoplifter-proof).

Silly idea? Maybe. But it WORKED!

Having got used to the kind of goodies Dick purveyed and the odd way they were delivered to them, the customers kept on coming. All Dick had to do was change the sign over the door…

ARGOS

GREEN SHIELD REDEMPTION CENTRE

                                                                        …and teach the school-leavers how to make change. Simple. And thirty-five years on, Argos prevails.

So if YOU wondered how these big shops, with their eccentric wares and bizarre method of retailing came to be – wonder no longer. I’ve given you their history which I know to be true, because as an ex-Brit of fifty-five summers, I was THERE!

Morpheus on… Prequels

There are a number of types of movie this film-fan will travel miles to avoid.

The movie written by its director (or directed by its writer). The media of the moving image and the written word are QUITE different and require separate people for each if the result is to be intelligible.

The no-brainer actioner. Now I enjoy a good action movie as much as the next guy, but watching people just shooting guns at each other and driving cars very fast gets old LONG before the usual ninety minutes is up.

The effects movie. Again, this writer has no objections to CGI, when it moves the STORY along. But when it BECOMES the story… bor-ing.

The spin-off. Of course, ALL films derived from BOOKS could be classed as spin-offs, but then avoiding movies sourced from novels would mean missing half the movies ever MADE. No, I’m talking of films that come from video-games, TV shows and gawdelpus – theme park rides (okay, “Pirates Of The Caribbean” notwithstanding).

Then we have the dreaded REMAKE. Either of classic films or non-English language products. These will NEVER recapture the spirit of the originals.

Finally, we have the sequel. As with remakes, whatever originality the original had, MUST be lost when a re-run is attempted – and anyway, today’s audiences are ON to that con. So enter – the PREQUEL.

You can see where Hollywood’s collective heads were at. When a franchise starts creaking, you can revive it by switching the ageing – not to mention by now EXPENSIVE – stars for younger models. This will appeal to the core audience – YOUNG people. Not old farts like me.

Thus Hollywood decided prequels were the way forward – which is ironic if you think about it.

Mind you, there’s nothing NEW in this. Prequels have been around for thirty years – remember “Butch And Sundance – The Early Days”? But only since the success of no less than THREE prequels to the “Star Wars” trilogy of the same period, have they really caught on. And now EVERYBODY’S doing it.

This historian only has – or HAD – two franchises that for him (only every TWO YEARS) were unmissable. Bond and The Trek. And now BOTH have been infected, nay, EVISCERATED by prequelitis (which, naturally, the SpellChecker rejects – although tragically, it ACCEPTS prequel).

First Bond got re-started – but with the same actress playing “M” – which makes NO damn sense. And now even “Star Trek” has fallen prey to the disease. The latest offering has been directed by a kid – stars kids – and is made FOR kids.

Of course, it’s my fault. The people who buy the tickets are still young – but I got OLD.

Morpheus on… Another Doctor’s Story

This bloke began experiencing a burning sensation every time he had a pee, so he went to see his doctor. The doctor told him it was probably an STD. The man was outraged. “Oh don’t get in a dither,” the doctor said, “STDs don’t discriminate between princes and paupers. Fill this bottle.”

The man disappeared behind a screen, but after a minute or so, emerged. “I don’t need to go,” he said. “Never mind,” answered the doc, “take it home, do a squirt and bring it back tomorrow.”

Once home, the man finally did his specimen and replaced the cap. But as time passed, he started to fret about his doctor’s attitude. Then he noticed his cat heading for her litter tray. On an impulse, he followed the animal. As she squatted, he whipped the top off the specimen bottle and managed to catch a little of the animal’s urine.

Next, deciding to REALLY test the doctor, he went out to his garage, raised his car’s bonnet, withdrew the dipstick and dropped a few drips of its sump oil into the bottle. Then he replaced the cap and shook the bottle to mix its contents. The following day he returned to the surgery, handed it over and was told to return in a week for the test results.

The following week found him once more at his doctor’s, who said, “Well, the results have come in and I’m afraid you’ve got stage one Gonorrhoea. It’s not serious at this point. Pick up this prescription, finish the course, no sex or booze for three months, then come and see me for a final checkup.

The man looked glum and started to leave. Then the doctor turned and said, “Oh and by the way – your cat’s pregnant and your engine needs new rings.”

(My name’s Morpheus. I’m here all week).

Morpheus on… Another Silly Movie Cliche

It appears there’s a company making TV remote controls that sound like pump-action shotguns being cocked, every time they are used - and which are sold exclusively for use as props to movie production companies.

While you and I use those SILENT models, which consist of a rubber button-bank which is mounted onto the remote’s PCB. The only way you’ll get a sound out of THOSE is to STAMP on them.

Of course one assumes that, in reality, thirty-odd years ago some second-rate director instructed his Foley people to inject a click-click into the audio on his production, to let the audience KNOW that a TV remote had been activated, because it was crucial to the PLOT.

And when said Foley-man had pointed out to him that remotes hadn’t made a sound since the FIFTIES, he over-ruled him. Then, the erroneous precedent having been established, other second-rate directors simply reinforced it.

And it became yet another in a long line of movie sillys.

Like the hand-guns that sound like a missile-launcher – instead of a Chinese firecracker, which is what they REALLY sound like – and which fire ENDLESS bullets without a reload. And those dart-guns that knock a man down in a second – instead of the twenty minutes it would REALLY take.

And guns with silencers no bigger than torch batteries – REAL silencers are the size of a magnum of champagne and only work ONCE.

Then you have binoculars which give a view that looks like an “8” on its side – except unless you are boss-eyed, the view will ACTUALLY be two circles, superimposed.

And what about those security video and satellite stills where a vehicle is shown as a blob – then the hero asks the nerd to “enhance” the picture and it forms blocks which dissolve into a clear number-plate? Or even more absurdly – a TAX-DISK! The reality is, you cannot enhance what is NOT THERE.

Or when the hero comes round (in seconds) after being knocked unconscious and the shot goes from a blur to clarity. Fine, except when they forget to change the viewer’s perspective to the first person – which is nearly ALWAYS (just for once, they got it RIGHT in “Goldfinger”).

And when someone is crawling through an air duct (always soundlessly – they tried that in Mythbusters – it’s IMPOSSIBLE) the grill at the end is NEVER screwed in place. 

Then there are the phones and doors that are always answered IMMEDIATELY. And computers that boot up likewise.

Plus safes that open with a single twist of the combination knob – and which only require a stethoscope if you don’t happen to HAVE the combination (all you would hear would be the tumblers initialising). And the Yale lock that a tweak with two picks can open.

Actors do not even CLOSE safes properly (you have to rotate the combination lock afterwards – or anyone can simply turn the handle to open it again).

And have you noticed how in movies, people open car doors on the offside, or pull out, or walk across streets without any pretence of LOOKING? If you or I did that, we’d lose our doors/have an accident/get killed.

Okay, we know they have the street under control while filming, but surely, in the interests of realism, could directors not instruct their actors to at least APPEAR to LOOK WHERE THEY’RE BLOODY GOING?

It is said (wrongly) that drama is just real life with the boring bits missed out – but if you pay NO ATTENTION to those boring bits, you LOSE reality.

And then all you are left with is SILLY FANTASY.

Morpheus on… Beauty Contests

Before we can probe the phenomenon of beauty contests, we must address the term – beauty “pageants”. This is one of those stupid PC inventions that attempt and dismally fail to dignify something deemed dubious (alliteration!)

Fact is, the entrants are still called contestants – not “pageantees” – so it’s a contest then.

But as soon as you start to treat it as such, you run into all sorts of problems.

Like, only fashion and photographic models and girls who are in the general beauty business enter them. They’ve been taught how to walk – or clump – about. So the contestants will only be the most beautiful PROFESSIONALS. The girl-next-door might be a BABE, but she wouldn’t get past the auditions.

And then how do you judge it? Award points for various “features”? I mean, Audrey Hepburn gave great FACE – but had a body like a hat-stand. Girls with big (real) boobs tend to have unspectacular kabooses. In short, few girls have it ALL.

Plus there’s the “cattle market” issue. For a PHYSICAL beauty contest to be judged ACCURATELY, the girls would have to be NAKED. Which would be fine on the Playboy Channel or the Naturist Channel – if such a thing existed – but on World-wide Primetime? I don’t think so.

Finally, there is the question of taste. It is a fact that Beauty IS In The Eye Of The Beholder – so the winner will inevitably be a generic, middle-of-the-road bimbo (or himbo) who will appeal to NO-ONE.

This latter issue is even more apposite when the contest is an international one. Tastes – and body-shapes – vary enormously from region to region. Thus it is IMPOSSIBLE to find a person whose face and physique will gratify ALL.

And if that international competition seeks to meld physical beauty with “inner” beauty, by having the contestants SPEAK – then non-English speakers are at an immediate disadvantage, having to work through interpreters. And those with unpopular views (see recently) will lose – even if they have the looks of Aphrodite (or David).

I could go on. But the reality is, once you begin trying to analyse and apply LOGIC to the concept of beauty contests, the whole thing UNRAVELS!

The only way to treat beauty contests is as what they ARE. A chance for professionals in the beauty trade to promote themselves in a spectacular PAGEANT. YES! We’ve come full circle. You see, there is nothing wrong with a beauty PAGEANT – provided you get rid of the damn CONTEST element.

As I think I’ve proved, to have winners and losers is ABSURD. In the past, people were happy to enjoy beauty contests for what they WERE – a superficial piece of NONSENSE. But these days, Society demands REALITY. And beauty contests DEFY reality.

But pageants are fine – a chance to just enjoy human beauty for the marvel that it is. And a chance for spotty little boys to have a good… time.

Morpheus on… My Thailand Train Crash

I will never forget the morning of the 22nd of March, 2006. It was the day that the Butterworth to Bangkok express hit a ten-ton grain truck on a level crossing. Being asleep, back in coach number 13, all I suffered was a rude awakening. Others were not so lucky.

Having quickly dressed, I went to see what we had hit. As I surveyed – and photographed – the tangled wreckage, it became readily apparent what had happened. The truck had come across the single rail-track from the left, dodging around the half-barriers, when its front had been hit square-on by the locomotive.

The loco was on its side in a paddy-field, its undercarriage ripped away as it had ploughed over the truck’s cabin. The emergency services were already removing the luckless train-driver from what remained of his cab. There was no hurry.

What little remained of the truck’s cabin was receiving the same treatment – while the dead and dying were being freed from coach number 1. It was obvious that my continued presence would not help matters, so I removed myself from the scene.

News reports regarding the cause of the disaster merely echoed my own first impression; it had been the truck-driver’s fault.

But examining my photos later, it realised I might have been a bit hasty. I had noticed something which, at the scene, had only grazed my subconscious and which, had I not spent five years with [a large electronics corporation] as a Road Traffic Systems Engineer, I would probably have missed entirely.

The half-barriers were down and UNDAMAGED, but their control-box had been CRUMPLED by the back end of the truck, as it had been swept past, by the loco. This was clearly indicated by the marks in the grass, both on the photos and in my vivid memory of the scene.

But that did not square with the early news stories I had read, in which a rail official claimed the truck had RAMMED THROUGH the barrier. Since the truck had clearly come from the train’s LEFT (the position and condition of the wreckage proved that) and the left barrier was INTACT (as my PHOTOS showed) I KNEW that was an outright LIE – but this did not stop the Police and other media repeating it.

Later stories declared the truck-driver had been stoned, drunk – or just incredibly stupid – and had driven AROUND the half-barriers.

But that made no sense either. The crash had occurred at 07:45 on a bright, clear morning – NOBODY is incapable at that time. And whilst manoeuvring a vintage, fully-laden ten-tonner AROUND two half-barriers – at SPEED according to one report – across a single rail-track might not be impossible, it would NOT have been easy (I once drove trucks as well).

Furthermore, would a man responsible for his own life, that of his young passenger (the reports stated the occupants had been the truck’s owner and a younger man) his truck (his livelihood) never mind its load (representing perhaps six months’ work for a family – possibly his own) NOT have simply taken the trouble to turn his head a few degrees, thus enabling him to look down a clear, STRAIGHT track, where he would have observed several hundred tons of TRAIN heading straight for him??

It just did not add up – but another scenario DID. I BELIEVE THAT WHEN THAT TRUCK-DRIVER APPROACHED THE CROSSING – THE BARRIERS WERE UP.

And he did what we ALL do when given the official all-clear – he trusted to luck and carried on. But on that fatal March morning, his luck ran OUT – along with that of six other people.

Then as the rear of his truck was slammed into the barriers’ control-box – destroying it – the power to the barriers now being CUT, they SAFETY-DEFAULTED. Simply dropped down, under their own weight.

For the fault to have happened, would only have taken a minor glitch in the sensors, their wiring, or the control-box itself. The site was rural. The fault could have existed for some time without even being reported.

But I was alive and the dead were dead. So why was I troubled? Because I had this recurring vision of a widow weeping for her dead husband. Perhaps also for her eldest son (the other passenger?) For the stigma she and her remaining children would bear for LIFE; that her husband/their father had been a stoned, drunk or reckless fool who had caused his own and several other deaths, plus varied injuries to some fifty others.

AND for the fact that she and her children now had no income (Thailand has no welfare system). The State Railway of Thailand would have been unlikely to entertain a compensation claim from her – their position was her husband broke their train.

But WAS it his fault? If the crash had happened in The West, within months the autopsy results would have been submitted, along with the lab’s report on the remains of the barriers’ control-box (even a smashed circuit can reveal faults that occurred before its destruction) wiring and sensors. Blame would have been apportioned and recommendations made.

However, this happened in Thailand. Public enquiries are VERY expensive. And this one might JUST have shown that the fault had lain with the barrier-system which, according to an SRT official I spoke with, were maintained by the SRT THEMSELVES.

Which would have been EMBARRASSING.

But so far as I was able to establish, NO inquiry took place. The SRT simply cleared up the mess, repaired the line and went back to business as usual.

Now, while it is POSSIBLE the truck-driver was single (the passenger being his “longtime companion”) and pissed as a fart at seven forty-five in the morning, yet still able to negotiate a large, ageing truck around a half-barrier (at speed?) without even scratching it, I maintain that MY scenario HAS to be more LIKELY – just on PERCENTAGES.

Thus being doubtless the ONLY retired Road Traffic Systems Engineer on that train, I realised it fell to ME to DO something about this probable grave injustice. But as a Stranger living In A Strange Land – subtlety was needed. I LIVE here. And to those who issue visas, a concerned citizen is one step short of an activist – and an activist is one step short of a TERRORIST.

So I wrote a piece for a certain Bangkok-based English-language newspaper (the ABOVE piece, more or less) and tried to get them to publish it. And also, get their investigative journalists to follow it up. But nothing happened.

At first, they claimed to have LOST the piece. But when I pointed out I had sent it by registered post – and they had SIGNED for it – they eventually caved and printed it. Including the bit at the end which read, “…I call upon the [name of the newspaper], an organ I trust, to take it on and pursue the truth.”

Unfortunately, it transpired they TOO were Strangers In A Strange Land and had not stayed in business throughout Thailand’s many political ups and downs by making themselves BUSY. All of their foreign news came off the wires, whilst local news reports were merely regurgitated press handouts. They did not HAVE investigative journalists.

So unless someone important saw my piece and ACTED on it – I doubt anything was ever done. But at least I can look at myself in the shaving mirror and say I TRIED.

Meanwhile, the next time YOU approach a level crossing – or indeed, just a regular road traffic-light – remember, they DO NOT ALWAYS WORK. As a now-retired road traffic systems engineer, I can tell you during five years in the job – in ENGLAND – I encountered THREE sets of lights that had “conflicting greens” (a green both ways).

It HAPPENS.

In fact, my company once asked me to appear as an “expert witness” in a trial involving a fatal RTA (Road Traffic Accident) and state that a green conflict was impossible. I refused. When they asked why, I listed the ones I’d SEEN.

So I am sorry if you are a motorist and I have just ruined your illusions. Of course, you CAN LEGALLY slow down to walking-speed every time you approach a green light, enabling you to establish that the traffic coming the other way HAS actually stopped – if you do not mind the constant honking of angry motorists and the occasional DOZY one rear-ending you.

But realistically, all you can ACTUALLY do is what the driver of that grain-truck probably did, on that fateful day – having been given the official all-clear – plough on and hope for the best. After all, traffic-lights USUALLY work…

Footnote: My photographic record of the disaster (including the ones showing the flattened control box and the INTACT barrier) can be seen at – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGYzkksGGuE  

Morpheus on… The Trouble With Film Comedy

Back in the Seventies, there was a revival of interest in the films of the Marx Brothers. And I well remember how their new fans bemoaned the inclusion of “romantic sub-plots” – particularly in the later ones. I too thought the producers should have just let the boys loose.

Of course, I now know the truth. It’s been tried – but it doesn’t WORK. No matter HOW good a comedy film is, audience laughter begins to flag after an hour. In other words, great as the Brothers’ schtick was – the films would never have become the classics they are without the inclusion of PLOTS.

You’ll have noticed these days, the works of the Zuckers, Farrellys, et al, are NEVER more than seventy-five minutes long (if you exclude the five-minute credit sequences – and by the time THEY’RE over, the cinema is usually EMPTY) while films made by the likes of Nancy Meyers run TWO HOURS.

This is because Nancy’s films are comedy-DRAMAS. They have a STORY.

When “It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World” premiered, being a mega-movie (a film intended to run in two halves, without a support feature) it ran two hours fifty minutes. However, the release version was trimmed by twenty minutes, most of which featured a sub-plot where Spencer Tracy’s “Capt Culpepper” conspires with Buster Keaton’s “Jimmy” to grab the loot and head South.

Plus, the original script had scenes that were never even filmed, that gave more insight into ALL the characters. But in the end, it was all DROPPED, leaving two and a half hours of wall-to-wall MAYHEM, the ONLY diversion being poor old Culpepper’s world falling apart. However, his reaction to that (running off with the loot) seems out of character, without the missing scene.

Nevertheless, it is a measure of the BRILLIANCE of this epic that even with- out the planned filling out of the characters, it stands today as probably the greatest comedy film ever made (next year, there’ll be a [shudder] sequel).

But Mad World apart, NO film featuring ONLY comedy can keep an audience rocking with laughter for more than eighty minutes – it’s just not possible.

Hence the REALITY of having to give the audience SOMETHING to keep their interest alive – even a lame romantic sub-plot.

All of which supports the old show-biz adage. Give the audience what they want – not what they THINK they want!

Morpheus on… Flying

It’s been a number of years now, since I heard of a machine that enabled a person to fly like a bird. It consisted of a light rig, suspended by wires – and a “virtuality” helmet. The flier would strap themselves in and don the helmet, which contained speakers and a 3-D view that covered the natural field of vision. The helmet and suspending wires were connected to a computer.

The flier would lie prone, with their arms outstretched. Then every time they moved, their movements would be picked up by the suspending wires and relayed to the computer, which would generate graphics to match the movements. These would be displayed inside the virtuality helmet.

Thus, jackknife and you would go down – arch your back and you would rise. Speed was controlled by the arms. Forward for slower, back for faster. The audio was merely white noise, which rose in intensity the faster you went – it was meant to represent the rush of air. But it was the VIDEO that made it. The computer had a memory bank of shapes – graphic representations of buildings, hills and trees.

Once you got the hang of it, the experience was like being in the flying sequences from the first Superman movie, Disney’s Peter Pan and David (the magician, not the Dickins character) Copperfield’s “Flying” routine, all rolled into one. The experience was so emotional, some came out of it CRYING (I can relate to that – watching Copperfield’s routine makes ME misty - it cuts deep at the heart of man’s desire for freedom).

But there was a catch (there always is). In racing video-games, the graphics are highly sophisticated – sometimes derived from photographs of the actual circuit itself – but the parameters laid down for the cars are limited. When going round Monaco, you can’t just turn off the course and head for Cannes.

However, since the flying machine gave you 360-degree freedom – you could go anywhere - its graphics were of necessity, far more basic.

BUT… NOW, we have GOOGLE EARTH!!!

When they MARRY these two technologies, I’ve got dibs on the first flight…

Morpheus on… The Age Of Consent

There are around two hundred countries on this planet and the laws governing when one may bonk - without risking JAIL - vary considerably.

In primitive countries, the law says you must be MARRIED – or TWENTY-FIVE (by which time, one supposes, they figure you’ve been “left on the shelf” - so what the hell).

In many American states, the age is eighteen – about three years AFTER a man’s sexual peak. Although, down South, one hears of old geezers marrying second-cousins of twelve. Apparently, down there, the church has more power than the cops.

In Europe, despite the eternal drive for uniformity, the age varies dramat- ically between countries. From twelve in Holland (which has Europe’s lowest rate of teen-pregnancy) to sixteen in Britain (which has its HIGHEST).

Here in Thailand, the age is the same as MOST countries – fifteen.

However it must be said that countries with low ages of consent often have additional legislation, to try to control middle-aged creepy guys (like this writer) from preying on young teens. Like “banded” systems, where under-eighteens can only have congress with OTHER under-eighteens.

In Britain, the age of consent was introduced in the Victorian age – to stop rich hoorays going from the West End of London to the East End (Jack The Ripper country) to nail KIDS (STDs were lethal and incurable in those days, so virgins – or those who’d only had a few partners – were at a premium).

Of course, the age of consent for GAY sex has always been a thorny subject. It is considered that a young person who is genetically programmed to be gay will not be traumatised by a straight encounter – whereas the other way round…

This is fair enough – since although most gays know they’re gay by the age of fourteen, many are still “questing” (trying to DISCOVER their orientation) well into their TWENTIES. They need to find their OWN solution – not be jumped on by an ageing whoopsy. Thus the age of consent for gays is often higher than for straights.

Of course in primitive countries, there IS NO age of consent for gay sex. The act is still illegal. According to Imadinnerjacket (or whatever his name is) Iran HAS no gays anyway (although it DOES have a lot of closets).

So where does this leave us? Well, I’M alright – I’ve always found girls less than nineteen to be sexually immature (90% of sex is in the brain) and thus unrewarding as an experience – plus I’ve been happily married to my Lady for nearly eight years now and we still feature most nights.

But the YOUNG today have more pressure than ever before. Right-wing morons try to sell them ABSTINENCE (tell me how THAT works out) while the media sells them SEX. In Eighties slasher movies, the kids who got it on were the first to lose their heads – and arms – and legs – and… But the kids knew they were only movies.

Today’s kids already have their WANDERLUST repressed by society’s need for them to get further educashun – which is why they rebel. So stifling their sex-drives as WELL, is sure to lead to trouble.

This writer lost HIS cherry at fourteen – but only as an exercise. Unfortunately, the experience was mediocre.

But to “wait for marriage” is disastrous. It’s unnatural and screws UP the experience when it finally DOES happen. Far better to wait for LOVE – or at least, someone with whom you have sexual chemistry. Then the First Time can be magical. And that First Time is the one that will define the act for you for years – perhaps decades – to come.

Therefore, to “regulate” when one may HAVE that experience is innately WRONG. Love – and sexual chemistry – is a rare thing and when it happens, one needs to be free to EXPLORE it. Which means the “banded” system makes a lot of sense – coupled with SOLID sex-education.

But whatever system a society employs – it needs to remember there are no simple answers. “Just Say No” – doesn’t MAKE it.

Morpheus on… The Invisible Ones

What do “Stan” in “Will And Grace”, “Carlton, Your Doorman” in “Rhoda” and the wives of “Norm”, “Niles” and “Capt Mainwaring” in “Cheers”, “Frasier” and “Dad’s Army”, respectively - have in common?

Of course, they were all sitcom characters who were oft’ referred to – but never SEEN.

Oh, you occasionally saw a body part – Stan’s hand as he copped a feel of his wife’s boob (quickly brushed aside) – Norm’s wife’s whole body (but her face was immediately covered by a cherry pie) – the back of Carlton’s head, in a taxi (it was shaped like that of “The Geek Of Chelmsford” – see elsewhere in these columns) – and Mrs Mainwaring’s “impression” in an upper bunk-bed (she was obviously of ample proportions). But that was all.

The character who is oft’ referred to but never seen is a GIFT for writers. They start with a blank canvas in the viewers’ minds - then slowly paint it in. Naturally the end picture will vary a little, according to each individual viewer’s imagination and experiences – but the basic image will be the same.

And the top prize MUST go to the writers of Frasier. Despite the previous success of “Cheers”, they had no way of knowing it would last another ELEVEN YEARS, thus with Maris being CONSTANTLY referenced - building a picture of a brittle, emaciated harridan – the writers ended up pushing the envelope SO far, no-one could ever have been found to FILL the role!

Morpheus on… A Doctor’s Story

So this little old lady went to see her doctor. “Doctor, I have this problem with wind. Actually, it’s not a BIG problem. It’s totally SILENT and luckily, it doesn’t SMELL at all. In fact, I’ve let several go while I’ve been talking to you and you probably didn’t even notice.”

The doctor replied, “I see – well, take these pills and make an appointment to see me next week.”

A week later, the little old lady returned and said, “Doctor, I don’t know what you gave me, but NOW my wind smells TERRIBLE.”

“Good,” the doctor said, “Now we’ve cleared up your SINUSES, we’ll see what we can do about your HEARING.”

(My name’s Morpheus. Don’t forget to tip your waitress!)

Morpheus on… Trance Music

I have always maintained that Trance uses the same basic rules for its construction as Charleston. And now I have proof.

Whilst going through my collection of Art Deco (late ’20s-early ’30s) record sleeves, I came across one, upon which was printed the following – “There is a fascination about well-played modern dance music. The melody is there, and an unfailing rhythm, but around them is woven a texture of quaint effects, so numerous and unexpected as to give one great respect for the clever people who think them all out.”

And on the reverse was a list of tips – for the care and maintenance of your WIND-UP GRAMOPHONE! I rest my case.

Morpheus on… Noel Harrison

Singer, actor. Son of Rex Harrison. Most famous as the guy who recorded Big Mike’s “Windmills Of Your Mind” - which was featured in the Steve McQueen/ Faye Dunaway vehicle, “The Thomas Crown Affair” – and for playing the sidekick in “The Girl From Uncle”.

Where is he now? I wondered this - so I Googled him. Over the last eight months or so, after I finally buckled and went online (or as I prefer to call it – “on the air”) I’ve Googled various people who were big in the Sixties, but have since fallen off the radar (Roy Philips of the Peddlers is now living happily in New Zealand, where he still does occasional gigs and releases the odd CD).

Noel turned out to have a website. It can be found at http://noelharrison.co.uk/

I recommend you to check it out. It’s not large, but interesting. Noel talks more sense than most and sounds like a really nice bloke. If I still lived in the Uke, I’d look him up, with a view to sharing a drink some time…

Morpheus on… “Hogzilla”

So I was watching this old programme on National Geographic. It opened with a picture showing a man standing beside the strung-up carcass of what appeared to be a gigantic wild boar. It was claimed the beast had measured twelve feet long and weighed a thousand pounds. He’d been dubbed “Hogzilla”.

The first thing that occurred to THIS observer was that if Hoggy really WAS twelve feet long, the guy standing beside it must have stood over eight feet tall himself. And the second thing was that these days, any putz with a computer and some high-end software could have digitally composited the photo in half an hour.

The same things occurred to the boys from Nat Geo.

Then there was the eyewitness report… “Well, ah wuz takin’ an early mornin’ walk an’ thur ‘e wuz. Jeez, ah sez, lookit’ size o’ that ol’ boy. So ah got ma betsy…”

We’ve all heard it before… “Well ah wuz dravin’ mah pickup, an’ sudd’nly thur wuz this brart lart an’ next thing ah knows ah wuz strapped ter this heah table an’ these l’il fellers wuz fiddlin’ with mah daingly bitz…”

These blokes owned a huntin’/shootin’/fishin’ ranch. They claimed the carcass wuz… sorry, WAS buried on their land. They took us and the Nat Geo guys out to a rough patch of ground, which had a hummock topped with rocks, upon which was a crude wooden cross, bearing the legend; “Hogzilla – 12ft – 1000 lbs – June, 2004.”

Okay, says N.G., can we dig it up? So I’m waiting for these good ‘ol boys to insist Hoggy should be allowed to R.I.P., when bugger me, they say - ”Sure.”

After much digging, it begins to look like there’s nothing there - so now I’m waiting for them to say, “Well I’ll be hornswoggled – some varmint done purloined him” (is my Hillbilly ANYTHING like right? I’m thinking Yosemite Sam) when suddenly – PAY-DIRT!

First, some hair – and it LOOKED like wild boar hair. A while later and the shape of a carcass could plainly be seen – but with no head. Uh-oh. But it turned out the boys hadn’t wanted to put all their eggs in one grave, so had interred the head elsewhere.

And sure enough, at another location a sack was dug up containing the partially decomposed head – with two ENORMOUS tusks. At this point, out came the N.G. tape-measure – eight feet.

The next step was to ship the whole thing to the lab and let modern science do what had NOT been possible at Piltdown. And a few genetic tests later, the conclusion was that Hogzilla was indeed one beast – about 80% wild boar and 20% domestic.

In other words – Hogzilla was REAL!!!

Okay, the dimensions had been topped up a little, but that’s traditional – ask any carney. But even at eight feet and seven hundred and fifty-odd pounds, Hogzilla was still around FOUR TIMES the size of a normal wild boar. When alive, he would have been a TERRIFYING sight.

The explanation given was that pigs’ll eat ANYTHING – and the good ol’ boys had been feeding the fish in their lake with high-protein fish food – they had a World record fish stuffed and mounted in their lodge that was twice the size of the average specimen. And it was theorised Hoggy had helped himself to some of this feed.

But even so, it was still a fantastic story. I mean, it had begun with all the classic signs of a SCAM – but then turned out to be GENUINE. Forget Bigfoot – this was the real deal. If you go down to the woods today…

Morpheus on… Ageing

I look 20 years younger than most of my contemporaries. Which is partly down to good GROOMING, but mainly down to – dumb LUCK. Fact is, NATURE is responsible for ageing.

F’rinstance, in the 1967 film “You’re A Big Boy Now”, Peter Kastner was playing a 19-year-old, while Rip Torn played his middle-aged Dad. However, Peter was in fact 24, while Rip was only 36 - just twelve years older.

But whilst Rip went on to enjoy a long successful career, Peter was barely heard from again. Why? Because Rip had those genes that virtually HALT ageing. Oh sure, he was aged UP for his role in “Big Boy” – but still working today, more than 40 years later, he hardly looks any older than he did then.

So maybe, instead of messing about with test-tubes, scientists should dissect RIP - to find out WHY!

Morpheus on… The Bris

Let’s apply some logic here. One presumes those of the Jewish faith believe that God created Man, right? And in his… sorry, His image, yes? And further, that God is perfect? So where do they get off “improving” His design?

And it’s not even an improvement ANYWAY. The nob, once stripped of its protective covering (which rolls BACK during intercourse and is kept in place by a flexible membrane) develops a thick, hard skin which drastically reduces sensitivity – and therefore, the enjoyment of sex. Even masturbation is affected adversely (not to mention MESSILY). The ORIGINAL design works FINE.

This writer’s research has failed to shed any light on this. According to Wiki, some PERSON, thousands of years ago, wrote a piece instructing followers to perform (or have performed) this mutilation on all eight-day-old male babies – a procedure which is impractical, even today, to reverse.

And it’s only our current obsession with P.C. (and Jewish pressure groups) that ensure Western society tolerates said mutilation (imagine if it didn’t exist and someone tried to introduce the practise NOW).

Now don’t get me wrong. Apart from this one niggle, Jewish people are among my personal favourites in the World. They have the best sense of humour and fun – showbiz would be a DESERT without them – and some of my best friends, etc.

And there are religions with FAR worse “traditions” than the Bris – you know who you are – it’s just that THIS is what I’m asking NOW. So whilst for me, it’s academic (thankfully, I HAVE my foreskin) I’d still love SOMEONE to give me the reasoning behind this practise. You don’t even have to register with WordPress. Just leave a “comment”.

And so long as it doesn’t accuse me of being a Nazi/ Jew-hater/”troll”/ anti-Semitic, moronic Gentile or whatever – I’ll PUBLISH it. Promise!

Morpheus on… Continents

According to Chambers, there are seven of these: Europe, Asia, Africa, North America, South America, Australia and Antarctica.

But it’s RUBBISH!

First, Europe and Asia. Any twit can see that they are only ONE land mass. Someone just drew a line on the map and designated them as two continents for POLITICAL reasons. This is the same kind of thinking that has lead to Britain calling Pakistanis, Indians and Bangladeshis (SOUTH Asians) just “Asians” while America reserves the same term for those from South-EAST Asia – despite the fact that actually, about half the population of the WORLD are, essentially, Asian. Including ME!

Then Africa. Apart from a small join at the top right (which, technically, disappeared when the Suez Canal was completed) it does SEEM to be a large, separate land-mass – except that the Mediterranean Sea is in reality a large inland lake, which was formed when the ocean burst through at Gibraltar. The Med has virtually no tidal rise and fall. Which means that ACTUALLY, Africa is part of Europe/Asia.

Next, we have North and South America. The New World. But apart from the Panama Canal, they TOO are joined. So what about the countries of Central America – which continent are THEY in?

(Incidentally, did you know that due to the Moon’s gravity, the Pacific is about 20 feet higher than the Atlantic? Or the other way round, I can’t remember which. Anyhay, if you blasted a wide enough trench between the two – one would empty into the other! Wouldn’t THAT make a great movie!)

Okay, but what about Australia? Sure, it’s a single land-mass – but really, it’s just a bloody big ISLAND.

Which brings us finally – and not a moment too soon – to Antarctica. This place crops up elsewhere in these ramblings. And as stated there, it is a continent without COUNTRIES – being only used for (allegedly) peaceful scientific research and penguin-hunting. (Not). And whilst it’s a pretty big place NOW – how big will it be when all of the ice has melted (in about five years, according to some people).

Are we actually in the process of REDUCING the number of continents?

Morpheus on… Foretelling The Future

It’s funny how the future RARELY turns out the way it’s predicted to.

The classic British 1936 movie, “Things To Come” got it ALL wrong. Like, they had WW2 lasting until 1965, with huge bombers that resembled Howard Hughes’ “Spruce Goose” – each powered by a dozen PROPELLERS (apparently the makers of the film were not familiar with the work of Frank Whittle, even though he’d designed the first practical jet engine several years earlier).

And even poor old Arthur C. Clark couldn’t have forseen that political INERTIA would scupper most of HIS predictions in “2001: A Space Oddity”.

But NO-ONE would have guessed in 1965, that these days – YOU CAN’T SMOKE IN A BAR…

Morpheus on… Movie “Out-Sourcing”

In the Good Old Days, movies were made at the dream factories in Hollywood. But not any more. It takes over a thousand people to make a blockbuster and while you can’t save much on the cost of release-prints (although digital projection will eventually help there) and publicity, you CAN save plenty on the production.

Provided you’re prepared to Go EAST, Young Man.

For in places like Prague and St Petersburg, skilled plasterers, chippies, painters etc., work CHEAP. And bits of these cities can be dressed up to look like almost ANYWHERE in the West. Just CG in the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, the Empire State Building – whatever. And extras cost $5 a day.

In fact MANY movies wouldn’t get MADE today, were it not for these savings. If you’re making a FANTASY that requires 200-odd surreal sets, they all have to be constructed from SCRATCH. And in the West, that comes PRICEY. So much so, that said West has now priced itself out of the market.

But hard currency is welcomed in the East – and they require a lot LESS of it. So for a modest amount, you can realize the most fantastical sets imaginable – built to a standard that Hollywood couldn’t best at ANY price.

So next time you see a movie like “The League Of Extraordinary Gentlemen” – or “Underworld” – and you notice all those funny names down amongst the end credits – be thankful. Without them, you’d never have SEEN that movie!

Morpheus on… When Right Is Wrong

There’s an old, English schoolboy joke that goes – “If the French all drive on the wrong side of the road, how come they don’t have ACCIDENTS all the time?” Of course, the truth is – there IS no right or wrong side. EITHER side is fine, provided everybody sticks to the SAME side.

But which side is BEST? Most countries drive on the right – but far from ALL. Britain, Japan, Australia, New Zealand, Thailand and Malaysia are just some of those who chose the LEFT.

Sweden originally chose the left, but in order to fit in with Europe, changed to the right in the early Sixties. The change was made gradually. I’m kidding of course – the change was made overnight. They unbagged the new signs and traffic lights and bagged up the old ones.

But the thing is, these traditions have nothing to DO with cars. They pre-date the horseless carriage by centuries – in some cases, MILLENNIA. The reason most countries drive on the right is – the ROMANS.

Apparently, when chariots passed on the left, people (being mostly right-handed) got into sword fights and so a proclamation was passed… or maybe that’s just an urban myth. Either way, the Romans drove on the right – and the tradition spread.

However, for MODERN times, that tradition is WRONG. Car control layouts took some time to get standardised, but once they were, they ensured that the wheel would be in front of you, the pedals would be at your feet and the gear lever would be in the middle of the vehicle.

And it is that LAST fact that makes driving on the LEFT much, much BETTER.

You see, when driving on the left, the driver SITS on the RIGHT (if they didn’t, they couldn’t see past the vehicle in front – which is essential for safe overtaking). And this positions them with the gear lever on their LEFT. And THAT’S what’s important.

Think about it; most people are RIGHT-handed – thus possess more strength and accuracy in that hand. And when taking a hand OFF the steering wheel to change gear, they need that strength and accuracy to maintain MAXIMUM control with the hand which remains ON the wheel – while the simple act of changing gear should require a MINIMUM of strength and accuracy.

And the same is true for the BRAIN. Left hand – gears – subconscious (or SHOULD be – if you need to think CONSCIOUSLY about gear-changes, you shouldn’t BE driving). Right hand – steering – conscious.

Therefore, given that the majority of people are right handed, right-hand- drive is the only way to go. Left-handed people; if you want to drive – go and live in a left-hand-drive country!

(Of course, Americans – who HAVE to be different –  have ALWAYS been left-hand-drive. But then, their cars have always had automatic gearboxes and power steering - thus while driving, they only use their left hand to hold the damn ROOF on!)

Morpheus on… Higher Authorities

If you cling to the crutch of religion, there will ALWAYS be a Higher Authority. If NOT, there are only your parents. And when they die, an oppressive VOID opens in your inner being that can NEVER be filled.

Now you are on your OWN.

Morpheus on… TV Today

Remember how, back in the Seventies, experts warned that while the future might allow us to watch FIFTY channels instead of three, we couldn’t expect those fifty channels to be LIKE the three?

Well of course, they were RIGHT. There’s a LIMIT to how much MONEY people are prepared to spend on their viewing pleasure – and the amount of TALENT available to entertain us.

And put low budget and lack of talent together and what do you get? Crappy “lifestyle” programmes and “reality TV”, THAT’S what!

Then there are all of those “speciality” channels – giving us biographies, history, etc. But whilst they look attractive when you FIRST buy your dish – or cable link, or whatever – once you’ve SEEN the stuff on their “carousel”, you discover the amount of NEW programmes they put on every month, is no more than the number of programmes of that type that WOULD have popped up in a month, on your original THREE channels.

Then SPORT. There’s LOADS of THAT - except most of it is DRIVEL. Stuff that wouldn’t have MADE your original three channels.

And 24-hour news and financial channels – again, showing the same stuff over and over and OVER again.

Finally, stuff you’d NEVER have watched back in the old three-channel days. Shopping channels, makeover channels – even CATWALK channels!

And since most setups only allow you to decode ONE channel at a time, you NEED all the damn REPEATS these channels have, to enable you to see what you want. With terrestrial, you could split your RF signal into various TVs – and VCRs, for later viewing.

But do not be TOTALLY down-hearted. There is ONE saving grace. Tivos, PVRs, etc. Like VCRs, these machines will record one channel while you watch another. This, given all those repeats, allow you to build up a “library” of non-topical programmes, while watching the topical stuff, live.

It still requires PLANNING though, if you have four people in the house - all of whom inevitably want to watch something DIFFERENT. Which is where THIS writer CAME IN. In My Day, one could only afford ONE TV – and most of the evening was taken up ARGUING about which channel to watch.

In the Eighties, we had four TVs and two VCRs and happiness ruled. But NOW, we’ve come full circle. Thankgawd the kids have gone…

Morpheus on… Cops With Guns

These days, cops tend to shoot first and ask questions later – and The State condones it. But I recall a time when there was such a thing as “response training”.

The trainee cop would be made to sit and watch a film, whilst in their hand was a push-button. They were told they would witness a number of scenarios – all of which had happened for REAL – where they would have to make a decision on when – or if – to fire.

When they pushed the button, the film would freeze and it would be assumed they had hit their target (this was a test of JUDGEMENT, not accuracy) and killed them instantly. But if the “suspect” shot at THEM FIRST, it would be assumed that THEY were dead.

Your Humble Scribe has SEEN this film – and it was most instructive. By the time you’d got out the mandatory, “Police! Stop, or I fire!” – you were TOAST. There was a pram with a midget inside, a guy who walked casually around a tree as he was being hailed – then swung around firing, a cop in poor lighting conditions who was slow in identifying himself, a man who reached inside his coat for a sign announcing he was deaf and dumb…

This is the reality of living in a “gun society”. And that reality has now resulted in us living in an atmosphere of FEAR. These days, cops just blaze away in CASE.

In England, a suspect is chased onto a tube train and despite being subdued by four “officers” SITTING on him, they fire five rounds into him, because they fear he might be a terrorist with a “button”. He turns out to be a plumber.

Two cops TAZE (Tazers can KILL) a lone woman in a car, on a routine traffic pull, because she won’t jump out of it and throw herself in the mud at their feet. She was talking to her husband on her mobile phone. After she’s finished writhing on the ground, the cop says, “Aw, it don’t hurt THAT much.”

Another routine traffic pull. Two cops fire at the BACK of a fleeing suspect who tries to grab one of their guns. Silly of him, perhaps – but it shows he is UNARMED. He survives their bullets – and HE gets charged with attempted murder.

These last two cases were shown on TV – with the authorities’ APPROVAL. In My Day, they’d have WIPED the tapes, for fear of them being used as evidence of police brutality.

But TODAY, that brutality is State Sanctioned. And thanks to post-9/11 paranoia, we accept it. So might YOU – until the next time you see that flashing blue light in your rear-view mirror…

Morpheus on… Dirty Words

The words in question are “liberalism” and “socialism”.

Liberalism is a political system which is… well, liberal. Liberal being defined as free. It promotes freedom from oppression by the church, the “upper classes” and… government itself.

Socialism is a political system that promotes the idea of a society where all are created equal and should therefore benefit equally from society’s labours.

So what the hell is wrong with that?

Well, let’s look at the political systems of Britain and America. Britain has always had THREE political parties.

The Conservatives, or Tories. This is Britain’s right-wing party. Its legacy of greed, sleaze and corruption has decimated Britain.

The Labour Party. Which is the left-wing party. And whilst being well-meaning, its general incompetence has meant that it’s achieved little more than the Tories.

The Liberal Party. The Centre-ground. The Liberals – or Whigs – were a strong force in Britain until the early 1920s, when the Tories replaced them in popularity. Since then, they have existed as little more than a token party. Despite picking up “protest votes” mid-term, for the last ninety-odd years they have never seriously challenged the position of the other two parties.

Briefly, in the ’80s, they linked up with a new party called the Social Democrats. But despite picking up a significant percentage of the popular vote, ninety-odd years of boundary changes, created by Labour and the Tories, ensured they came a close SECOND in most regions - thus guaranteeing they would STAY powerless.

Therefore today, thanks to the Tories and the “New” Labour Party, Britain’s two-party system looks like remaining entrenched for ever.

But it is this “New” Labour Party that has made the word “socialism” a dirty word. Back in the day, Labour ESPOUSED Socialism, the party being a more moderate version of the Communist movement. But with the advent of Tony Blair, the party SPAT upon its former ideals, moved well to the RIGHT and declared Socialism to be a thing of the past.

Thus Britain now has two political parties – the Far Right (the Tories) and the Moderate Right (“New” Labour). Which brings it into line with…

America. She has only EVER had two parties. The Republicans – America’s right-wing party. And the Democrats. Who are theoretically America’s LEFT-WING party – except that America has never embraced ANY kind of left-wing ideals, thus like Britain’s “New” Labour, it is merely a moderate RIGHT-wing concern.

And it is America – “The (so-called) Land Of The Free” – who has demonised the word “liberal”.

So thanks a lot, Americans and “New” Labourites. Socialism and Liberalism were two lofty ideals until you two jokers came along – and DEBASED them.

Morpheus on… The Greatest Con Of All

I recall a movie made by an artist, back in the Sixties, that lasted eleven hours. It consisted of a single shot of The Empire State Building, at night. The only events which occurred were the lights going on and off.

But this was high drama, compared to the narrative of his next opus. It lasted another eight hours and again consisted of one shot. This time, it was of a sleeping man. The only excitement came when he turned over, snored or farted.

In fact, this second film turned out to be a TWO hour shot – repeated four times. The man responsible for these and other piss-takes (like a study of a soup-can) was of course – Andy Warhol.

I always thought him the greatest con-artist of all time. Then came “reality TV”…

Morpheus on… Dracula

I hear the medieval Transylvanian city of Sighisoara, home to the legendary Vlad The Impaler, now has a theme-park called “Dracula Land”.

Poor old Vlad must be spinning in his grave. Or at least he will when he returns to it – just before sun-up.

Morpheus on… The Miracle Of Flight

Haven’t you ever thought that perhaps we’ve become too blase about flying? I mean, when umpteen tons of metal lifts off the ground, it’s a triumph of science over logic.

So the next time you strap on an aeroplane, as it leaves the Surly Bonds Of Earth, yell out “YEEEE-HAAAAH!”

Morpheus on… The American Electorate

Forty years ago, America put two men on the Moon. And during the past decade, scientists have proven the multi-billion-year-old Universe’s gazillions of stars – have planets circling them. Which means there can no longer be ANY doubt that We Are Not Alone.

And yet today, two thousand years AFTER the birth of Jesus of Nazareth, if two men run for POTUS - one of whom claims belief in extra-terrestrial life - while the other claims the Earth was created in six days by an omnipotent, invisible super-being, a mere five thousand years ago – who will America elect?

The fact is, despite overwhelming scientific evidence to support ET’s existence, there are STILL MANY people who doggedly refuse to accept the IDEA of alien civilisations, whilst steadfastly hanging on to the Creation theory. But the tragedy is, unless the would-be Most Powerful Person On Earth PANDERS to them, his or her chances of  entering the White House are ZERO.

All of which means that any presidential hopeful has either to actually BELIEVE the primitive superstition, or LIE – which is not a good way to start a presidential career. And the American voter is faced with the choice of voting for EITHER a liar – or a fool.

Morpheus on… The Blonde’s Quiz

Q1) Entertainment: What is Britney Spears’ first name?

Q2) Cooking: What is the principle (main) ingredient of scrambled eggs?

Q3) Transport: How many carriageways are there on a dual carriageway? [you may look up the word "dual"]

Q4) Science: At what time of day does Noon occur?

Q5) General: What colour is a red bus?

Q6) Spelling: Spell LONDON.

Q7) Famous people: Which country is ruled by the Queen of England?

Q8) General: Explain Le Chatelier’s Principle Of Dynamic Equilibrium Forces OR write your name in block capitals.

There are a million of these. And if THIS doesn’t draw a comment or two…

Morpheus on… Obama

Much is expected of Obama. America and the World are in a mess and many see this man as the Second Coming. We hope he can sort it out.

But let’s travel ten years into the future. One cannot predict WHAT he will do during the next four or eight years. But whatever his legacy proves to be, it won’t have to be much to elevate him above his predecessors.

I mean, during MY lifetime, U.S. Presidents have hardly distinguished themselves, have they? Let us pause for a moment to consider what THEY are remembered for…

Kennedy:  shagged around, nearly started WW3 – then got shot.

Johnson:  ramped up the Vietnam War.

Nixon:  Watergate.

Ford:  fell over a lot.

Carter:  tried to extricate the Embassy Hostages. Result – fiasco.

Reagan:  senile dementia.

Bush 1:  Reagan Lite.

Clinton:  Monica Lewinsky.

Bush 2:  (see below)

If Obama can’t top THAT lot, he’s not the man we all HOPE he is.

Morpheus on… George Wan…sorry…WaLker Bush – Update!

We can say ONE good thing about George W. Bush.

Granted, he was the most unpopular U.S. president of all time – more so even than Tricky Dick Nixon.

Granted he couldn’t string six words together without fluffing two of them.

Granted he couldn’t find his way out of a room without the help of the Secret Service.

Granted he was known the World over as The Monkey – and looked and acted like one.

Granted he danced like your Dad.

Granted he’d elbowed his way unceremoniously into the Oval Office, pushing a much better man aside.

Granted he couldn’t run a COMPANY, far less a country.

Granted the previous administration had so little respect for him that they removed the “W” keys from all the computers and typewriters in the West Wing.

Granted he was Jeb Bush’s dumber brother who nobody rated (and Jeb was hardly the sharpest tool in the box).

Granted he managed to lose TWO wars, where a smarter man would have won the first and avoided the second.

And granted his connections with his country’s enemies made him the last man America should have had in the White House.

But as stated above, there is now, finally, one good thing we can say about him – he’s GONE.

Morpheus on… War Crimes

War Crimes? Humbug. War IS a crime.

And ploys like the Geneva Convention only serve to legitimise it. Is anybody REALLY naive enough to believe an all-out conflict can be waged in a “gentlemanly” manner, without sadism, rape, pillage, genocide and assorted atrocities taking place? Where only professional 18+ soldiers are involved and those captured will be treated well?

Get real. War is hell. It is fought between governments, winner take all. And how often do those on the winning side find themselves in front of a War Crimes Tribunal?

In this Third Millennium, it is absurd that nanny-state governments will on the one hand give Mr Health And Safety carte blanche to write rules restricting every factor of our lives – whilst on the other hand, stick guns in our hands, telling us to go out and shoot at people who’ve done US no harm, but who they – the government – dislike, with the advice that, should they shoot back, it might be advisable to DUCK.

And this is the same government which claims they only have a military force – which costs us BILLIONS – for DEFENCE. But if ALL the World’s military forces are only used for defence – WHO’S DOING THE ATTACKING? Someone must be.

The reality is that no matter how you dress it up, the military serves one purpose only. To kill and maim people. And destroy their homes, businesses and infrastructures. They are obscene organisations who perpetuate man’s primitive desire for blood. And no amount of sanitisation will disguise that fact.

Morpheus on… Telepathy

There is nothing “psychic” about telepathy. It is as physical as farting. And like farting – we all do it.

So how does it work? Simple. The human brain doesn’t think in word-bubbles (except in cartoons) it thinks in “brain-language” – concepts, pictures. And the WAY it processes that information is similar to the way a computer does it. Little electrical impulses. And when two brains are “in sync”, that info can TRAVEL from one brain to another.

It’s like radio. And scientists know this – they’ve PROVED it. Brain “waves” are part of the electromagnetic spectrum and act similarly. When they took two subjects who were practised at sending and receiving images and placed one in a cage through which they could pass a current, this SCREENED them (like an A.M radio when you go through a tunnel). Every time - unknown to the subjects - they turned on the current, they LOST the ability.

Weird? Well, YOU do it. Remember when you asked that stranger on the street for the time? He was deep in thought and you startled him – thus when he looked at his watch, his brain was working in OVER-DRIVE and you heard the time pop into his brain BEFORE he spoke it.

Of course, the time is one thing. Like playing cards – or those cards designed especially for the purpose – square, circle, star, wavy lines, etc. – it’s a SHORT “message”. But what about sending people PAGES of info? Sadly, language has made us lazy and we’ve lost the ability. Maybe savants could do it if they applied themselves to the task, but for general usage we must content ourselves with the basics.

But it’s more than a parlour trick. Telepathy helps us EVERY DAY. To assess people (“vibes”, “karma”) – particularly if they’re DANGEROUS. People explain it by saying, “I saw it in his eyes” – despite the eyes being NOTHING more than organs of sight. Or, “I read his body language” – yeah, right. Except only a trained psychologist can actually DO that.

No, it’s just good old telepathy. And it explains a LOT of so-called psychic phenomena. But that’s another piece, another time. Right now, it’s time for my breakfast. “Ham and eggs…ham and eggs…” I wonder if my Lady received that…

Morpheus on… Celsius

Anders Celsius was a berk.

For it was he who came up with the idea of using zero degrees and one hundred degrees as a scale and the temperatures of melting ice and boiling water as reference points. And then he BLEW it.

He decided zero would be the boiling water and one hundred, the melting ice.

It took later, more logical brains to realize that folks would better relate to a scale where the numbers went UP with the temperature.

America has never warmed to Centigrade (as I call it, Celsius having naused it) but it’s actually easier to relate to than Fahrenheit. 32 for freezing and 212 for boiling is NONSENSE.

Consider this…

Zero=freezing – the logic is undeniable.

Ten=cold. No snow, but a skinny-dip is out of the question.

Twenty=warm. Vigorous activity will produce sweat.

Thirty=hot. When Brits wish aircon was more fashionable in that country.

Forty=AARGH! The Sahara Desert, around lunchtime.

So there it is: Zero, ten, twenty, thirty, forty. Freezing, cold, warm, hot, AARGH! What’s complicated about that? My pleasure, America.

Morpheus on… Oxymorons

There follows a list of MY favourite oxymorons. For those who arnt proper edukated like what I am, an oxymoron is a contradiction in terms (you’ll see). Thirteen of the following are mine (I leave you to guess WHICH) - the rest are public domain. Enjoy!

LINE DANCING

LIBERAL POLITICS

REALITY STAR

SCOTTISH CUISINE

RAP MUSICIAN

TEMPORARY ROAD WORKS

NOW THEN

GOOD GRIEF

CHRISTIAN SCIENTIST

AIRLINE FOOD

POLICE INTELLIGENCE

NEAR MISS

LEGALLY DRUNK

ALONE TOGETHER

DEBT CONTROL

ALMOST EXACTLY

GOVERNMENT ORGANISATION

AMERICAN CULTURE

SOFT ROCK

CHILD-PROOF

WORKING HOLIDAY

DISK JOCKEY

TAPED LIVE

TEMPORARY PRICE INCREASE

MILITARY INTELLIGENCE

SILENT SCREAM

BRITISH FASHION

PLASTIC GLASSES

TERRIBLY PLEASED

POLITICAL SCIENCE

PRETTY UGLY

FINANCIAL SECURITY

THE FOUR CORNERS OF THE GLOBE

And if you enjoy lists, checkout “T-Shirt Legends” in “The World According To Damien” (my evil twin) on http://damienatloppers.wordpress.com/ plus “My Favourite Quotes” and “Random Thoughts” in “The World According To Cornelius” (my Zen brother) on http://corneliusatloppers.wordpress.com/

Morpheus on… UFOs And LGMs

That’s Unidentified Flying Objects and Little Green (or more likely, Grey) Men.

Two of the most stupid questions ever asked are: – Do you believe in UFOs? and – Do you believe in alien civilizations? Let’s deal with the first first…

TV programmes with titles like “Do UFOs Exist?” and “Do You Believe In UFOs?” are just another example of the DUMBING-DOWN of TV. It’s not a question of BELIEVING in the EXISTENCE of UFOs. UFOs are merely objects which are flying, but whose identity is not immediately apparent.

If you SEE one, it may be a plane, chopper, hot air balloon (full-size or toy – see my piece on the Paranormal) firework or flare, flock of birds, Frisbee, the planet Venus, ball lightning, an oddly-shaped cloud, an internal reflection in a camcorder’s lens array, a top-secret military aircraft or… an interplanetary space craft.

Yes, it COULD be ET on a visit – but it could also be ANY of the other, more mundane objects. And let’s face it – it probably IS. All of the above COULD be an alien spaceship. But realistically, unless you can see little guys with big heads waving from the windows, it’s a hell of a lot more likely to be one of the other things.

In fact, unless you can see CLOSE-UP DETAIL, you can figure it’s a dead CERTAINTY. And even if you CAN see detail, before you make a complete tit of yourself, consider those rascals in the military. The Blackbird was a fantastic SECRET aircraft which from the early Sixties, flew recon missions umpteen miles up, giving Uncle Sam unlimited visual access to every country on the globe.

And it only came off the secret list after THIRTY-ODD YEARS when it was made redundant by spy-satellites. But when it first flew, all those years ago, it looked and performed like something from another DIMENSION. So forty-five years on, who knows WHAT goodies they have up there NOW? One thing’s for sure – we won’t find out in OUR lifetimes.

Which brings us to daft question number two – alien civilizations. Again, it’s not a question of belief. Unless every star-gazer since Copernicus has been pulling our plonkers, this planet is one of many, circling each other and/or our Sun. And our Sun is an unremarkable star - one of BILLIONS, about three-quarters of the way out, in an unremarkable galaxy – which in turn is an unremarkable example of BILLIONS of such galaxies, in the known Universe.

Thus, the chances of our star being the only one with planets – and our planet being the only one inhabited by intelligent beings – and us being the MOST intelligent in the Universe – were always going to be one in a gazillion gazillion.

But SEEING those planets was always going to be DIFFICULT. Imagine standing on a hill-top at night. In a field below, some three miles away, is a naked 100-watt lightbulb. Suspended by a thread, several feet to one side, is a pea. Now you’ll SEE the bulb as a faint twinkle – but the pea? The problem is whilst the bulb is POURING out light, the particles of light reflected from the pea will be so few, that by the time they’ve spread out three miles, they will have dissipated so much – your eye will have NOTHING to work with.

Of course NOW, we have developed instruments that CAN see some of the larger, closer planets, circling nearby stars – so at least THAT question has been answered for those who REFUSED to face the overwhelming statistical evidence that We Are Not Alone.

However, the FACT that Thaals, Andorians and Clay People are OUT there, does NOT mean they’ve been HERE. The thing is, no matter HOW technically advanced they are, interstellar travel may simply NOT BE PRACTICAL – due to the DISTANCES involved.

The Moon is literally in our backyard. A mere 250,000 miles away. If there was a road from the Earth to the Moon, a fast car would get you there in a few months. Indeed if THIS writer had driven all the miles he has driven in his life on said road, he’d be well on his way back home now – for the SECOND time.

But here’s the PROBLEM. If you place your fists one foot apart and call your left fist the Earth and your right, the Moon – on that scale, the Sun would be right up the end of your street. And if you called your left fist the Earth and your right, the Sun – Pluto would be in the next town. And (this is where things REALLY go awry) if you made your left fist the Sun and your right, Pluto – the nearest STAR would be ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD.

And as if THAT isn’t bad enough, given the enormous VARIETY of planets and the rarity of conditions suitable for sustaining Life As We Know It Jim (a “Class M” planet) it appears that the chances of that star actually, currently, HAVING life you could shoot the breeze with – is about as likely as you winning the lottery three weeks running.

Thus to achieve First Contact in a reasonable time-frame would require a VERY quick spaceship. Which is where Einstein comes in. He theorised (and others have since proved him right) that as soon as you start approaching the speed of light – which you’d need to do and THEN some –  all sorts of weird sh*t happens with TIME. Which would mean that unless you could develop “warp drive”, a trip to just ONE star would take you YEARS – and when you returned to Mother Earth, everybody you knew would be long dead.

Ah, I hear you say, but surely a technologically advanced species would have LICKED that little problem – and it is THEY who have been HERE. Well maybe – but even technology has its limits. When chips were first invented, they had just a few transistors. A couple of years later, they had hundreds. Then thousands and currently MILLIONS. Yes, but eventually you hit a WALL – in this case, ATOMIC LEVEL. Transistors CANNOT be made smaller than THAT.

And THAT is the problem facing ANY scientists in ANY civilisation. It may be that NO-ONE in the UNIVERSE has licked the problem.

It may be that the ONLY interstellar travellers are those in “life-boats” – craft designed by races on dying planets, intended to float across the vastness of space, until they approach a planet which is sending out radio-waves. Then their systems would wake them from hibernation (a technology WE still haven’t mastered) and they’d give us a call. Except the odds on them fetching up here and now are no better than the odds on finding the Class M planet mentioned above.

But what about First Contact through CHAT? Well of course, C.E.T.I. have been trying that for DECADES with no apparent success. Again, the problem is the DISTANCE. It is a MYTH that planets 46 light years away (around 276,000,000, 000,000 miles distant – over a BILLION times further off than the Moon) are currently watching Bill Hartnell step out of the T.A.R.D.I.S for the first time.

Our VHF and UHF transmissions suffer the same fate as the light emanating from that lightbulb I spoke of earlier. Within mere HOURS, the omni-directional particles leaving our planet would have dissipated to a level that would require a dish the size of the MOON to resolve. As for a World LIGHT YEARS away - FORGET it.

The only way C.E.T.I. will EVER hear ANYTHING – is if an advanced alien civilisation locates US and fires off an e-mail (with a SERIOUSLY powerful DIRECTED signal) to the point our planet will BE at, when it arrives. Which is possible, but again – those damn ODDS.

Of course, it MAY be that advanced civilisations HAVE mastered interstellar travel and have BEEN HERE. But what would they do when they arrived? Land on the White House lawn? Unlikely. They would probably be more responsible and hold a “summit meeting” with our lords and masters – who would tell them to cool it.

Stay away, until our primitive societies have reached the point where having their belief-systems – like, that a few thousand years ago, the Earth was created by a super-being in a few days and is the centre of the Universe (or some such twaddle) – yanked from under them, would NOT cause them to commit ritual suicide in their millions. Never mind what would happen to our stock-market.

And since the peoples of the Earth are unlikely to GROW UP in our lifetimes, it appears that even if Gort HAS made it here – WE will NEVER KNOW about it.

Morpheus on… Being Beaned By Falling Coconuts

One Fine, Balmy Afternoon… I found myself resting on the side of a little-used back-road on a tropical island. Slowly, the sound of the crickets merged with the buzz of an approaching engine. As my eyes strained to see through the blistering sunlight, I observed an oncoming motorbike, upon which were a man and a small child.

As was customary, the child was balanced on the tank, holding on to the middle of the handlebars. Indeed in those parts, it was not unusual to see entire FAMILIES on board the one machine. But this time, something wasn’t quite right. As the bike grew nearer, I observed that this man’s child was UGLY.

This child was SERIOUSLY ugly…this child was…a monkey. I was looking at A Man And His Monkey. The two waved as they passed and I waved back. It occurred to me that it was a pity I was an atheist. Otherwise I could have looked skyward and said, “Take me now, oh Lord, for I’ve finally seen EVERYTHING.”

Later, I discovered that whilst rare, the vision I had seen was not unique. Apparently 150 people a year are KILLED by falling coconuts – ten times the number killed by SHARKS (that figure is disputed by some – but then 78.3% of statistics are just made up anyway) – and posh resorts don’t like being SUED.

Therefore, they hire men to cut down ripe coconuts before they fall. The men USED to send their KIDS up the trees, but when it was discovered monkeys could be trained to fulfil the task, the practice of using the unfortunate kids was BANNED. Not only were monkeys deemed to be more expendable than kids – they have a much stronger GRIP and thus are far less likely to fall anyway.

And I know all this to be TRUE. Aside from witnessing the Man And His Monkey going to work, I can vouch for a monkey’s grip. I’ve had my screenwash jets removed by one and I couldn’t even do that with PLIERS.

And as for the coconuts… okay, first they’re not nuts, but seeds. And said seeds do NOT grow as they appear in markets – small, brown and hairy – they have a thick, protective husk. The entire package weighs in at about six pounds (2.5 Kg) and grows at the top of a tree which reaches some SEVENTY FEET (20 metres plus).

And when the husks turn from green to brown they drop with a “THUNKK!” that can be felt through one’s feet from 100 yards (OR metres) away. Now I can’t be arsed to work out the kinetic energy involved (2.5 ergs per second per second times 20, then take away the number you first thought of…) but I’m here to tell you if one landed on your head it would friggin’ HURT.

So if YOU see The Man And His Monkey, the next time you’re on holiday in a tropical paradise, you better hope YOUR resort employs him. If not, keep looking UP – and if you see a palm tree with big BROWN husks at the top – don’t sit UNDER it!

Morpheus on… Damien And Cornelius

Who???

Okay, while I ramble on about the injustices of life, Damien is my evil twin. He rants about life’s absurdities. Which makes Cornelius my dopey sidekick. Corny steps to the beat of a different drummer.

You’ll find them on http://damienatloppers.wordpress.com/  and http://corneliusatloppers.wordpress.com/

Give ’em a go…

Morpheus on… Fashion

“Style is for individualists – fashion is for the GULLIBLE.”

So said…well, me actually. I mean, what sort of a prat is going to pay $100 and up for a pair of 5-pocket jeans that cost $10 to make? And walk like a penguin ’cause the current fashion insists the crotch be down around the KNEES?

Before that, it was the RIPS in the knees. And before that, STONE-washing. In fact ANYTHING to REDUCE THE LIFE of clothes that were designed to be hard-wearing WORK clothes.

Said it before and I’ll say it again – if in the Sixties, a time-traveller had told me that in 2008 (9 now) people would be going to work with JET-PACKS strapped to their backs, I’d have BELIEVED them, but if they had said smoking would be banned in BARS… And the same must be said for the existence of a shop called “Levi Strauss” on Fifth Avenue that sells their wares for over $100 a pop. Madness.

The same can be said for moronic kids who beat up other kids whose parents had the sense to buy $20 trainers for $20 – not $200. The name-brand ones are made by the same Third World kids as the non-name-brand ones. The only difference is the money the name-brand company spent on ADVERTISING.

It’s all bullsh*t anyway – a few years ago, “The Gap” tried to kid kids that KHAKI was “trendy” - then it was “little boy” V-neck jumpers – now all the kids are wearing tops with HOODS. In My Day, ANY of those items would have got you beaten up as a NERD.

Again, In My Day, more expensive meant better quality – but not anymore. Now, you get a famous golfer to spend a couple of hours poncing around on a golf course, doing a few trick-shots (they only show the ones he HIT) and pay him more money than the ENTIRE workforce, who make the product he’s advertising, earns in a YEAR.

It’s like the workers who pick the seeds (NOT beans) that are bought by a chain of name-brand coffee bars. Thanks to the advertising “surcharge”, if one of said workers made it to New York, it’d cost them two weeks wages to buy ONE CUP.

Then there’s “Designer Stubble”. We had that In My Day too. Except we called it Look At That Lazy Bastard Who Hasn’t Bothered To Shave For A Week.

And of course, designer CLOTHES. Apparently there really are people who STILL don’t know most of those impractical togs actually LOSE money – and that the only reason they’re made at all is to keep the BRAND-NAME profile up, which enables the companies to make the REAL money from accessories and perfumes – sorry, FRAGRANCES - that are sold to ordinary people, so they can delude themselves into thinking they’re “jet-setters” (even though the only time they board a jet is on their cramped package holiday to Benidorm) having shelled out $30 for their cheap bag or little bottle of pong.

Such designer clothes as ARE sold are mostly bought by sugar-daddies for spoilt Lolitas anyway. They’re the modern equivalent of The Fur Coat.

But change is in the air. The current financial crisis. And while it’s hurting a LOT of ordinary people, we must be thankful for one thing – it’ll hurt the con-artist designers most of ALL. Then maybe STYLE will make a welcome re-appearance.

Morpheus on… Love

Love is… the most powerful force on our planet. It comes in many forms – love of country, political ideals, relatives, life-partners, chocolate. And it manifests itself in many ways, from setting fire to oneself – to morbid obesity. But Your Humble Scribe doesn’t have all day, so let’s concentrate on life-partners.

When a male Australian aborigine reaches thirteen or so, he goes Walkabout. And in doing so, continues a tradition that goes back to “caveman days”. For what he is looking for – is a life-partner.

Which is where The Numbers come in. You see, everyone on this planet is born with a key, or code – a number – hard-wired into their brains. Where it is located, we know not (if we did, it’d make dating WAY easier). Perhaps it’s buried in a nugget in one of the areas of the brain scientists still know little about. Maybe it’s networked throughout the organ. We don’t know.

But it exists in all of us. And it is between one and approximately fifty – about the number of  the available women likely to be within walking distance of our aborigine. Thus this writer might be a Twenty-Seven and you might be a Forty-One. But when a Twenty-Seven meets ANOTHER Twenty-Seven, FIREWORKS go off. Everything about the other person is just RIGHT – the way they look, smell, move – EVERYTHING.

Which, whether he knows it or not, is what the aborigine is looking for. And after traipsing around the neighbouring tribes for a year or so, he’ll FIND it, settle down with it and produce lots of LITTLE aborigines.

If only ’twere that simple for those of us in developed countries. Problem is, we have another factor to consider – COMPATIBILITY. Age, race, creed, colour, politics, socio-economic background, IQ. Tastes in music, clothes and food. Hobbies, habits, life-style, goals and ambitions. All of which meant NOTHING to primitive man.

And since these considerations are of the modern age and have ZIP to do with The Chemistry Of Love, when it comes to The Numbers, they give us a major PROBLEM.

Let us examine those numbers. The odds against finding true love. Given that The Chemistry occurs only once in fifty or so Encounters  – and given Nature is not an exact science – a Twenty-Seven might meet a Twenty-Seven-A -  which is where ONE person feels The Chemistry, while the other feels nothing – which happens around one time in three – we can see that the odds against finding MUTUAL true love with An Encounter actually run out at around seventy-five to one.

Which brings us back to that devil of our modern age – compatibility. In order that a relationship may prosper, it is necessary for a DEGREE of compatibility to exist. The day-to-day business of living together will DESTROY love if there isn’t SOME overlap. So what are the odds on THAT?

Well, it depends on the individual. Example: “Single man. Mensan. Likes: Indonesian cuisine and sailing. Musical tastes: Zydeco and Belgian Trance. Hobbies: BASE-jumping and bog-snorkeling. Seeks similar.” Or “Single man. GSOH. Likes most music. Enjoys watching TV, visits to the cinema and walks on the beach. Seeks similar.”

Who’s going to get the most responses? The humdrum guy, that’s who. He’s compatible with half the women on the PLANET, while Mensa-man will still be looking for HIS soul-mate when he’s NINETY.

But let’s forget those extremes and give compatibility odds of ten-to-one. However since, as previously stated, The Chemistry Of Love has NOTHING to do with compatibility, the odds become a MULTIPLE. Seventy-five times ten. Which means SEVEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY DATES to find a life-partner even APPROACHING perfection – which is why most people SETTLE for someone who is merely COMPATIBLE.

Which is a shame, for love of life-partner is by FAR the most IMPORTANT aspect of our lives. Most never find it and many of those who fail, divert their efforts towards The Five Impostors: Fame, Wealth, Power, Achievement and Experience.

But while these five diversions are great ADDITIONS to a life lived with the ideal life-partner – they are poor SUBSTITUTES for same. They quickly pall.

And when after years – perhaps DECADES of searching, you FIND that ideal life-partner, nothing else matters. You are richer than Bill Gates and have achieved more than Isaac Newton.

So how do you recognise The Chemistry when it hits? Well, number one – if you have to ASK yourself if you’re in love – you AREN’T. If you are, you’ll KNOW. It’s like a man having to ask himself if the Thai girl he’s dating is really a GIRL. If he needs to ask, she ISN’T.

Number two – the Chemistry Of Love is INSTANT. There IS only ”love at first sight”. Except in ONE instance – the Why Miss Jones I Never Realised Before, You’re Beautiful syndrome…

Mr Smith is promoted and finds himself with an office and Miss Jones – a secretary. She is not unattractive, but business-like, with stern glasses, a long skirt and hair tied up in a bun.  After a few casual invites to join him for lunch are politely declined, Mr Smith and Miss Jones settle down to a formal business relationship.

Then one day, Miss Jones is late. The previously punctual lady finally stumbles into the office apologising to Mr Smith for her lateness, explaining that she had found her long-time sole companion – a Great Dane – passed away this morning and that she had had to wait for the vet to come and remove his body from her flat.

She then walks across the office to begin work, but her vision blurred by tears, she trips over the carpet and sprawls across the floor. The impact catapults her glasses away, her hair falls loose and her long skirt rides up to reveal long, shapely legs.

Mr Smith immediately realises the depth of her distress and moves quickly to help her. As he does so, he cannot help taking in the shapely legs and the lush, auburn hair now framing the oval face. As he grasps her arm to help her up, he looks into eyes no longer hidden behind stern glasses – and Miss Jones looks up at him and sees the concern in HIS eyes. They freeze – and then Mr Smith utters those immortal words, “Why Miss Jones…”

So why is this melodrama an exception? Because Smith and Jones had ACTUALLY only just MET. Before, their stations had demanded they build a WALL between their natural instincts, which circumstances – the passing of Old Rover – had SHATTERED.

But aside from this one somewhat corny case, if Love ain’t there within the first five minutes – it never will be. So if, within that first five minutes, you don’t want to Get A Room – make your excuses and LEAVE. You still have another SEVEN HUNDRED AND FORTY NINE DATES TO GO!

Morpheus on… God Versus John Winston Lennon

Remember all the fuss that resulted when John observed that the Beatles were more popular than God? The remark was intended to point out the incredible power of the media at that time, rather than have a poke at God.

Nevertheless, whilst Britain mostly ignored the comment, America FREAKED – burning albums and the like – and giving the Fab Four’s concert security MAJOR headaches.

Now of course, the Interweb didn’t exist in those days so one can only speculate what the result would have been, if one had done what THIS historian just did.

He can report that if you Google the Beatles today, you get around SIXTY MILLION references - that’s more than the population of Great Britain – not bad for a band that broke up nearly forty years ago.

However, in a similar vein, if you Google Paris Hilton you get EIGHTY-FOUR million. And Obama (halleluyah) gets TWO HUNDRED AND EIGHTY-ONE million. But God gets… FIVE HUNDRED AND TWO million.

This information is passed along without comment.

Morpheus on… US Airways Flight 1549

Well whodathunk the old Airbus A320 could double as a flying boat then? Thanks to the “ditch-switch” which m’colleague Cy, over at “mydigest. wordpress.com” assures me instantly blocks up the kite’s orifices, it floats! (Last I heard, it was passing the Statue Of Liberty).

I’ll bet that would have been good news for its passengers, in the plane’s early days. Those who’d heard sacked pilots wandering dazed, telling anyone who’d listen, “I pulled the stick back…but it went DOWN…”

But now they’ve ironed the bugs out of the fly-by-wire computers – and the backup computers – and those that backup (etc.) – there are literally THOUSANDS of those things in our skies. Nice to know it takes more than a few birds to knock ‘em OUT of the sky.

If it’s just a case of the engines getting clogged, while the plane becomes a GLIDER, it is still FLYABLE. Nice that the Hudson was nearby though – even if it WAS FREEZING.

In the past, like most people, I’ve always IGNORED the flight staff’s ROTE about “water landings” – figuring it was ROT. I mean, if a plane hits water at over 140 mph (any less and it has the aerodynamic qualities of a house-brick) it’ll break up, right? A date with Davy Jones’ Locker.

Which just goes to show all I know. Next time I’ll LISTEN.

I once had a VERY hairy landing at LHR in a MASSIVE storm (half of London was underwater) with a VICIOUS crosswind (thanks a lot for dumping the diagonal runways, Heathrow) and had a pilot I’d like to buy a DRINK.

The plane pendulated from side to side as we approached the ground. I knew the passengers were brown-trousered, but I was watching the FLIGHT ATTENDANTS. And when I saw THEY were tight-lipped, I KNEW we were in trouble.

I looked out of the window, waiting to see us burst out from the clouds. We never did. They stretched right down to the deck.

Then I saw concrete – just feet below us. The plane levelled out, waiting. As the bird swung right,  across Runway Ten Left,  it suddenly descended. The left wheel caught. As she swung back again, the right caught. At that split-second, the pilot SLAMMED on reverse-thrust, GLUEING the plane to terra-firma.

I and most of the other passengers broke the long silence with an ERUPTION of APPLAUSE. Now, applauding a soft landing is standard form in some countries – but in miserable England it’s UNHEARD of. The pilot HAD to know his skill had not gone unnoticed.

So while we may occasionally complain about ‘em – “Did we land, or were we SHOT down?” – let’s hear it for the guy (or these days, frequently girl) up front.

And the next time YOU strap on an aeroplane, just hope the dude (or dudess) in the left seat is the same one who brought down MY flight – or US Airways Flight 1549.

Morpheus on… The € (Euro)

When this historian finally ESCAPED the cold, eternally WET, over-priced, over-regulated MISERY of the United Kingdom of Great Britain some six years ago, he had thought that that was THAT. But NO.

Some years earlier, he’d had a try at writing a piece of fiction (and found that he wasn’t very good at it). It was a time-travel piece in which the hero meets a girl in the past – and ends up being his own grandfather.

At one point, while writing the piece, he needed a name for the then- proposed new European currency. At that time, a name which was a bit similar to an obsolete French denomination was being rejected – for that reason. And since at that time no alternative was being considered, he made UP the name “Euro”. Imagine his glee, when a year later, that very name was chosen!

But while every OTHER country in Europe adopted the “Euro”, Britain stood firm. The Great British Public did not WANT to lose their Great British Pound in favour of the Euro. And Tony Blair lacked the intestial fortitude to force it upon them.

This despite the fact the French were happy to fly in the face of hundreds of years of tradition and dump their franc in favour of the new currency. Likewise the Germans with their mark. The Irish with their punt. Etc.

Well, let’s hope the Brits are pleased with themselves. Two years ago, a British Pound (this keyboard doesn’t even HAVE the symbol) was worth one Euro FIFTY. A year ago, one Euro THIRTY-FOUR. While this very day, it stands at less than one Euro ZERO-FIVE. That’s €1.05. How long before it hits parity? Then sinks LOWER?

So why does this bother Your Humble Scribe, now that he’s escaped to the sun? Because all of his money is in POUNDS, that’s why.

Grrrrrr.

Morpheus on… Life’s Little Problems

Once Upon A Time… there was a Lady. And tonight was her Big Night. A sumptuous charity ball. Simply EVERYONE would be there. She’d been eagerly looking forward to it for weeks. But now, something had happened to upset her reverie.

Five minutes earlier, a friend had rung to warn her that her biggest social rival would be turning up in a gown IDENTICAL to the one her designer had assured her was UNIQUE. “Madame, I ‘ave destroyed all the drawings,” he had said, in his French accent that never QUITE made it.

Now distraught, she was running through all of her wardrobe. But there was nothing she hadn’t worn before. She had a PROBLEM.

Across the Other Side Of Town, there was another lady. She would have LOVED to have had the problems of our first Lady – when her “rival” had arrived, she’d have just laughed the whole thing off. But this lady had REAL trouble.

Several years earlier, she’d fallen in love with a man who treated her like a princess. Sure, he had a quick temper. But he was an Alpha Male. Rich, successful – and he’d given her three wonderful children. But then the trouble had started. First, his company went broke. She didn’t understand why, but from the moment it happened, he’d begun to change.

His drinking – which had always been frequent – became constant. Then there was the first time he’d hit her. Oh, he’d been VERY apologetic that first time, swearing NEVER to do it again. Now, he didn’t even bother to apologise. Then he’d started on her children.

Now, he was on his way home. He’d rung her from his usual watering hole, demanding that his dinner be ready when he got home. But knowing the bar he’d been calling from was only five minutes away, she knew she was in for another beating. SHE had a PROBLEM.

But across the other side of the World was ANOTHER lady. And not only would she have loved to have had the problems of the first Lady - she would have settled for the problems of the second. In THAT case, she would have had five minutes to gather the kids and any essentials and head for a Shelter.

However, this lady didn’t HAVE five minutes – or any realistic hope of rescue. An Adventuress, she had embarked on one adventure too many. While hacking her way through an especially dense bit of jungle, she’d burst through a curtain of vines and fallen over a ridge. Now she was hanging half-way down – and the roar of the pride of lions circling at the bottom assured her that when her fingers finally gave way – as they were about to – she’d not have to worry about being injured on the pile of rocks directly under her. SHE HAD a PROBLEM.

And what have we learned from this little anecdote? Well, that the next time you figure YOU have a problem, step outside of yourself and consider objectively how big that problem REALLY IS.

Are you the adventuress in peril?

The battered mother?

…Or just the posh bitch with the wrong frock?

Morpheus on… Douglas Hurd

Remember him? One of Margaret Thatcher’s top hench-persons. Writer, politician, idiot. The voice was Fozzie Bear with an English accent – and apparently he once USED that voice in a Cadbury’s Smash ad (according to Wiki).

Anyhoo, turns out the old boy’s still ALIVE! He’s about 78 now (he LOOKED that old 20 YEARS ago). And I’m sure he’d LIKE to be remembered for all of his sterling work in the Tory political arena of the ’80s, but let’s face it – his MAIN achievement will ALWAYS be that addition to the canon of RHYMING SLANG.

“Excuse me, I have to go and DROP A DOUGLAS.”

Morpheus on… Anti-Smoking: A Tale Of Paranoia – And Hypocrisy

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: if, during the Sixties, a time-traveler from THIS period had told me that by now, we’d all be going to work with jet-packs strapped to our backs – I’d've BELIEVED them. But if they’d told me that in 2008, you couldn’t SMOKE in a BAR – I’d've LAUGHED at them. So how did this ridiculous situation come about?

Well, during the Fifties, apart from hospitals, libraries, art galleries, theatres, churches and fireworks factories, you could smoke ANYWHERE. Even people who were NON-SMOKERS kept a full cigarette-box, lighter and ashtray for VISITORS. Happy days.

But by the Sixties, the rumblings had begun. However, no-one took them SERIOUSLY. After all, James Bond, The Beatles and all the other COOL people still smoked – so how bad could it be?

Well, in the Seventies, people found OUT. First, the American government commissioned a research programme to establish the ACTUAL risks presented by Second-Hand Smoke. The scientists announced the risks had been found to be SIGNIFICANT.

Then the story concerning “The Boys” emerged. Richard Levinson and William Link were Hollywood’s TOP television writing team, responsible for Columbo and many other fine shows. They worked together for HOURS each day, in a small, ill-ventilated office. Link smoked like a chimney, FILLING the office with a FOG of smoke, while Levinson was a non-smoker.

And when Levinson DIED, from LUNG CANCER, his widow tried to SUE Link – who then wrote a TV movie about the events. Only in Hollywood could anyone show such LACK of taste.

Then popular British multi-instrumentalist, comedian and TV presenter, Roy Castle died – also from lung cancer. He too had never smoked, and his death was blamed on years of playing in smoky jazz-clubs. Roy was a nice guy and people were appalled.

So by the Eighties, people were understandably treating tobacco smoke like it was NERVE-GAS. And as the Nineties and - whatever THIS decade should be called - progressed, smoking was banned in ALL public places – even OUT-DOORS.

It became ACCEPTABLE to abuse and segregate smokers in a way which, had it been applied to BLACK people, would have sparked race-riots that would have made Watts look like a picnic. But given the DANGERS of Second-Hand Smoke, the public’s fears were justified, right?

Well…NO!!! THE PUBLIC WERE CONNED.

Let’s examine the three seminal events listed above. First, that “research programme”. Several years AFTER the findings were released, it was revealed that ALL of the tests had been BOTCHED and the results were BOGUS. There never WAS any significant risk from Second-Hand Smoke.

Doctors had been saying so for YEARS. If you think about it, when were you EVER in a smoky club where you couldn’t see one side from the other, due to SMOKE? And yet, if you blow a mouthful of smoke into a brandy-glass, the smoke will completely obscure the view through it. And while the club might be, say, a hundred feet from side to side – the brandy-glass will only be a few inches. Unscientific perhaps, but surely a fair indication of the difference between First- and Second-Hand Smoke.

Then there’s the sad tale of Levinson and Link. Except it NEVER HAPPENED!! It was just a STORY. Oh, Levinson died alright – from a HEART-ATTACK. And HE was the smoker! Link merely based the FICTIONAL CHARACTERS of his FICTIONAL TV MOVIE on his memories of how he and Levinson had worked together.

And then, Roy Castle. It’s true that certain people CLAIMED he’d developed lung cancer as a result of  his playing in smoky jazz-clubs – but it seems highly unlikely. By the time he contracted the disease, he was a TELEVISION PRESENTER - and hadn’t played in jazz-clubs for DECADES. And ALL doctors will tell you that just MONTHS of ceasing exposure to smoke reduces the risks from it to almost zero.

Plus, despite most people having now been brainwashed into thinking that you can ONLY get lung cancer from smoking, it simply isn’t TRUE. Oh sure, your CHANCES of contracting the disease as a smoker increase dramatically. But a non-smoker living alone on a desert island can still come down with it.

So given these FACTS, what REALLY promoted the Second-Hand Smoke hysteria? MONEY, that’s what.

Oh, pubs and clubs have taken a CANING over the smoking bans. Twenty-five percent of their customers smoke and few feel like standing around in the rain like naughty schoolboys, preferring to drink at HOME - where the booze is much cheaper and they can smoke NAKED if they choose. Thus, those watering holes which were running on slim margins have gone UNDER.

And some governments make MILLIONS from the exorbitant TAXES they glom. If Britain’s smokers all suddenly STOPPED paying their thousand-percent-plus cigarette taxes, their National Health system would COLLAPSE overnight.

So who’s making the money? The shops, businesses, offices and airlines, that’s who. And that’s where the hypocrisy comes in.

When Second-Hand Smoke first became an issue, the owners of buildings and vehicles LEAPT upon it. Realising that modern surfaces and equipment are mostly PLASTIC, these days – and that plastic absorbs smoke-stains like a SPONGE, making it look old before its time – they moved QUICKLY.

In The Old Days, redecorating meant merely the annual task of moving desks and filing cabinets out into the corridor for a day or two, slapping some green, cream or beige paint on the walls and opening the windows for a bit. But NOW, it meant STRIPPING an office of EVERYTHING and REPLACING it.

On the other hand, if in the name of “Heath And Safety” you could ban smoking (or have a referendum, knowing seventy-five percent of the staff would vote YOUR way) you could reduce that task from an ANNUAL event to a once-in-a-DECADE event. AND you’d save on fire insurance, air-conditioning and cleaning as well. Then if you could stretch the ban to your company cars by classing them as “work-places”, when you came to sell them they’d be worth more. Brilliant!

As for airlines, have you ever wondered why you feel so DOPEY after a long flight? And usually develop a VIRUS a few days after? It’s thanks to the smoking bans. In addition to the planes’ interior decors – plastic again – looking younger for longer, they’re also able to back off their air-circulating systems. Despite being pressurised, all aeroplanes still have the facility to slowly change cabin air. But with the outside air temperature being – at 35,000 feet – around minus fifty-five degrees (Centigrade OR Fahrenheit – at that temperature, the scales cross) it costs MONEY to HEAT it.

And when after TWELVE HOURS without a smoke you finally get OFF the damn thing and enter a terminal large enough to PARK one in, you have to search for the “smoking facility” – which more often than not, turns out to be a room the size of a garden shed. Thus despite representing twenty-five percent of their customers, you’re lucky if you have ZERO POINT five percent of their SPACE. Reason? It’s those cleaning, decorating, insurance and air-con expenses again.

Finally, a while back, when (then) London Transport had a deadly fire in their Underground train service at Kings Cross, instead of facing up to their shortcomings with cleaning and staff instruction, they blamed it on a dropped fag-end and banned smoking throughout their whole NETWORK - even the SURFACE sections. Thus OUT-DOOR platforms had bans also. Which obviously made NO difference to “Heath And Safety” – but again, it cut their cleaning bills. Plus the cost of redecorating their “smoking” carriages. And naturally, it didn’t take other train companies long to follow suit.

Of course, it is fair comment to say that many non-smokers find just the SMELL of cigarettes objectionable. And that has always been so. But back in The Good Old Days, companies recognised the problem. And being concerned about the comfort of ALL their customers, wherever practical they provided FACILITIES for smokers. Smoking areas, cars, bars, etc. But when they saw the chance to SAVE themselves all that trouble and EXPENSE – they TOOK it!

So there it is. It’s a CON, people. And thanks to BAD INFORMATION, YOU’VE ALLOWED THEM TO DO IT!

Morpheus on… Two Tribes

If you’re OLD like me, you’ll recall the Frankie Goes To Hollywood video of “Two Tribes”. For those unfamiliar with this masterpiece, it features an obvious President Of The United States mixing it up in a bare-knuckle ring with an obvious Russian Premier.

Now, for the next few weeks, The Monkey is still nominally America’s POTUS – and when he was in the army, he was a SLACKER. And let’s face it, Vlad is still Russia’s REAL power – and he’s ex-KGB.

Which would make THAT a match worth SEEING. Putin would KICK BUSH’S ARSE!!!

Morpheus on… Jay Leno… UPDATE!

A month ago, Your Humble Scribe posted the following in Another Place…

At the time of writing this, The Monkey has just ten weeks left in the Oval Office (although with a Democratic Senate and House Of Representatives, his only use now is to show Barack where the secret door to the Executive Bathroom is) which will sadden few people.

Also, Dead-eye Dick Cheney will pass into history as the only sitting VP to SHOOT someone for a couple of hundred years.

But a few weeks after, will spell the end of the line for Jay Leno on the Tonight Show – and this historian for one will mourn his passing. Okay, he’s not DYING – he’s RICH and will ALWAYS enjoy high paying gigs - but “Leno”, like “Carson” will slip from the vocabulary.

Conan O’ Brien is a good, competent host and I’m sure he’ll hold it together – but he’s no Leno. Even Leno was no Carson, but after fifteen years of clinging to his job by his fingernails – he never DARED to take a holiday – he’s just about PEAKED now.

And so NBC are CANNING him. They’ll – be – sor-ry. And so shall we…

WELL, READER – it appears they WERE SOR-RY!!!

But their response was to pull a blinder – and this writer has to take his hat off to what they’ve done! Yesterday, they announced they WOULD still be giving Conan O’Brien the Leno spot on The Tonight Show - but in September, they’ll be giving Leno a NEW SHOW…in PRIMETIME.

History: In My Day (the ’60s) America had three national networks – all of which had developed from RADIO networks – CBS (the Columbia Broadcasting System) NBC (National Broadcasting Company) and ABC (American Broad- casting Company). And in those days, CBS and NBC were about joint Number One, with ABC bringing up the rear.

But fortunes change. And now, CBS is about joint Number One with ABC, AND the upstart Fox - with the once great NBC bringing up the rear.

So what the Peacock Boys have done is VERY cute. Knowing they’re getting KILLED in Primetime – and the fact that Leno might WELL have been wooed by a rival (probably ABC) they have invented a NEW Primetime show – The Jay Leno Show (which will STILL be ahead of O’Brien, who says he likes to follow Leno – but he must be smarting a BIT!)

And this is TRIPLY cute, since (1) chat shows are CHEAP to mount – the guests are all SELLING stuff and only get $500 appearance money (2) Leno’s POPULAR and will HURT the rival networks’ drama ratings (3) chat shows are TOPICAL – meaning most people watch ‘em LIVE – not on VCRs, Tivos, PVRs., DVRs or DVD-Rs – which means advertisers will pay MORE for their slots, knowing audiences won’t fast-forward through their crap!

So, a coup by the chaps at 30 Rock! And a break for Leno, who during his fifteen years on The Tonight Show has had to endure a lotta crap. Good luck to him, I say!

Morpheus on… War Reminiscences

In the past, like most people, I’ve always made my excuses and left, whenever an old person has started, ” I remember back in the war…”

But it occurs to this scribbler that since the last argument ended some sixty-three years ago – and the only records that exist from the time are books, movies and censored newsreels – it might be time we started to LISTEN to these old geezers. I mean, they were THERE – and they won’t be HERE for much longer…

Morpheus on… Carats

Carat: a unit of weight, used for gemstones, equivalent to 200 milligrams.

Carat: a measure of purity of gold, pure gold being 24 carats.

What genius thought of THAT?

I mean, gold and gemstones being the two staple materials of the jewelery trade, wouldn’t you have thought they could have come up with a different name for ONE of them?

Morpheus on… Dates

Right now it’s 2008. Which is generally SPOKEN as “Two Thousand And Eight.” Right?

And yet if you ask The Man In The Street when modern history began, he’ll say “1066 - Battle Of Hastings.” And he’ll enunciate it as Ten-Sixty-Six. Then if you ask him when the Edwardian Era was, if he’s well-educated he’ll reply, “1901-10, mate.” Which will come out as Nineteen-O-One to Ten. Of course strictly speaking, he SHOULD have said Nineteen-ZERO-One to Ten - O is a LETTER – but now I’m being pedantic.

But do you see where I’m going with this? The thing is, this year SHOULD be spoken as Twenty-O-Eight (or strictly, Twenty-Zero-Eight).

But it isn’t. After the Millennium, when we called the year Two Thousand, we just carried ON – aided possibly by memories of “2001 A Space Odyssey” – Two Thousand And One, Two Thousand And Two, etc.

The last time this would have been an issue would have been in the year 1000. But since Britain was still in the Dark Ages, we’ve no way of knowing WHAT they called it.

So m’question is when, if ever, will we revert back to describing the year in couplets? In The Year 2525?

Morpheus on… The Death Of James Bond

Blofeld never caught him. 007 was finally nailed by that which catches us ALL – TIME.

This chronicler was a mere boy of ten when Dr No emerged and has since seen ‘em all, including the ’54 TV movie of Casino Royale, the ’67 romp of Casino Royale and the “remake” of Thunderball: Never Say Never Again. Plus he’s read all of Fleming’s Bond books. Thus he feels qualified to make the bold statement above.

The thing is, the Bond movies are essentially ACTIONERS – and they have always LEAD the field. But not anymore.

So what MAKES a Bond film so special that they have ruled the genre for over forty years?

Well, first and foremost – PACE. With Dr No, the franchise hit the ground RUNNING. Compared to other actioners of the period, Dr No was a breath of fresh air. And it was a pace that other actioners always sought to match – but never quite did.

However now, pace has been substituted by MTV-editing which fails to allow the viewer time to assimilate what’s going ON. Like in the Bourne movies: Identity, Supremacy and Ultimatum – or as I call ‘em: Bourne One, Two and Three (Born Free?). And now Quantum Of Solace tries to play CATCH-UP with those.

Then there were the famous “gadgets”. In the Sixties they were fantasy, but now all of Q’s PRACTICAL toys can be purchased from Radio Shack. And if you think your car really NEEDS a defibrillator in the glove box…

And the Ken Adam sets, with their trade-mark descending circle in the ceiling, which distorted perspective to make the sets appear bigger.

Plus the exotic locations. While other movies were content to film everything in the studio in front of second-unit plates, the “Bond Circus” toured the World. Again in the Sixties, most people had no IDEA what a country other than their own looked like.

Then there were the “of the moment” items. The Bell-Jump. The Millennium Dome. MI6′s shiny new HQ. And most people got their first look at a digital watch in a James Bond movie.

And the “Bond Song” generally used an artist who was “now”. At least the latest offering must have pleased Aha – they no longer hold the dubious distinction of having produced the crappiest Bond Song ever.

Then of course, there was the Bond Villain. Outwardly a cool dude, but inside was a megalomaniac bent on mischief on a global scale – the latest example is just a thug.

But what Bond was REALLY about was birds, booze and ciggies. However, thanks to American Paranoia, 007 has had to give up the fags and only gets to shag ONE sexy foreign bird per movie. Oh DEAR.

And to add insult to injury, the Bond strain has now fallen victim to Prequelitis - Hollywood’s obsession with movies set BEFORE the classics. Which in Bond’s case makes NO sense. I mean, Judi Dench was “M” during the Pierce Brosnan era, so how can she be M now? And given that EVERYONE has seen – on TV at least – SOME of the earlier outings, how can this “re-start” be credible?

Finally, despite having the most famous intro of any series EVER – the “gun-barrel” sequence – the makers decided to follow the annoying modern trend of putting the titles between the movie and the end credits – and placed said intro THERE. AAARGH!

So R.I.P., James. We enjoyed your style, your charm, your bad one-liners and envied you all those bodacious babes. But you overstayed your welcome. Now it’s time for audiences to be bedazzled by no-brain action movies filled with noisy stunt sequences (that are cut so quickly, they can only be appreciated by those on cocaine) – and not very much else.

Who is Morpheus?

Well, originally, he was the Greek god of sleep and dreams, but he is also a moniker I adopted when I began creative writing, back in 1994 (I started late in life).

My real name is unimportant – Mike Unimportant. I was born in England (rule Britannia!) attended Copleston High, got a few “O” levels, then went down to London and caught the tail-end of the Sixties. Then I got into jazz and DID inhale.

Later I settled down, got married, had a son (Hi, James!) studied electronics at Southend Tech and became a service engineer for the next ten years. Finally I decided the life portrayed in the TV ads was not for me and QUIT the rat race.

I travelled (Britain, Europe and the Far East) finally, at 50, RETIRING and settling down in S E Asia with wife number three, a semi-feral cat called Sophie and a dopey but affectionate dog called Jasper. I love all three.

I live in a big house with my own sauna, jukebox, 4,550 records, tapes and disks and a 47″ LCD TV with a 250W sound system.

I smoke, am a lapsed Mensan, a devout atheist, a leftish liberal and like Trance, Prokofiev and Art Deco music.

I work out every day, give to charity often and lie frequently (see?)

Actually, I’m out of shape, mean and… never mind, let’s carry on with this thing while I still have some readers left…

Morpheus on… “Pro-Choice” vs “Pro-Life”

A 14-year-old virgin walks through a park, in broad daylight. Suddenly, she is grabbed by a drug-crazed gang of youths, dragged into bushes and repeatedly raped. A few weeks later, she finds that she is with child. This fact is made worse by the fact that the gang of youths were a different race and colour from her – they were white.

Across town, a young actress gets stoned at a party and seduces a boy in a spare bedroom. The following evening, she goes to take her pill – then discovers she forgot to take yesterday’s. She takes BOTH and hopes for the best. After a couple of weeks, she discovers her hopes were unfulfilled – she too is pregnant. Then her agent rings up and tells her that “breakthrough role” is HERS. Filming will begin in eight months.

So which of these girls “deserves” an abortion?

Pro-Lifers would say NEITHER. Life begins at conception – and to terminate either would be murder. After all, both girls have the option of giving up their baby for adoption.

While Pro-Choicers would say BOTH. For them, life begins when the baby draws its first breath. The virgin has suffered enough – without being reminded of the “incident” every time she sees her child. And as for the bimbo actress – it’s HER body.

Of course, PRACTICAL people would point out that the law HAS to allow both to terminate - if it didn’t, the actress would just go on a “skiing” holiday to Switzerland and quietly book into a private hospital – while the young girl would be forced to seek out a “back-street” abortionist – who could leave her sterile – or DEAD.

But throughout the discussion, NO-ONE would consider the MEDICS – whose Hippocratic Oath demands they “do no harm”. Performing abortions isn’t exactly what THEY signed up for, is it?

(Incidentally, my Evil Twin, Damien, has his own take on this one – which can be found at http://damienatloppers.wordpress.com/)

Morpheus on… Withipol

There’s a famous American idea that if you take your first pet’s name and the name of the street where you grew up and put them together – you arrive at your Porn Star name. Well, that would make mine Percy Withipol. Which actually WORKS!

Percy was my budgie. But later, the name was used in a ’60s British comedy film about the World’s first penis transplant. Thus these day, Percy is a name chaps use for their “weapon” – along with Jasper, Mr Happy, Captain Cucumber, etc.

And Withipol – well, I mean… With A Pole! But this got me thinking, where did the name Withipol COME from? My encyclopaedia offered nothing, so I Googled it. And I was amazed to find a RAFT of stuff about Withipol.

Which incredibly, included my old street, Withipol Street, Ipswich, England. It’s only a 100-metre side-street, but there’s a map – and CAMRA (CAMpaign for Real Ale – old-style beer – “I’m going to a CAMRA meeting” – sounds better than “I’m going to the pub to get pissed with me mates”) lists a pub in it that closed over SEVENTY YEARS AGO. Surreal.

It turns out that Withipol (sometimes spelled Withipole – with an “e” on the end) is just an old English surname (goes back to Henry VIII’s time). I’m still no wiser as to where it CAME from.

But at least it gives me a funny Porn Star name!

Morpheus on… Incongruities

How come we say that an alarm went off…when it obviously went ON?

Is it for the same reason we say a building was blown UP?

Morpheus on… Hyphenated Names

One of the by-products of Political Correctness is that when two people decide to get spliced, rather than throw her surname down the dumper, they elect to get hyphenated (settle down!)

However, despite the laudable motives behind this trend, it does present a wee problem.

Let’s say Mr Smith meets Ms Jones. Okay, they become Mr & Ms Smith-Jones. Or perhaps Ms & Mr Jones-Smith. So far so good. But a generation along, their son, John Smith-Jones (or John Jones-Smith) meets a similarly-blessed girl – say, Mary Brown-Featherstonehaugh.

NOW what?

Do they become Mr & Ms Smith-Brown-Jones-Featherstonehaugh? And what happens when THEIR grown-up kid meets Jane Beauchamp-Cholmondsley-Wildegoose-Fazackerley?

Flip a coin? Several times?

Morpheus on… Those Magnificent Men And Their Flying Machines

I just read a piece in the news that said some bloke had strapped a jet-pack to his back and jumped the English Channel with it. Took ten minutes (that means he hit over 70 mph).

Surely this item belongs in the CARTOON section?

Morpheus on… George Wan… sorry…WaLker Bush

A while back, I recall a mayoral election taking place in Mexico, where a joke party calling itself The Banana (something) Party fielded a MONKEY as it’s candidate. It came THIRD. Now you may stop there, but it got Your Humble Scribe thinking…

First, what does that say about the seven candidates who polled LOWER than the primate? How sad are THEY?!

And second, America looks DOWN on Mexico – but at least the Mexicans’ monkey only came THIRD. America’s monkey came SECOND… and they put him in the OVAL OFFICE.

Morpheus on… “Stingers”

We’ve all seen ‘em. On those “cop-chase” programmes. Some looney is driving a stolen car at break-neck speed down the High Street, when up pops a cop and throws a bed o’ nails across the street. Trouble is, have they thought it through?

I mean before, said looney might have been driving through a “red mist” but at least he had a vehicle that was ROADWORTHY. No WAY is he going to STOP while it can maintain forward momentum. So NOW, not only is he piloting something he’s quite prepared to run OVER someone with – but running on RIMS, he’s more than likely to DO so.

And finally…

…this is me and my Lady