Yadda Yadda

Yadda Yadda

Blah Blah

Chatter Chatter

Voices all around. Making sounds

Saying nothing.

Hello...See Ya...Get me a Latte...Did you remember the sun cream?...

Hold my hand!... A 99 please...She said she stayed there last year...

Do you think the waters cold?...I told you he'd bloody make a fuss...

Mum..................Dad..................Alfie.............................

Why's everything left to me?...Where did you say we'd meet them?...

Come here...Let's go over there...She said...He turned round and said...

Don't throw sand...Don't be ogling that tart...Don't wear those Speedos FFS...

Should have gone abroad...Should have brought a picnic...shouldn't have had that Saveloy...

Did you get a paper...Let's get lunch...Look! A windsurfer...Where's me book?

Where's the toilet?...

Bloody wind...Bloody sand...Bloody sea

Yadda Yadda

Blah Blah

Chatter Chatter

When will someone say something fucking important?

The Woman Who Hid Her Light Under A Bushel

She listened to the voices that sounded like hers

And knew that it was the sound of ignorance

She watched the scenes played out before her

Those scenes she understood and could imitate

And knew that the outside world looked down with distain

The woman who hid her light under a bushel.


She sees an assumption in ‘their’ eyes

And knows she doesn’t fit in

She feels the distance between her and ‘them’

Keeping close to the ground while ‘they’ flew high

A fear that kept her tethered, a life that made demands

The woman who hid her light under a bushel


She used to know her place, it was clearly defined

Acceptance made life simple, passive aggression her weapon

She was good at keeping the illusion

Until the wall was reached and a choice had to be made

Can she raise her head above the parapet?

The woman who hid her light under a bushel!

Memories for Schools 50th Anniversary

White Gloves

In 1971 the uniform consisted of, in addition to the usual blazer etc, a beret (with the little pointy bit on top twisted off in a ‘christening ceremony’, if this was not done you were seen as being a bit of a geek) and a pair of white gloves. These items must, we were told, be worn on the way to and from school and it was intimated that serious consequences would be faced if you were seen without them on the streets around the school. And they must certainly be worn to Mass. I only had the gloves in the September of 1971 and may have worn them the first day but never again although they remained in my pocket just in case. I don’t think anyone wore them after the first day. Besides looking old fashioned they were impossible to keep clean! My mum also bought me, from Morley’s in Brixton, a school Mac which cost a fortune and had a lovely gold lining and would have fitted me nicely had I been 6ft tall and 5ft wide. And we girls had to wear the biggest grey, woollen type knickers for PE. They were so big and heavy I’m surprised any of us managed to lift ourselves of the ground for the high jump! On reflection I suppose the uniform, along with the house system, was trying to emulate the private schools of the 1950’s and the Headteacher when I started, Mr T, certainly seemed more suited to that setting than he was to a South London Comprehensive in the 1970s.

Mr T
Mr T, the Headteacher of the school in the early 1970s was a very smart looking gentleman and almost military in his mannerisms. When he came out into the playground on occasions the whole school would come to a standstill. One by one each and every one of us would stop mid game, mid conversation, even mid step and freeze. Mr T would then scan the playground silently, looking for any child who was reckless or careless enough to carry on playing in his presence. If we all froze he would turn smartly on his heel and then march back into the school building. We would all then unfreeze and continue with what we were doing as if nothing had interrupted us. If anyone did move in his presence Mr T he would raise his arm, point and signal the fidgety child over to him. I never knew what happened to those unfortunate children. I just got very good at playing ‘Statues’.

Mr H
Mr H was Mr T’s deputy and he succeeded him as Headteacher. Mr H was very different from Mr T. He wasn’t as well turned out (Mr T was an exceptionally neat man) for one thing and he didn’t command the same sort of unquestioning obedience. But he was certainly more human and looking back the school did seem to progress slightly from the rigid tradition of my first couple of years. I remember him yelling at me once during assembly. It was unusual for me to be yelled at as I was a very well behaved student generally and I was incredibly embarrassed by his outburst. I was wearing a badge that had come free with that weeks ‘Jackie’ magazine (see what I mean about the change in tradition? From wearing white gloves to wearing unofficial adornments on blazers!). The badge had a plastic frame and you had to design the middle yourself using templates provided by the magazine. I had done an elaborate design of the name ‘David’. I pretended it was in honour of David Bowie, my hero at the time, but it was secretly in honour of a boy called David in the year above who I had a serious crush on. Anyway, during this particular assembly Mr H yelled at me for chatting. He was very cross and went on and on and seeing my trendy artistic badge he misread the ‘David’ and thought it was ‘Deirdre’ (OK, so I may have got carried away with the swirls and curls but this was the 70s). He shouted in front of the whole school “So Deirdre, do YOU want to share what you are saying with the rest of us? Deirdre? DEIRDRE!” I was mortified. On several levels. One being yelled at in front of the whole school and two, him thinking my name was Deirdre! The reason Mr H never knew my name, even though by then I had been in the school for 4 years was that I was neither bad enough nor good enough to have come to his attention. But at the time I remember feeling pretty disappointed in him. And in my artistic endeavours. That badge went straight in the bin!

Bombs
In the 1970’s we had a lot of bomb scares. I suppose someone would phone up the school and say a bomb had been planted and on one occasion at least I recall us being asked to look in our desks to see if a bomb had been planted there. Then we would be herded into the playground. Right in front of the modern (then!) glass building while it was searched by, I imagine, school staff. These were the days before Health and Safety obviously!

Vietnam
During the majority of my time at secondary school a war was being fought in Vietnam. This war had raged for many years, from 1959 until to April 30, 1975. These were the days before Satellite, mobile phones and 24 hour news (remember these were the days even before video, Breakfast TV and Sky was that big blue thing up in the, well… sky!) In those days all wars took place far away and far removed from our everyday life’s. The World Wars were more real to us in class 5S as we were studying the World Wars for our ‘O’ levels and the war in Vietnam was something that we may have seen on the news if we bothered to watch it (I don’t even remember it being on ‘John Cravens Newsround’, a current affairs programme aimed at children, although I guess it must have been). Millions of life’s were lost, hundreds of songs were written about it, and later on in the Seventies many films were made about it including, among others, iconic films like ‘Apocalypse Now’, ‘The Deer Hunter’, ‘Forrest Gump’ and ‘ Full Metal Jacket’. But on the whole the war in Vietnam passed us kids at the school by. However, one defining moment for me, which I came to realise the importance off later in life, probably while watching one of the ‘Rambo’ films which were also inspired by that bloody war was Mr C rushing into afternoon registration bursting with the news that the war in Vietnam was over. It was obvious he was telling us something amazing and incredible, he was animated, excited and keen to share with us this groundbreaking news and we all knew from his manner that it was important and that we should be interested but I don’t think any of us were. I remember wondering what all the fuss was about. And being confused as to why Mr C cared so much about something that was happening so far away. Ah well, the young can be a pretty insular bunch of people!

Day trip to York
In my last year we went to visit the Transport Museum in York. It started as a wonderful day, mainly because we had a great deal of freedom once we got there. I don’t remember a teacher or any adult being in charge of us. I vaguely remember the museum which had some trains in it (why we were going to this museum I have no idea, as it had no bearing on any of my exams and in the final year this is all I recall being focused on). We must have visited the Transport Museum first thing and then we must have been given the afternoon to do as we pleased with instructions to be back at the station by a certain time. My friend K and I paired up with a couple of boys, Frank and Tony from our class, and we hired a row boat and went rowing down the River Ouse, which was in those days a busy river , and as none of us had any boat rowing experience there were a few hair-raising moments. It didn’t help that Frank and Tony were the class clowns so getting in a boat with them was risky in itself. I am always amazed that I managed to pass my English Language and English Literature ‘O’ Levels as the entire year leading up to the exams were spent with Frank and Tony sitting behind me and K joking , distracting us and generally mucking around. They were very funny though and provided much needed respite from some boring lessons! York was a very pretty town and it must have been spring as it was abundant with daffodils. The boys picked us a bunch each from the road side and after an afternoon exploring we arrived at the station at which point the boys were arrested. For picking the daffodils. My recollections are fuzzy at this point. Were any teachers present at the station that had to negotiate Frank and Tony’s freedom? Did me and K hand back the Daffs and plead for leniency on their behalf? Were the boys charged with Theft? Vandalism? Did they get expelled or given ‘the ruler’? Was the incident reported in the York Gazette with the headline ‘SCHOOL BOYS FROM LONDON WRECK THE TOWN CENTRE’? I have conveniently forgotten these details although I did meet up with Tony many years later and learnt that when he went for an interview to join the police they brought this incident up and he had some explaining to do!

Wako Jacko?

Many people, some of who have not put pen to paper since they have left school, may now feel the urge to write something about their feelings over this strange human beings death and the unprecedented media coverage that has ensued. Letters will be written to the family, messages will be entered into books of condolence, twitter will go into MJ breakdown and thousands of blogs will be written. The inspiration for all this writing will be the death of the mega talented, misunderstood enigma that was Michael Jackson.

I can’t remember anyone’s death resulting in this crazy media coverage before. Yesterday every radio station I tuned into was playing a Jackson song. Both mediocre (few) and the sublime (many). Earlier today listening to the top 40 I learnt that a third of the chart was now made up of Jackson songs. Not a good time for anyone else to release a signal although I am sure that Gordon Brown is secretly relieved as the spotlight is off him and his band of merry robbers. Love this Robin Hood in reverse thing they have going on but I digress. Tonight on my drive home four radio stations were broadcasting the same Jackson tribute programme but each a few minutes apart which meant I got to listen to ‘Dirty Diana’s’ great guitar rift 4 times and came to realise that Jackson’s talent attracted the most skilled of musicians, dancers, producers and film makers. It also attracted fanatical fans and, as in the case of the Queen of Hearts, the King of Pop had his fair share of press intrusion that fed the rumours and speculation. And like the Queen of Hearts he did his fair share of feeding the frenzy with tales of oxygen tents, masks and apes.

Jackson’s death will be the same as Kennedy’s, Elvis’, Lennon’s and Diana’s in as much people will remember where they were when they heard the sad news. But although all those deaths resulted in a huge out pouring of grief and world interest (which seems to be escalating with each ‘legends’ death) none of the pre Jackson deaths had the advantage (?) of technology which allows everyone to have their say and to be heard. Although record sales increased for Elvis and Lennon both had posthumous number ones it was weeks before it filtered through. Even Candle in the Wind took a week to hit the No 1 spot. But now, with instant downloads and the public being able to choose which songs they want, rather than waiting for a record company to release a song it feels is appropriate means that Jackson is topping the charts 48 hours after he took his final breath.

I am not a huge Jackson fan. But for me he has always been around. Although he doesn’t feature in my record collection (an error on my part – Bad and Thriller are phenomenal and my personal favourite, Billie Jean, should be on my Zen) his music is a soundtrack of my growing up. We are almost the same age and, had it not been for Donny Osmond and his beautifully teethed brothers, I may have taken more notice of the J5. But I was always aware of his talent and admired his work. I was relieved he was found innocent of being a paedophile simply because I think he was totally asexual. I don’t believe he had any sexual interest in women, men, boys or girls. This belief has been reinforced over the last couple of days watching his videos and other film of him. No matter how sexual the dance move, when he does it the move loses of sexuality and becomes just a perfectly executed dance move. When he sings lyrics that have a sexual meaning, that meaning is lost and you just feel the beat. And somehow it works. It makes it hotter and more pure. Hell - when he kissed Lisa Marie Presley he looked awkward and unsure….not because she was a fully grown female but because it was unnatural for him to kiss someone. He is likely to have died a virgin. And in this sex filled, if it moves (and is legal!) fuck it world anyone who is asexual and hasn’t joined a monastery has to be viewed with suspicion and because Jackson was who he was, mega rich, eccentric, weird, vulnerable and a living breathing Peter Pan he was the perfect target for unscrupulous people.

I read on piece of anti Jackson yesterday and was really pissed off by it. Not because the writer attacked Jackson but because he was angry that people admired his talent! A comparison had been made of Jackson with Mozart and the writer was truly offended. That someone had dared to suggest that Jackson was a genius really rattled this guy’s cage. ‘What? Like Shakespeare and Michelangelo? He huffed! He goes on to say that none of Jackson’s back catalogue could compare with Hamlet or the Sistine Chapel. I can’t really comment because those are two songs I haven’t heard!

What this prat fails to understand is that genius can and does take many forms. Some people are geniuses with the brush, some with the pen (or QWERTY keyboard). Some geniuses can come up with theories that unleash unheard of possibilities. Some are a genius with a football. And some, like Jackson, at creating a sound that touches your heart, gives you goose bumps, makes your toes tingle and your feet tap. A genius inspires. Maybe to paint, sculpt, read, dance or play football. A genius evokes a passion for exploration and imitation. How dare this idiot, with his snobbishness and narrow thinking dismiss the word genius being attached to a ‘pop’ star.