Falklands War fever – extract from ‘Farther from the Sun’.

Posted on by Opher

I have a dream of a world where enjoying yourself is not frowned upon and laws are just and equally applied to all – where a person has freedoms.

21.9.01

 

We hadn’t been back from America long when the Falklands crisis blew up. Those evil Argentineans had dared to land on a set of islands they arrogantly called the Malvinas when everybody knew they were really called the Falklands. For some obscure reason the Argentinians made some historical claim to these islands and, it seems, they have been a bone of contention in Argentina for years, just because they happened to be situated a short distance off the coast of Argentina and a whopping six thousand miles away from Britain.

Trust the Argentineans to get it wrong.

Didn’t they know the British had landed on those islands, run their flag up, and laid claim to them hundreds of years ago? They must have known that because that’s what the British did everywhere they landed, regardless of who was living there – particularly if the indigenous people were black or brown. In the days of the British Empire black or brown people obviously weren’t civilised so they did not count at all.

Now, I don’t mean to be too harsh on the British here. Not because I am British, you understand. Conquering was an evil practice that the British did better than anybody. It was not even a colour or race thing. Slavery and the conquering of other nations was what all humans did to each other regardless of race or colour. The blacks did it to other blacks, and browns to blacks and other browns, whites to other whites, reds to reds, and so on. Even the slave trade was inaugurated and sponsored by black tribes preying on other black tribes and selling black slaves to the Arabs who sold them on to the white traders. It was more that the British, and later the Americans, did it more thoroughly and efficiently. It was not something to be proud of, but we British conquered, enslaved and exploited better than anybody else at that point in history.

I don’t mean to digress, merely to explain. We had landed there and run up the flag, hence it was British forever. Those were the rules. We should know. We made up those rules.

Then again there were a lot of people living on the island and it has to be said that some of them were Argentinean but the majority were, or considered themselves to be, British. They lived a quiet rural life farming or fishing. There wasn’t an awful lot to do out there.

It all went along very smoothly with commerce with the mainland, ferrying goods back and forth between Argentina and the Falklands. Britain was much too far away to have meaningful commerce with, but the people still thought of themselves as British and the majority did not want to be ruled from Argentina. For some reason they wanted their masters to be British.

When the Argentinians landed and laid claim to the place people were up in arms.

In a democracy you ask the people.

Matter solved. Ask the Argentineans to go home.

After all, what was so important about a desolate island somewhere out in the ocean six thousand miles away from Britain? Why cause bother?

It surely wasn’t anything to do with the Antarctic, natural resources, oil, gas and mineral wealth? Surely not? No. This was democracy. The people had a right to choose. If they wanted to be British then British they had the right to be. Mrs Thatcher said so. The pesky Argentinians had invaded British sovereign territory. A lesson had to be taught.

A task force was rapidly put together and prepared for war as the British war effort swung into action.

Now back in England I decided to hold a debate in my classroom and explore the situation from all sides. To maybe weigh up the various options and apply a bit of logic to what was becoming a volatile situation. I gathered the class in and began a good old British debate where cool, calm reason was brought to bear, to tease out the possibilities and current intricacies of the situation and arrive at the best solution.

Before a few minutes had passed I found myself presiding over a bunch of hysterical demons baying for blood and chanting ‘Argies out!’ as if these people had always been our enemies and were the devil incarnate. Reason did not seem to be the main thrust of their argument. It was yet another scene from Orwell’s vision of the future. Of course, I repeated it throughout the day even though it was a bit depressing.

This thoughtless war fever could never happen here! But it did.

30.10.01

 

Sometimes it is necessary to keep restating the obvious otherwise what were once obvious ceases to exist.

29.10.01

 

I have a vision of a world where cultures are not homogenised into some twenty-first century plastic universe, where nature is not covered in concrete or fenced into reserves for human consumption.

21.9.01

Poetry – It should be easy

Posted on by Opher

It should be easy

 

It should be easy.

If we all work together –

There’s more than enough.

 

There’s plenty to go around

If we shared it reasonably.

It’s not too tough.

 

Some want too much.

They’d take it all

If they thought they could.

 

Not caring

About the damage they do

Like they really should.

 

It should be easy.

If we all work together –

There’s more than enough.

 

Opher – 8.8.2020

 

 

If it wasn’t for the greedy people the world could be a wonderful place.

There wouldn’t be any wars.

There would be no poverty.

The planet wouldn’t be wrecked.

Nature would be looked after.

If it weren’t for the greedy people.

Poetry – A smile

Posted on by Opher

A Smile

 

A smile is much more than you think;

A smile is a snarl,

An act of aggression

Transformed into a greeting,

A sign of pleasure,

A welcome.

So human

To bare your teeth,

So duplicitous;

A disguise of true intent.

A smile

Reveals the true nature of humans;

Malevolent chimps,

Whose inclination

Is to control,

To intimidate

And destroy.

We love violence

And cruelty.

We do it with a smile.

 

Opher – 8.8.2020

Prognosis – Extract from Farther from the Sun.

Posted on by Opher

I don’t mind being considered naïve and innocent. I don’t mind being considered idealistic and over-ambitious. As human beings increase in numbers to swamp the planet their effluent and pollution threaten the entire biosphere; as hundreds of species become extinct each day; as areas of natural habitat are destroyed daily; as millions of human beings starve; as wars and conflict rage out of control and threaten the destruction of the entire planet; as religions and nations spawn terrorists and war – surely someone has to offer a more sane answer?

Those smug rich bastards who run things, who look down their nose at do-gooders and environmental scum like me, who think that their way of life – snouts in the trough – has no end and that the ‘haves’ and ‘have-nots’ are part of the natural way of the world, are surely not going to have the last say?

The human race is not going to be guided by such an arrogant, supercilious, ignorant, blind set of intelligent morons forever?

Is it?

That way is death.

21.9.01

 

We went to see the specialist at the hospital, just me and my dad. It was the meeting where the consultant gave us the results and told us what he was going to do about it. It was felt that dad had to have someone with him. I was that someone.

Dad had been in for the tests. They’d scanned and prodded, taken samples. Now was the day of reckoning.

Dad drove us to the hospital in his new car, his pride and joy – a blue Hillman Hunter.

I didn’t know it at the time but it was the last time that he drove me anywhere.

He was just the same as ever – driving aggressively. At one time a car pulled out to cross the road in front of us. Dad didn’t brake; he swerved around behind it and continued on as if nothing had happened. That was his way. I think it was the dispatch rider coming through.

The specialist was sombre. They’d diagnosed liver cancer. The swelling and tenderness was dad’s swollen liver. It was too advanced to treat. He was prescribing palliative treatment.

I took a minute to take that in.

They were going to let him die. How was that possible? He was my dad. How could he die? There had to be something that could be done.

There wasn’t.

Life doesn’t make much sense to me.

Death rarely seems fair.

We were both a bit stunned as we came out of that office. I don’t know if it had sunk in with dad. He chose to ignore the prognosis. He clung to the belief that they were treating it with pills. Pills could put anything right. The fact of death hovering there was not up for discussion.

Dad did not do death.

15.8.01

Poetry – The Summer of 49

Posted on by Opher

The Summer of 49

 

I was born in the summer of forty nine.

Spent my childhood wild in the country.

Not a stream or pond I didn’t wade through.

I climbed every last tree.

I build my dens and played my games.

Together we all ran free.

When it came to life I had it sussed;

I wanted to run a menagerie.

 

Then came the magic sixties

And the music began to play.

There were girls, Kerouac and dreams

And that menagerie faded away.

I was captured by Dylan, Harper

And revolution and leapt into the fray.

For those were the days of idealism

Escape from the social tourniquet.

 

Then came the angry seventies

And the dream began to fade.

The age of Punk and riots

Marked a nihilistic decade.

I raised a family

And the bills had to be paid.

But I was writing down my words

And with lip-service to the game played.

 

In the eighties and nineties

I had my fun, with gigs, meals and sights.

With friends there was much laughter

As we put the world to rights.

There was a world of madness,

War and environmental plights.

There was a mighty battle raging

A time of nuclear fright.

 

Now in the twenty-first century

The damage is there to see.

Nature is being plundered

And we’re struggling for liberty.

All around is corruption

In the lands of the ‘free’.

The whole world is swamped with people

Living in poverty.

 

The politicians’ greed

Is stopping us from action.

They divide and rule

Creating warring factions.

But I’ve travelled the world

And seen through this distraction.

Populist division

Requires a positive reaction.

 

Looking back through time

I’ve had my fun and more.

With plenty of fulfilment.

I’ve opened many a door.

But the underlying heartaches

Still leave me feeling sore.

The catastrophe of the planet

Rocks me to the core.

 

I’d like to live long enough

To see us making progress.

Dealing with overpopulation

And making suitable redress.

To restore nature

In the beauty of her green dress.

So everyone is made happy

With an end to all this stress

 

Opher – 8.8.2020

I just wrote this. It is very rough and ready and requires a lot of work but I thought I’d share it anyway.

Published! – Extract from ‘Farther from the Sun’.

Posted on by Opher

Life is not a novel but a road movie. There is no script. We make it up as we go. No director. The audience is ourselves. The galaxy swirls. We curtsy and bow. We make up rules and try to live by them. This road movie is heading off into new dimensions.

29.10.01

 

My fiction writing is going crap. I am not getting published. I need to evaluate my style. I need to re-evaluate what I am doing.

I have a thousand handouts from my Rock course. It is obvious. I need a break from fiction to do something different. The obvious thing is to bring my Rock Music notes together into one huge definitive history of Rock. There are hundreds of histories out there but they are all crap. There needs to be a definitive version. I have the bones of it!

I set to work. It is easy. All the graft has been done. I trace the history and evolution through from 1900 to 1984, Country Blues and Irish Jigs to Punk and Toasting. I include little pen pictures of all the major exponents, seminal influences, precursors, obscure stuff, political and social issues. I illustrate it with flow diagrams. Finally, it is complete. I have the whole thing complete in 1500 pages making up four volumes. I am happy. It does the job and allows me the room to develop my own pet ideas, vent my spleen and do justice to unsung heroes like Roy Harper and Captain Beefheart. I even bring in my Beat poetry and literature. It’s all there. I call it ‘Rock Strata’.

I send it off.

A Literary Agent writes back – ‘This is good – I have someone interested! Come up to London to meet him.’

I rush up to London and we meet. The publisher is impressed. He wants to go ahead. He will be in touch.

29.10.01

He gets in touch. Yeah. It is brilliant. He will publish.

There is only one snag. It is too long. It is not viable as a publishing project. The finances, blah, blah, blah. Costs. Return. Expense. No profit. Blah, blah, blah. I really know my stuff.

In short, it needs to be cut down. He suggests 120 pages is about right. The publisher really loves the flow diagrams. Could I base it around that?

I am confused. We are obviously talking about a different book here. Do I want to do that?

I decide I do.

The summer holidays are on the horizon. I lock myself away, after all, I am going to be published. I have to devote myself to my art. Liz has to look after the kids and manage the house. She agrees.

I work feverishly to get it all down to 150 pages based entirely around the flow diagrams. I call this one ‘Rock Streams’. It is very different from the first one but I am satisfied with it. I send it off.

He is delighted. 150 pages is not ideal but it will do. He thinks that the flow diagrams are great and the writing is excellent. I need to go down to Devon to finalise, sign and discuss details.

I set off. On the way an old nutter pulls out in front of me from a side road and runs me off the road. I career up on to the pavement at 60 MPH and nearly smash through a wall. He doesn’t even stop. I give chase. The fucker nearly killed me! I catch him up and he pulls over. We have an animated discussion until my heart rate slows a little.

I arrive a bit stressed out and exhausted. My newfound editor shows me around. We talk contract and negotiate the deal. I sign. I drive back four hundred miles home. The deal’s not much –  £300 advance and 9% of all copies over the first 1000. It is not going to make me a millionaire. It is not even going to give me a return on the time put in. I might claw back maybe 10p per hour. But that is not the point.

I am going to be published.

November trundles into December and no cheque arrives. We have spent the advance that hasn’t yet arrived on the kids’ Christmas presents. We are desperate for the cash. I ring, I write. ‘Yes it’s in the post should be there in the next day or so.’

Christmas comes and New Year and no cheque.

Eventually, I get a sheepish letter. ‘Sorry. Project cancelled. Board reject idea. First time this has ever happened.’

I chuck the book in the bottom drawer and never look at it again.

29.10.01

 

Some are good decisions.

29.10.01

 

I have a good script for life. I have an idea that might work. It doesn’t hang around supernatural creatures that poke around with human destiny. It does involve freedom and difference. It does work through politics. It has some good outcomes to work towards. It is based around fairness and justice. It’s a very human plot that does not need tarting up with dogma and superstition. It is based on intelligence. It does revolve around empathy, respect, responsibility, tolerance and the right to be crazy and get pissed. There are no wars and cruelty in this plot. There’s plenty of love and argument and plenty of things to make and improve.

I like it lots.

Nobody goes hungry in my plot. Nobody is tortured. No animals become extinct. It’s very positive.

29.10.01

 

Roy Harper and my Dad – an extract from ‘Farther from the Sun’.

Posted on by Opher

I’m lying on my bed in my tiny bedroom listening to Roy Harper’s second album. I’m eighteen and full of angst and rebellion. My dad’s pottering about outside my window, scraping paint off the frame and repainting the window. Roy is singing ‘Circle’ and I’m listening intently to the lyrics:

“I had to pass all of my exams

The old man said I had to be the best one.

I had to do this and I had to do that

They really kept me under constant pressure.

And why aren’t you the captain of the cricket team?

Why aren’t you the genius of the class?

It’s about time you pulled your socks up me boy

Otherwise you’ll get a rude awakening….’

It was all very appropriate for someone taking A Levels and trying to break away and discover some identity and individuality.

It didn’t occur to me that my dad would actually be listening to the lyrics as well, but later he came and talked to me. He had listened to the words and taken them all in. I think they had hurt him. He seemed genuinely concerned that I was identifying with all this social rebellion and was feeling aggrieved at the way I was being treated. Did I feel that they had pushed me? Were they making undue pressure on me?

I reassured him that they hadn’t. Indeed quite the opposite, I would most probably have benefited from a lot more pressure from them. He seemed reassured. But I hadn’t been completely honest; I still felt the weight of expectation that was coming from my parents. They were desperate for me to excel and make something of my life. That was what I reacting to. My mum in particular saw me as a budding little genius. I was destined for big things.

These things were largely unspoken but I felt the pressure. In hindsight I can see that they gave me a remarkable amount of freedom and there was very little stress – but that was not what I was feeling at the time.

We did not have many heart-to-hearts, my dad and I. He was a quiet man who kept himself very private. It might equally have been my fault though. I don’t think I was in too receptive a mood for the best part of thirty years – by then it was really too late. I had my own life and it was very different to his. I had different ideas on what I wanted to do with my time. I have different expectations, values and ideas. He had to stand back and let me go my own way. It must have been very difficult. I’m finding it impossible to do the same. Watching your children making, what you consider to be, mistakes, is not easy.

5.9.01

How they made us doubt everything.

Posted on by Opher

How they made us doubt everything is a scary BBC series.

The problem is that lies, propaganda and corruption in politics has been exploited by certain politicians. People distrust politicians but ironically the most corrupt, the biggest liars, the greatest purveyors of fake news have exploited this cynicism. Somehow, people like Trump, Johnson and Bolsonaro have made people believe that they alone have the real information and are fighting the establishment. The reality is that they are the privileged establishment. By stirring up conspiracy theories and working on peoples’ fears and dislike they have successfully undermined all experts and scientists.

The scary part of this is that we start to believe these daft conspiracy theories and fake news and start disbelieving the real things.

So there is no global warming, no species diversity problems, no overpopulation, and that scientists cannot be trusted. That we didn’t land on the moon, the earth is flat, the CIA blew up the twin towers and the UN is a corrupt body. We are being controlled by ‘The Deep State’.

This is scary because it opens the door to superstition. If all our media, scientists and government are considered corrupt then we are heading for a new Dark Age.

https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/p08lxv3n?xtor=CS8-1000-%5BPromo_Box%5D-%5BNews_Promo%5D-%5BNews_Promo%5D-%5BPS_SOUNDS~C~p08lxv3n~P_HowTheyMadeUsDoubtEverything_WelcomeEp%5D

Now I am cynical. I believe that the wealthy establishment has far too much power, that too many politicians are corrupt, the media is biased and democracy is being subverted – but there are limits.

This new trend has enabled the most corrupt bunch of populists to gain power. I believe they are by far the worst bunch we’ve had since the rise of the 1930s fascists!

This BBC series makes for interesting listening.

Entering America – Extract from ‘Farther from the Sun’.

Posted on by Opher

I can remember being stunned, elated and full of disbelief. Pregnant. The creator of new life. Amazing. I was to be a father.

3.5.01

 

If one has rights then all must have them.

15.9.01

 

In 1971, under the auspices of Pete Smith, for whom travel was a mind expanding necessity, we applied to go over to the States on a student Visa. We had to go to the American embassy to get orientated. They told us stories about English people not understanding American gun policy and hence getting themselves shot.

We were told of one unfortunate guy who had his back blown out by a neighbour because he was climbing in through his own front window having forgotten his key. The neighbour mistook him for a burglar. An easy mistake to make. Could happen anywhere!

The American diplomat explained to us that Americans shoot first and ask questions later.

We were told not to walk around in certain areas or districts. It seemed that every city and town had a no-go area and every American was looking for an excuse to blast you full of lead. We were warned about race hatred, religious fervour and swearing. Contrary to Hollywood films, it seems that many Americans considered it a shooting matter if sworn at.

Seemed you could get shot for almost anything.

We were warned about the evils of drugs. It seems that one puff on a ‘reefer’ and you were hooked. Not only that but it turned you instantly into an insane degenerate. All your values disappeared and you inevitably got gonorrhoea, pregnant and became insane. Not only that but you had to steal and whore yourself to get a further ‘fix’. Wow! I never knew that. Any hint of interaction with drugs would result in our instant deprtation or worse!

We were warned about communists. Communists were seeking to undermine American values. They, under many guises, such as student visas, sought to get into the country and ferment insurrection. He looked closely at each one of us as if peering into our souls, seeking out the slightest hint of communist ideology lurking in the crevices of our minds. It made us all very uneasy. I’d never been involved with any communist party but I certainly believed in equality and fairness. I suspected that might well be sufficient to ban me, lock me up or even have me lynched. Fairness and equality were not fundamental American values – competition and capitalism were. This was the land of the survival of the fittest. Speaking about anything that smacked of socialism could get you shot.

We were told of all the wonderful American values and what the nation stood for and all the other activities for which we could be instantly deported.

It seemed an extensive no-do list. I was concerned that I might not even remember it all and inadvertently find myself booted out for some minor indiscretion or other – like not paying sufficient respect to the American flag or not taking the vow of allegiance seriously. I could easily become deported for grinning at the wrong time. It was quite daunting.

The diplomatic official, without any hint of irony, explained to us that we were being privileged in that we were being allowed a look at the free world in action.

It didn’t actually sound very free to me.

After we’d proceeded through the six months of paperwork necessary to enter the ‘home of the free’, we found ourselves on a plane bound for New York.

At embarkation we were ushered along in a lengthy slow moving file. When it came to our turn we were scrutinised by a solemn Customs Officer. He dramatically opened a huge black book and scanned down the names to see if we were included. This contained all the names of communist sympathisers, fellow travellers and political activists. It had trades unionists, who were obviously commie sympathisers, and druggies, criminals and miscreants. There were a lot of people who were not allowed to be free. Nobody ever knew how they compiled this great mass of names, the book was massive, but if your name appeared in it you were forbidden entry.

As we stood there in front of this official from the land of freedom, we couldn’t help running through the checklist of possibilities for our exclusion. There seemed an infinite number of reasons why our names might find their way into inclusion in such a tome. I was surely guilty and hence unworthy of entry into the land of purity and apple pie. I harboured thoughts of equality and real freedom of thought and mouth. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. I might pollute an American.

We waited for the finger to come to rest as it trailed down the endless list of names. The fucking thing was a full six inches thick. It was was huge. We stood there trying to look innocent for ages. The names were tiny and arranged in neat columns. There had to be half the world in that book.

I couldn’t help wondering if they actually did have all of Cuba, Russia and China in there to start with.

Absurd.

I strained to see how many Goodwins his finger was progressing through. There had to be a lot. We were an awkward bunch. It was genetic, you see.

If your name was in the book you were put on the next flight back and refused entry. You had no recourse to appeal. You were not told the reason why your name had got on to the list. That nice Mr McCarthy had decided that America could only be kept free if unAmerican ideas were completely eradicated from the country.

At last the customs officer seemed satisfied. He looked at us with a stony face, his grey eyes piercing into ours like swords.

“Are you, or have you ever been, a communist?”

Incredible, I thought. If I was a Russian spy or a communist agitator I was hardly likely to answer yes. I felt like asking what he meant. Did he mean had I ever joined the communist party or did he mean to question my philosophy? Did I believe in equality and ‘To each according to their needs – from each according to their ability”, because if that was the case then I was obviously a communist. But then if he meant did I subscribe to the fascist totalitarian apology for Socialism as epitomised by Russia then I would have to admit to being more of a Menshevik. But then this was most probably not the time to enter into discussion regarding the semantics of politics, was it?

“No.”

“Do you know anyone who is a communist, or have you ever known anyone who was a communist?”

Of course I had.

“No.”

He closed the book and let us in.

21.9.01

 

What rights does a gannet have as it clings to the rugged rocks of a windy cliff? As it hangs in beauty on the edge of the wind with its white feathers glistening in the sun? As it steals fish from the trawler’s nets?

15.9.01

 

Being a father was not going to change my life-style or me as a person. It was exciting. But it was not going to be cramping.

Little did I know.

Little did we know.

3.10.01

 

What right does a slug have as it crawls across a path?

15.9.01

Poetry -Out of Nowhere

Posted on by Opher

Out of Nowhere

 

It came out of nowhere,

Creating somewhere,

Getting bigger.

Then it will die.

 

It was not created,

Not planned,

With no direction.

It just happened.

 

It has constant laws

So immutable –

Create what we are,

Dictate what we do.

 

It is made of energy,

Matter and antimatter,

Quarks and rays,

Lots of space.

 

It has time.

Time isn’t constant.

Time stopped.

Time started.

 

We live in it.

We are of it.

It is in us.

We see it.

 

We cannot understand

How or why.

Or that permanence

Is the illusion.

 

Opher – 27.7.2020