I was never really into Shakespeare, but last night I sat through three productions of his plays, abbreviated mind you, but plays performed by local schools at Hull Truck Theatre. They were, in no particular order, Much ado about Nothing, The Tempest, and The Taming of the Shrew. If like me you have never really studied Shakespeare you will know little of the plots of these masterpieces, so having had the benefit I will summarise, thus:
Much Ado about Nothing was based in the 1960's, for reasons which didn't really become clear, yet the actors still spoke in Shakespearean English, which sort of put a weird slant on things. And it relied heavily on a 60's soundtrack. Very energetic performance though. I haven't a clue what it was about. Someone people got married at the end.
The Tempest, which starred my daughter Emma as Ariel was strictly old school Shakespeare, with the oldie language and costumes. She was very dynamic in her dancing, but what threw me is that whilst she was Ariel, so were fifteen or so other people. The spirit was omnipresent. I have no idea what it was about. Some people got married at the end.
Which brings me to the taming of the shrew, which was set in the roaring '20's, for reasons which didn't become clear. This included Groucho Marx and a poor mans Sammy Davis Junior, and a leading man who despite being a schoolboy looked about 30. Scenes of Domestic Violence were portrayed without warning. I have no idea what it was about. Some people got married at the end.
It was thoroughly enjoyable, if you like that sort of thing, which normally I don't. What have I learnt form the experience? Well, I have always maintained that William Shakespeare was over-rated. He was after all nothing more than a soap opera scriptwriter of this day - had he been around today he would have been writing for Eastenders, and penning classic lines like "Get out of my pub," and "Sort it out!"
As it is, so far as I can fathom, he wrote short stories with a romance, usually with some hitch, that ended happily ever after with a wedding. Mills and Boon would have loved him.
Friday, 18 October 2013
Saturday, 28 September 2013
Themed Garden
This time last year I had a bank of trees at the bottom of my garden. I say trees, but many of them where shrubs or bushes, the likes of blackthorn and hawthorn, and any other sort of sharp pointy thorn, along with ivy, and a couple or three stout trees, the name of which escapes me, but which I will call "a bloody nuisance." Every year these trees grow higher and higher shading the lawn and the roof mounted solar panels, and every autumn they drop leaves all over the garden. Which I then have to tidy up. Like I say, a bloody nuisance. So in the end they got hacked down, year on year until last year when I invested in a chain saw and spent many days off and weekends getting them all out. All except the biggest stumps. These were an even bigger nuisance than the trees. Getting out the root ball and stump of a mature tree is a major undertaking. These buggers refused to simply die off, they kept trying to regrow, and I was permanently pulling new growth right throughout the summer. I tried digging them out, but after going down a couple of feet I ran out of enthusiasm and energy, and so they remained until this week, when in a state of renewed vigour I dug even further down tot get the roots right out. I had considered explosives, heavy plant machinery, a stump grinder and prayer, but in the end it was pure physical labour needed to get to the (excuse me) root of the problem.
I now have the big stump out, but my garden looks like a World War one theme garden, with a trench system and mounds of earth to protect from incoming fire. The crater must be over four feet deep and at least five feet in diameter. It's as though a bomb went off in the garden. This will take much remedial work to put right, but one thing is for sure - no trees will be planted there again. Not in my lifetime anyway.
I now have sunshine on my lawn for the first time in 17 years - such a pity winter is coming.
I now have the big stump out, but my garden looks like a World War one theme garden, with a trench system and mounds of earth to protect from incoming fire. The crater must be over four feet deep and at least five feet in diameter. It's as though a bomb went off in the garden. This will take much remedial work to put right, but one thing is for sure - no trees will be planted there again. Not in my lifetime anyway.
I now have sunshine on my lawn for the first time in 17 years - such a pity winter is coming.
Saturday, 7 September 2013
Where has all the money gone?
Comedian Al Murray, the pub landlord, asked an important question when the economy crashed and the recession began. "Where," he asked the bankers in his audience "is all the fucking money?" This is a good question.
Although only in my mid forties I can recall a time when I was paid cash wages in a little envelope. Folding pieces of paper and round bits of metal (generally round although fifty pences had corners - twenty pences hadn't been invented and thrupenny bits had been phased out) in due course times changed and I was paid directly into the bank, and I then had to cash a cheque to get cash money out of the bank. But it was still money.
Now however we are moving more and more into a cashless society. This is not because we have no money, although in the recession it feels like that, but because we no longer use cash. On recent trip to "that London" in "Down South" this was brought home to me with a bump. In the North we still but round bits of metal into boxes to get a bit of paper to put inside the window of our car to prevent other people putting bits of paper on the outside of the car demanding that we send them coloured bits of paper with pictures of the Queen on them. Naturally I assumed the same happened in the south. Not so. Down in the wealthy south it is compulsory, if you own a car, to also own a mobile phone and it is a legal requirement, so it seems, to carry it at all times in order to pay for your parking by using the phone. Car parks do not have meters or any means to pay by cash. Indeed in one car park even my phone was redundant and I had to use a credit card to pay for the parking because the meter did not accept cash. What is that all about? Was it afraid of someone trying to pass a forged note or a dodgy Euro coin? What next? Will it demand a reference?
What if, like the dinosaur that I am, you were to leave home without a credit card or a mobile phone (as I often do) but needed to park the car? I would feel rather silly offering other people cash to pay for them to use their credit card to park my car for me. The world has certainly changed. In the old days a man with a limp and facial sores would charge you fivepence to park your car on an old bombsite, but you knew, providing any unexploded bopmbs didn't go off your car was safe for the day. Now you pay £25 (assuming you have a phone and a credit card) to park on an unmanned bit of tarmac knowing that when you come back some low life will have bust your window and stolen your phone charger. he knew you had one of course, because otherwise you wouldn't have been parked there. There will be some excellent CCTV footage of the crime taking place, but no chance of catching the bastard. In the old days the toothless ex-army war veteran would have just breathed his alcohol fumed breathe on the miscreant and frightened him away. Or hit him with a stick.
So, returning to the point from which I have digressed as usual, where has all the money gone? The truth is we don;t need it anymore, and it was never really there in the first place. Money is simple a promise to give something provided it isn't asked for. And the cash tokens we used to satisfy ourselves that the promise would be kept are now redundant, replaced by numbers on an Iphone.
But I for one can't help missing the solid feel of a coin in my pocket, or the crispness of a fiver in my wallet, the slightly grubby working mans fold of notes in a wad, or the visual appeal of a breifcase stacked with a ransom demand. Somehow a balance on a computer screen just doesn't convey that happiness in quite the same way.
Although only in my mid forties I can recall a time when I was paid cash wages in a little envelope. Folding pieces of paper and round bits of metal (generally round although fifty pences had corners - twenty pences hadn't been invented and thrupenny bits had been phased out) in due course times changed and I was paid directly into the bank, and I then had to cash a cheque to get cash money out of the bank. But it was still money.
Now however we are moving more and more into a cashless society. This is not because we have no money, although in the recession it feels like that, but because we no longer use cash. On recent trip to "that London" in "Down South" this was brought home to me with a bump. In the North we still but round bits of metal into boxes to get a bit of paper to put inside the window of our car to prevent other people putting bits of paper on the outside of the car demanding that we send them coloured bits of paper with pictures of the Queen on them. Naturally I assumed the same happened in the south. Not so. Down in the wealthy south it is compulsory, if you own a car, to also own a mobile phone and it is a legal requirement, so it seems, to carry it at all times in order to pay for your parking by using the phone. Car parks do not have meters or any means to pay by cash. Indeed in one car park even my phone was redundant and I had to use a credit card to pay for the parking because the meter did not accept cash. What is that all about? Was it afraid of someone trying to pass a forged note or a dodgy Euro coin? What next? Will it demand a reference?
What if, like the dinosaur that I am, you were to leave home without a credit card or a mobile phone (as I often do) but needed to park the car? I would feel rather silly offering other people cash to pay for them to use their credit card to park my car for me. The world has certainly changed. In the old days a man with a limp and facial sores would charge you fivepence to park your car on an old bombsite, but you knew, providing any unexploded bopmbs didn't go off your car was safe for the day. Now you pay £25 (assuming you have a phone and a credit card) to park on an unmanned bit of tarmac knowing that when you come back some low life will have bust your window and stolen your phone charger. he knew you had one of course, because otherwise you wouldn't have been parked there. There will be some excellent CCTV footage of the crime taking place, but no chance of catching the bastard. In the old days the toothless ex-army war veteran would have just breathed his alcohol fumed breathe on the miscreant and frightened him away. Or hit him with a stick.
So, returning to the point from which I have digressed as usual, where has all the money gone? The truth is we don;t need it anymore, and it was never really there in the first place. Money is simple a promise to give something provided it isn't asked for. And the cash tokens we used to satisfy ourselves that the promise would be kept are now redundant, replaced by numbers on an Iphone.
But I for one can't help missing the solid feel of a coin in my pocket, or the crispness of a fiver in my wallet, the slightly grubby working mans fold of notes in a wad, or the visual appeal of a breifcase stacked with a ransom demand. Somehow a balance on a computer screen just doesn't convey that happiness in quite the same way.
Tuesday, 9 July 2013
Where are the mens shoes please?
Is it just me or have mens shoes gone out of fashion? I've tried several shoe shops, plus that staple of sensible mens fashion "George" at ASDA, but all I can find is trainers and comfortable shoes that other men would like, if you catch my drift. I'm sorry but I refuse to wear silly crossover trainer shoes that have velcro fastners for five year olds and shout out to the world "I'm a lefty limp wristed office dwelling squeaky voice lisping shiny pants flower watering pinky homosexual and incapable of tying my own laces." The only shoes that are not softy shoes are safety boots. And I'm sorry, but unless you work on a building site that's even more Village People than the trainer shoes. Where are the proper mens shoes? I did manage to find a pair of simple black Oxfords, and a pair of brogues, but is that it? Go to the womens shoes department and you are faced with a thousand different styles, all of which are seemingly absolutely must haves. Ask my wife. She tries them all on.
The same applies to mens clothes though. At the moment I find it almost impossible to buy anything I like. I can buy jeans, but cargoes, which I quite like seem to have disappeared. I'm not homophobic, I don't have any gay friends as such, but the jury is out on a few. Regardless, I find that when it comes to shirts, I can buy quite gayly patterned chequered shirts, the problem being they are indeed gayly patterned. Buying one would be like asking to be rogered. I can buy all sorts of shorts, shorts and T shirts all of which send out the wrong message.
But what I need is the Gene Hunt collection. The sort of clothes and shoes that Jack Reagan wore. The sort of Terry McCann ensemble, that shouts I'm gonna punch you, hard, if you try it on. Not some flimsy thin cotton see through shirt and too tight pants, I don't want short sleeves that display my muscles, because I don't really have any. I have a punch that would take down a horse, but the muscles don't look good. And my knuckles don't look good afterwards either, because I'm not some sort of movie star I am a real person. What I want is real persons clothes. But all that the stores stock is trainers and sports wear. Which is pseudo ironic when it comes in XXXXL sizes.
It's over a month since I posted this and I still haven't bought new shoes. My soles are now so thin that if I stand on a penny I can tell you whether it's heads or tails. Roll on the Autumn fashions, because the summer range just ain't doing it for me.
The same applies to mens clothes though. At the moment I find it almost impossible to buy anything I like. I can buy jeans, but cargoes, which I quite like seem to have disappeared. I'm not homophobic, I don't have any gay friends as such, but the jury is out on a few. Regardless, I find that when it comes to shirts, I can buy quite gayly patterned chequered shirts, the problem being they are indeed gayly patterned. Buying one would be like asking to be rogered. I can buy all sorts of shorts, shorts and T shirts all of which send out the wrong message.
But what I need is the Gene Hunt collection. The sort of clothes and shoes that Jack Reagan wore. The sort of Terry McCann ensemble, that shouts I'm gonna punch you, hard, if you try it on. Not some flimsy thin cotton see through shirt and too tight pants, I don't want short sleeves that display my muscles, because I don't really have any. I have a punch that would take down a horse, but the muscles don't look good. And my knuckles don't look good afterwards either, because I'm not some sort of movie star I am a real person. What I want is real persons clothes. But all that the stores stock is trainers and sports wear. Which is pseudo ironic when it comes in XXXXL sizes.
It's over a month since I posted this and I still haven't bought new shoes. My soles are now so thin that if I stand on a penny I can tell you whether it's heads or tails. Roll on the Autumn fashions, because the summer range just ain't doing it for me.
Friday, 28 June 2013
Etiquette for the dead.
My father passed away recently, a harrowing experience that fortunately I will only have to go through once. Although I am close to my father in law too, so maybe not. It is of course part of life's normal order that we should, at some point bury our parents. I buried my Dad many years ago on Withernsea beach, but of course he wasn't dead then.
It is perhaps part of the healing process that I can find some humour in the darkness. Dad always had a grin on his face, and the wrinkles around his eyes were not from the weariness of age, but from the laughter that filled his life, whatever the hardships thrown at him, so it is natural I suppose that I inherited some of that humour and attitude. So whilst the last two weeks or so have been awful, there have been moments to reminisce and remember the good times too.
Dad loved a joke, so he would have found it funny that on greeting the assembled congregation of friends and family Father Dominic, the Catholic priest conducting the requiem mass for Dad welcomed everyone to Martins' funeral - I am Martin, my Dad was Dennis, but he would have laughed out loud at the mistake. More than I did. I had to check my pulse to make sure I was still here. In his defence Father Dominic had dealt almost exclusively with me for the funeral arrangements, and I had just thrown in a few last minute changes, so he probably had me in mind instead of Dad. And he did have the decency to apologize for his gaffe.
Anyhow, having given that little introduction the matter of funeral etiquette is the topic of today's blog.
I have acted as pall bearer once before - one of the hardest jobs in the world if it is one of your own, but something that in my mind simply MUST be done. We look after our own ought to be our family motto. (It isn't, Ultra Pergere is the family motto - meaning "To advance further") But we do look after our own. I carried the coffin of my nephew Kai Dennis who died in infancy, sharing that emotional burden with his Dad , my brother David. Carrying a featherweight coffin, knowing that a life has been snubbed out within two weeks was a heavy burden. Carrying your Dad is no easier, but the emotions are different I suppose. David who is serving in the RAF has service values, so it was natural he would want to shoulder the burden too, but what threw me was the rest of the family. My older brother Andrew stepped in, along with my nephews, Roger and Richard, but what raised a few eyebrows was when my sister Sheila also took a handle. The churchyard almost emptied of air as older relatives sharply inhaled. A woman, carrying a coffin? Well, why not? Tradition has it's place of course, but I was proud of my sister for having the guts to do it, Dad would have been proud too. It would have meant a lot to him. I'm not sure where in the book of decent etiquette we stand on that one, but it was right for us, and that's what counts.
I picked up Dads ashes today from the funeral directors. This raises another set of questions as to etiquette. Should the ashes go in the car boot? That seemed disrespectful and wrong to me, so I sat him on the back seat, and put the seat belt around him. Then there was the question of where to take him. My youngest sister asked why I had left the ashes in the car when I visited mum, but mum gave the impression she didn't want he ashes in the house. So he came home with me. But then comes the question of where to keep him? I know he wanted his ashes scattering on the River Humber where in life he loved to go fishing, but until then he has to stay somewhere. What does etiquette and convention dictate? Leaving him in the garage or shed seems disrespectful and tasteless, but setting up a shrine in the house seems excessive. I settled for placing him in the front room alongside the fireplace, but my wife is uneasy even with that. He looks quite smart in a red velvet bag, covering a black plastic container. He's certainly lost a few pounds since last Thursday too.
In a few days time of course it wont be a problem, I'll get the family together and we'll scatter the ashes in accordance with his wishes on the river. But until then I hope I'm doing the right thing, because nowhere is there any guide to what to do with the ashes of a dead parent.
It is perhaps part of the healing process that I can find some humour in the darkness. Dad always had a grin on his face, and the wrinkles around his eyes were not from the weariness of age, but from the laughter that filled his life, whatever the hardships thrown at him, so it is natural I suppose that I inherited some of that humour and attitude. So whilst the last two weeks or so have been awful, there have been moments to reminisce and remember the good times too.
Dad loved a joke, so he would have found it funny that on greeting the assembled congregation of friends and family Father Dominic, the Catholic priest conducting the requiem mass for Dad welcomed everyone to Martins' funeral - I am Martin, my Dad was Dennis, but he would have laughed out loud at the mistake. More than I did. I had to check my pulse to make sure I was still here. In his defence Father Dominic had dealt almost exclusively with me for the funeral arrangements, and I had just thrown in a few last minute changes, so he probably had me in mind instead of Dad. And he did have the decency to apologize for his gaffe.
Anyhow, having given that little introduction the matter of funeral etiquette is the topic of today's blog.
I have acted as pall bearer once before - one of the hardest jobs in the world if it is one of your own, but something that in my mind simply MUST be done. We look after our own ought to be our family motto. (It isn't, Ultra Pergere is the family motto - meaning "To advance further") But we do look after our own. I carried the coffin of my nephew Kai Dennis who died in infancy, sharing that emotional burden with his Dad , my brother David. Carrying a featherweight coffin, knowing that a life has been snubbed out within two weeks was a heavy burden. Carrying your Dad is no easier, but the emotions are different I suppose. David who is serving in the RAF has service values, so it was natural he would want to shoulder the burden too, but what threw me was the rest of the family. My older brother Andrew stepped in, along with my nephews, Roger and Richard, but what raised a few eyebrows was when my sister Sheila also took a handle. The churchyard almost emptied of air as older relatives sharply inhaled. A woman, carrying a coffin? Well, why not? Tradition has it's place of course, but I was proud of my sister for having the guts to do it, Dad would have been proud too. It would have meant a lot to him. I'm not sure where in the book of decent etiquette we stand on that one, but it was right for us, and that's what counts.
I picked up Dads ashes today from the funeral directors. This raises another set of questions as to etiquette. Should the ashes go in the car boot? That seemed disrespectful and wrong to me, so I sat him on the back seat, and put the seat belt around him. Then there was the question of where to take him. My youngest sister asked why I had left the ashes in the car when I visited mum, but mum gave the impression she didn't want he ashes in the house. So he came home with me. But then comes the question of where to keep him? I know he wanted his ashes scattering on the River Humber where in life he loved to go fishing, but until then he has to stay somewhere. What does etiquette and convention dictate? Leaving him in the garage or shed seems disrespectful and tasteless, but setting up a shrine in the house seems excessive. I settled for placing him in the front room alongside the fireplace, but my wife is uneasy even with that. He looks quite smart in a red velvet bag, covering a black plastic container. He's certainly lost a few pounds since last Thursday too.
In a few days time of course it wont be a problem, I'll get the family together and we'll scatter the ashes in accordance with his wishes on the river. But until then I hope I'm doing the right thing, because nowhere is there any guide to what to do with the ashes of a dead parent.
Wednesday, 26 June 2013
God recalls all humans manufactured dawn of time to present day for modification.
For some years now the motor industry has had a system in place where if a car or component on a car develops a safety issue they can recall the model or batch concerned for replacement or modification of the affected part. This has saved many lives. It is a good thing.
I wonder however if God the creator has a similar system in place. Recent events cause me to believe this may now be necessary. I am not talking about things like heart or brains, which are no longer fit for purpose as they wear out before the rest of us does these days with our advances in modern medicine. We can hardly blame God for extending our life span beyond the warantee period.
No the problem lies in a malfunction I discovered on my 1968 male model body. It is of average mileage and in reasonable condition, but probably in need of a tune up, however I suspect the fault I experienced could be replicated in other models of any age or sex.
Those of a nervous disposition may chose to stop reading now. But then you'll be at risk if this happens to you. It would seem that due to a design flaw, under certain conditions, such as eating salad dressed in hot chilli pepper sauce (Yes, I know, I have unusual tastes) it is possible to sneeze and hiccup at the same time. This involuntarily forces small pieces of red hot chilli coated lettuce into the nasal membrane, where the result is somewhat spectacularly painful.
Over the years I have been sprayed with CS gas, Pava Spray and various other noxious irritants. Believe me this is worse. Unable to see due to the gallons of water gushing from my eyes, and struggling to breathe because of further sneezing triggered by the irritant and more hiccups every time I tried to draw breath I genuinely thought my number was up. And the burning pain was beyond description in a family Blog. At one point I paid serious consideration to taking my nose off with a blunt axe to try and relieve it. Trying to douse the fire by snorting water up my nose throw a straw didn't help matters, if anything it just spread the flames further. My wife returned home from work to find me apparently having some sort of religious seizure whilst waterboarding myself in the kitchen sink. The words "God help me," bubbling through the suds of fairy liquid must have come as a shock . With drinking straws on the worktop and me flushed, sweaty and foaming at the mouth she probably thought I'd downed a kilo of heroin. Perhaps I should have emptied the washing up bowl first, but it was an emergency.
What are the odds of such a hiccup/sneeze backfire I wonder? Whatever they are it is too high a risk. God should recall all humans and fit them with some sort of blowback control valve. Perhaps hiccups could be diverted via the backside. A few uncontrollable farts must be less embarrassing than drowning in your own washing up, and definitely less painful.
I wonder however if God the creator has a similar system in place. Recent events cause me to believe this may now be necessary. I am not talking about things like heart or brains, which are no longer fit for purpose as they wear out before the rest of us does these days with our advances in modern medicine. We can hardly blame God for extending our life span beyond the warantee period.
No the problem lies in a malfunction I discovered on my 1968 male model body. It is of average mileage and in reasonable condition, but probably in need of a tune up, however I suspect the fault I experienced could be replicated in other models of any age or sex.
Those of a nervous disposition may chose to stop reading now. But then you'll be at risk if this happens to you. It would seem that due to a design flaw, under certain conditions, such as eating salad dressed in hot chilli pepper sauce (Yes, I know, I have unusual tastes) it is possible to sneeze and hiccup at the same time. This involuntarily forces small pieces of red hot chilli coated lettuce into the nasal membrane, where the result is somewhat spectacularly painful.
Over the years I have been sprayed with CS gas, Pava Spray and various other noxious irritants. Believe me this is worse. Unable to see due to the gallons of water gushing from my eyes, and struggling to breathe because of further sneezing triggered by the irritant and more hiccups every time I tried to draw breath I genuinely thought my number was up. And the burning pain was beyond description in a family Blog. At one point I paid serious consideration to taking my nose off with a blunt axe to try and relieve it. Trying to douse the fire by snorting water up my nose throw a straw didn't help matters, if anything it just spread the flames further. My wife returned home from work to find me apparently having some sort of religious seizure whilst waterboarding myself in the kitchen sink. The words "God help me," bubbling through the suds of fairy liquid must have come as a shock . With drinking straws on the worktop and me flushed, sweaty and foaming at the mouth she probably thought I'd downed a kilo of heroin. Perhaps I should have emptied the washing up bowl first, but it was an emergency.
What are the odds of such a hiccup/sneeze backfire I wonder? Whatever they are it is too high a risk. God should recall all humans and fit them with some sort of blowback control valve. Perhaps hiccups could be diverted via the backside. A few uncontrollable farts must be less embarrassing than drowning in your own washing up, and definitely less painful.
Saturday, 11 May 2013
I want to beleive
UFO's don't exist. Or rather they do, but only in the sense that hey are Unidentified Flying Objects rather than little green men visiting from outer space. UFO's obvioulsy do exist, but only because we can't identify them. Once we do they are simple aircraft weather balloons or chinese lanterns, or whatever we identify them as. Stand on a motorway bridge and try to identify the cars going by. In the sea of Nissans, Toyotas, Fords, Vauxhalls and Citroens there will undoubtedly be something you can't identify. The latest Kia, or a Chrysler. This of course does not mean that Kias don't exist, of course they do, it just means you can't identify it. You can describe it as some strange car, but only someone in the know can tell you which car it is. But just because you can't identify it doesn't mean you doubt the existence of cars, right? Same with UFO's. And when you see something really odd like a Bristol, an Alvis or a Bugatti, it blows you mind. But it's still only a car.
Whilst I would like to believe that aliens from other solar systems are visiting, evidence strongly suggests otherwise, as proven by recent events. As I type, cosmonauts are attempting to fix a leak in the ammonia filled cooling system that protects the solar electric supply on the space station. This we are being told is damage caused by a meteor strike. We are not talking about huge ball of flaming rock either, the damage could have been caused by something as small as a pin head. A minute piece of space debris travelling at speed could, at any time, pierce the shell of the space station damaging it and potentially killing all those on board. This of course means that interstellar travel would be highly dangerous, and arguably impossible. The space station orbits the earth at just a few hundred miles up. Cosmically speaking this is just outside the front door. And stepping out the door has been enough to take major damage. So, if we were to travel across our own solar system, the equivalent of strolling around our front garden, the odds of being hit increase dramatically. And consider this - we are simply strolling. Or possibly, because we are mere infants in this space exploration lark, merely crawling on all fours. Any aliens visiting from other galaxies would have to be travelling at tremendous speeds to cross the interstellar distances involved within their own lifespans, so their craft must surely be like pepperpots within a few streets on the cosmic scale. It just couldn't be done.
Consider the situation with the volcanic ash cloud a year or so back. They reckoned that an aircraft entering the ash cloud at cruise speed of around 300 mph would be stripped of it's paintwork in no time, and the engines would fail as ash glassified in the inlets. Travelling through the depths of space with all manner of flotsam, jetsam and detritus surely the same applies? And no self respecting alien is going to turn up on a strange new planet with tarnished paintwork and a knackered engine when the nearest starship repair centre is several thousand light years away. They wouldn't be seen dead in it - although naturally they would if it had been struck by meteors.
I have been having doubts about whether we ever even landed on Mars ever since I saw a documentary that pointed out several inconsistencies in the film footage, but now this new understanding convinces me. No spacecraft we can conceive could make the journey without risk of being bombarded by tiny little meteorites that would destroy it. Another factor that convinces me is that we are told that Apollo rockets used less computing power than a pocket calculator. Well my home PC is far more advanced than the 1960's computer technology, but it crashes with monotonous frequency, and to be honest I wouldn't trust it to speak my weight, never mind navigate to the moon and back. The Americans must have faked the whole thing to convince the Russians they had superior technology, thus securing world peace - of a sort.
And yet..... I still want to believe that life exists outside our little blue and green globe. If it doesn't then the rest of the universe makes no sense - what is it there for? Aliens must have superior technology to protect their spacecraft with some sort of anti gravity meteor proof shield to allow them to travel cross the universe freely. And when we, a supposedly intelligent life form, still buries it's rubbish in a hole in the ground, makes TV documentaries about the most inadequate members of society for it's own entertainment and burns oil in little explosions to make chariots go around there is no hope at all for the future, unless we gain outside help, or evolve into something better quickly.
So, here's my theory. Life does exist on other planets, they have visited here and they are guiding us and ready to save us from ourselves. They may have already made contact, and that is why the familiar face of the alien grey is slowly being drip fed into popular sci-fi culture, to prepare us for the official announcement. They are almost certainly pointing us towards technological advancements. Lets' face it, we have had thousands of years of evolution in which we have achieved the wheel and fire, and very little else - agriculture and rudimentary medicine and music perhaps. Then within just a couple of centuries we come up with the steam engine, internal combustion, electricity, computers, microwave ovens, X rays, chips, DVD players space travel, Ryan Air, telephone, television, rock and roll and the internet. And lets be honest we just don't have the intellect for any of that. Take away electricity and within a month we would all be on the same level as monkeys again, or at best plunged back into the dark ages. Most of the Jeremy Kyle audience are still there, proof if need be that man has not evolved to the point of flying to the moon. No, there is more going on than we are aware of, and I for one will be watching the night skies more closely from now on.
I want to believe.
Whilst I would like to believe that aliens from other solar systems are visiting, evidence strongly suggests otherwise, as proven by recent events. As I type, cosmonauts are attempting to fix a leak in the ammonia filled cooling system that protects the solar electric supply on the space station. This we are being told is damage caused by a meteor strike. We are not talking about huge ball of flaming rock either, the damage could have been caused by something as small as a pin head. A minute piece of space debris travelling at speed could, at any time, pierce the shell of the space station damaging it and potentially killing all those on board. This of course means that interstellar travel would be highly dangerous, and arguably impossible. The space station orbits the earth at just a few hundred miles up. Cosmically speaking this is just outside the front door. And stepping out the door has been enough to take major damage. So, if we were to travel across our own solar system, the equivalent of strolling around our front garden, the odds of being hit increase dramatically. And consider this - we are simply strolling. Or possibly, because we are mere infants in this space exploration lark, merely crawling on all fours. Any aliens visiting from other galaxies would have to be travelling at tremendous speeds to cross the interstellar distances involved within their own lifespans, so their craft must surely be like pepperpots within a few streets on the cosmic scale. It just couldn't be done.
Consider the situation with the volcanic ash cloud a year or so back. They reckoned that an aircraft entering the ash cloud at cruise speed of around 300 mph would be stripped of it's paintwork in no time, and the engines would fail as ash glassified in the inlets. Travelling through the depths of space with all manner of flotsam, jetsam and detritus surely the same applies? And no self respecting alien is going to turn up on a strange new planet with tarnished paintwork and a knackered engine when the nearest starship repair centre is several thousand light years away. They wouldn't be seen dead in it - although naturally they would if it had been struck by meteors.
I have been having doubts about whether we ever even landed on Mars ever since I saw a documentary that pointed out several inconsistencies in the film footage, but now this new understanding convinces me. No spacecraft we can conceive could make the journey without risk of being bombarded by tiny little meteorites that would destroy it. Another factor that convinces me is that we are told that Apollo rockets used less computing power than a pocket calculator. Well my home PC is far more advanced than the 1960's computer technology, but it crashes with monotonous frequency, and to be honest I wouldn't trust it to speak my weight, never mind navigate to the moon and back. The Americans must have faked the whole thing to convince the Russians they had superior technology, thus securing world peace - of a sort.
And yet..... I still want to believe that life exists outside our little blue and green globe. If it doesn't then the rest of the universe makes no sense - what is it there for? Aliens must have superior technology to protect their spacecraft with some sort of anti gravity meteor proof shield to allow them to travel cross the universe freely. And when we, a supposedly intelligent life form, still buries it's rubbish in a hole in the ground, makes TV documentaries about the most inadequate members of society for it's own entertainment and burns oil in little explosions to make chariots go around there is no hope at all for the future, unless we gain outside help, or evolve into something better quickly.
So, here's my theory. Life does exist on other planets, they have visited here and they are guiding us and ready to save us from ourselves. They may have already made contact, and that is why the familiar face of the alien grey is slowly being drip fed into popular sci-fi culture, to prepare us for the official announcement. They are almost certainly pointing us towards technological advancements. Lets' face it, we have had thousands of years of evolution in which we have achieved the wheel and fire, and very little else - agriculture and rudimentary medicine and music perhaps. Then within just a couple of centuries we come up with the steam engine, internal combustion, electricity, computers, microwave ovens, X rays, chips, DVD players space travel, Ryan Air, telephone, television, rock and roll and the internet. And lets be honest we just don't have the intellect for any of that. Take away electricity and within a month we would all be on the same level as monkeys again, or at best plunged back into the dark ages. Most of the Jeremy Kyle audience are still there, proof if need be that man has not evolved to the point of flying to the moon. No, there is more going on than we are aware of, and I for one will be watching the night skies more closely from now on.
I want to believe.
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