For the past two weeks I have been engaged in jury service. Although the law strongly encourages me not to reveal any details of the case which is not yet complete, I feel a strong urge to write about the experience as a whole, which has felt more than a little surreal, like being part of a television programme for a fortnight.
The thing which has struck me most of all is the nature of the various characters who have appeared in court throughout the course of the fortnight. If I had been writing the whole thing as a piece of fiction, I could not have created characters who so closely fit the stereotypes which one might have expected when told their professions or positions. The accused looked and acted remarkably like Bill Sykes. The lead defence barrister appeared to have modelled his entire appearance and performance on Rumpole of the Bailey. Even more amusing, he had a female junior barrister sat behind him who looked like a younger version of himself, minus the moustache and with slightly longer hair (I speculated that by the time she reached senior barrister status, she may well have grown a suitable moustache). Most remarkable of all, a pathologist who gave evidence on the witness stand looked and acted precisely as one might expect of an individual who was far more at home dealing with the dead than with the living. She had a markedly drawn, skeletal, deadly serious face, a strange, nervous speaking style and peered suspiciously round the court room from behind spectacles which probably weighed only a few ounces less than she did.
Those were the most notable examples, but everyone who appeared in court seemed to fit remarkably with my pre-conceived notion of how they would be. The judge, the other barristers, doctors, nurses, police detectives. Every one of them seemed to confirm my mental stereotype. It reminded me of a webcast I had listened to a few weeks previously in which the way in which we tend to fulfil given roles had been discussed. In the webcast, the interviewee had discussed how he had met a person at a party and within a few seconds was able to guess that she was a teacher (which he subsequently confirmed by asking her). He went on to speculate that many if not most of us have a tendency to lose the individuality and unique identity that we have when we are younger by conforming to expected behaviour patterns associated with roles that we take on. Instead of being ourselves, we become more or less completely identified with our occupation, or some other role such as a parent, 'one of the lads', a trade unionist, a fat person, a runner, or a victim. How many of us are conforming to roles which we did not choose for ourselves but which we drifted into, or which we took on to please others, such as our families or which are based on something which someone said to us a long long time in the past, such as 'he's the shy one' or 'she's no good with children'.
Such identification with one, or a small number of roles, so strongly informs the choices that we make every day that to the outside world we appear to have become the personification of those roles. We forget that every minute of every day, we have the choice to be whoever we want to be, to act however we want to act, to wear whatever we want to wear, to say whatever we want to say and to do whatever we want to do. We forget that we do not have to do what is expected of us. We forget that our choices should not be based on how others want or expect us to be, but on how we want to be, on what makes us feel happy and truly alive.
As I think back to the pathologist mentioned above, I am reminded of one hero of the pathology world who managed to buck the trend and very certainly did not conform to any such stereotypes. I am talking of course of the legend that is Quincy M.E. Quincy did not confine himself to long hours in the pathology lab followed by the filling in of long and deadly serious reports. This maverick hero's talents could not be so confined and so we would often see him taking on the role of detective, barrister (attorney), counselor or public health champion. He more or less single-handedly solved every case in which he was involved and having done so, still found time to be an unstoppable love machine and to have a bit if cheeky banter and a game of cards with his mates in the pub afterwards.
We can all learn a lot from Quincy. Quincy teaches us not to accept limits and to refuse to be labelled by anyone. Quincy shows us how to be the best we can be in every moment of every day by remembering that in each one of those moments, we have a new choice about who we want to be.
Back in March I wrote about the acceptance speech of Karen Armstrong after she received her TED Prize. TED Prize winners are encouraged to make a 'prize wish', in which they detail their vision of how we can make our world a better place. Karen's prize wish was to see the creation of a Charter for Compassion in which leading members of all the world's major religions come together to recognise the common threads which underlie all their faiths.
If you know me well, you will be aware that I do not subscribe to any religion, yet Karen's message rings true for me too. In a world where fundamentalism, difference and conflict are on the rise, it is crucial that those of us who wish to promote acceptance and love of difference in the world take action to promote this. It is no good just sitting about tutting when the fearers and the haters are raising armies of destruction.
To some the idea of compassion may seem a little dull or boring, something they cannot relate to in our fast-paced, exciting and very self-centred Western culture. The word raises images of Mother Theresa toiling tirelessly to help people in desperate need. Many people cannot relate to the apparently massive level of altruism that she displayed.
But to me, this is something that raises a burningng passion inside me, not unlike that displayed by Bob Geldof during Live Aid. It is not at all unselfish and to show why, I will repeat some of what I said in my article in March.
My single overriding motivation is the protection of my daughters. I want them to grow up in a world where love is in the ascendancy. This is by no means certain in a volatile world in which resources are running out. We face a stark choice, between cooperation with our fellow humans to find new ways to sustain the species or bitter violent struggle over the dwindling resources we use now. There cannot be the cooperation without an understanding that we are all one. People need to stop thinking about stupid petty divisions such as nationality or religion, otherwise there will soon be no nationalities or religions because everyone will be dead.
Every one of us has to stand up and be counted. Stand up and say 'I choose love.' Then to do something. Whatever feels natural. To foster love and friendship with other members of our species. To show small minded people that there is another way, a better way. The only way in which we can survive.
Of course, not everyone can live a life of service like Mother Theresa. Not everyone has the influence of Bob Geldof or Bono. But we can all do something every day to help make it a better world. We can all choose to smile, to accept, to show kindness to the people we meet in everyday life. When we do this, there is a knock on effect. Those people who we touch are more likely to act in a positive, loving manner to the people that they meet. In that way, one smile or one compliment can create a wave of happiness that spreads across a nation. Likewise, a frown or an unkind word can do the same. Are you taking responsibility for the way you are treating the people you meet every day?
"Each time we stand up for an ideal, or act to improve the lot of others, or strike out against injustice, we send forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centres of energy and daring, those ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance." - Robert Kennedy (7 June, 1966)
Improving the lot of others does not have to mean giving away all your money or giving up your job to work in Africa. If we all committed to simple gestures of loving kindness on a daily basis, the world would be transformed and the fear which might otherwise lead us towards self-destruction can be relieved for good.
I went to Sainsbury's the other day. For those of you in The New World, it's one of UK's major supermarket chains.
When I went through the checkout, the cashier gave me a free fridge magnet which had on it the instruction "TAKE AN OLD BAG SHOPPING"
Now, I think it is commendable to encourage our citizens to think about others, and shopping can be very heavy, especially if you are enjoyng your golden years and live a long way from the store.
But surely they could have have used a more polite turn of phrase.
A few weeks ago I went for a picnic with the ever beautiful and serene Leigh to the Botanical Gardens here in Sheffield. For those of you who don't live here, it is a park in which trees and plants from all around the world have been brought. The myriad of shapes, colours and smells is very inspiring. This was a sunny day and unusually warm for the time of year. I was feeling very calm and almost in a meditative state. We walked around the gardens a little while before deciding on a place to have our lunch.
While Leigh was looking at some unusual trees, reading the labels which told what kind they were, I sat down on a bench and kept very still, drinking in the beauty that was before me. Suddenly a squirrel appeared and approached the bench where I was sitting. To my astonishment, the squirrel climbed up onto my thigh and sat there for few moments, looking me directly in the eye, before scurrying off. If that wasn't surprising enough, then another squirrel appeared and came up right in front of me. My hands were resting between my knees, my fingertips touching together. The squirrel reached up with his little paw and gently tapped my hands. He looked me in the eyes and then did it again. Then when he got no reaction from me, he too scurried off.
This was a remarkable experience. I am currently training hard to get better at running and my diet includes rather a lot of nuts. I wonder if the squirrels could sense that I was a kindred spirit in that respect, or maybe I just smelled of nuts. During the brief moments I was looking into the squirrels eyes, I felt a sudden sense of empathy for them, as if I got an inkling of what it was like to be a squirrel.
Sammy Squirrel: What are we going to do today, Sydney?
Sydney Squirrel: I thought I might charge round looking for nuts. What do you reckon?
Sammy Squirrel: Great idea! I love charging around looking for nuts. I think I will join you. Botanical Gardens?
Sydney Squirrel: Where else? Race you there.
Sammy Squirrel: You're on. Hey, hang on! That's not fair. False start!
Sydney Squirrel: Ha ha! Come on, slow coach!
A little later ...
Sammy Squirrel: So, how are you getting on, Sydney?
Sydney Squirrel: Not bad, not bad! This place is brilliant for nuts. But you can never really have enough can you?
Sammy Squirrel: You're right, Sammy. Here! Look at that!
Sydney Squirrel: Where?
Sammy Squirrel: Over there. Look. What is that?
Sydney Squirrel: Not sure. Doesn't look like any tree I've ever seen. Looks like one of those men if anything. But it isn't moving so it can't be.
Sammy Squirrel: Shall we check it out?
Sydney Squirrel: You go first.
Sammy Squirrel: OK. Cover me.
A few moments later ...
Sydney Squirrel: Well?
Sammy Squirrel: I'm not sure. I'm sure there are nuts there somewhere. I can sense nuts! If I didn't know better, I would swear it looked at me.
Sydney Squirrel: Hold on, I'll check it out.
Shortly afterwards ...
Sydney Squirrel: Weird! You're right, there's definitely something strange about that tree.
Sammy Squirrel: Sydney, Sydney! Look at the bushy tail on that!
November 5th is celebrated in Britain as Bonfire Night, or to give it its more correct name, Guy Fawkes Night. Firework displays and big bonfires will be seen throughout the land. This is a celebration of the foiling of the notorious Gunpowder Plot, in which a band of Catholic villains, including the very unfortunate Guy Fawkes, are alleged to have tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament with gunpowder and to kill King James I, his family and a large number of other aristocrats.
Some historians have speculated that the whole thing may have actually been staged by, or at least secretly allowed to progress by certain government agents, in particular Robert Cecil, the Earl of Salisbury. Conspiracy theorists suggest that Cecil may have fabricated the plot as an excuse for the persecution of Catholics in a land which was officially Protestant under King James (hence the production of the English King James Bible). These conspiracy theories strongly parallel those which are around today regarding recent terrorist attacks such as 9/11 and the London bombings. The Web is awash with those who would have us believe that these were staged by our respective governments as an excuse for a withdrawal of civil liberties. It also mirrors the Burning of the Reichstag in 1933 Germany which was blamed on Communists and precipitated Hitler's rise to dictatorial power.
Whether you believe the conspiracy theorists or not, you cannot deny the fact that nobody does a celebration of religious intolerance and hatred like us Brits. For over 400 years now we have been encouraging small children to make an effigy of the filthy Catholic scum and then chuck it on a massive fire. Then a crowd of smiling, sparkler waving onlookers smile and cheer at the reminder that those people who don't believe quite the same things as us will be dealt with by appropriate hideously cruel punishment.
Can any other country top 400 years? Or is it just that we can't muster virulent hatred quite as well as we did in the old days so that now such celebrations tend to peter out after 150 years or so?
In order to bring back some proper fervent hatred, I think it is about time the secret services of our nations upped their game a bit and used a scape-goat we can all get behind detesting. Amusing as some of their beliefs and antics are, I can't really bring myself to hate entire religious or political groups, even if a handful of them have been very naughty indeed. What I suggest is that perhaps MI5 could, under the guise of a sinister Spectre-style organisation, secretly recruit a number of easily seduced wasps and encourage them to formulate a dastardly plot against Princes William and Harry. Not the Queen, nobody really likes her. But there is still plenty of affection for Di's pretty kids. Then MI5 could expose the plot at the last minute and then the Daily Mail and Sun newspapers could spend a month or so banging on about the evils of wasps, prompting a national crackdown which could rid us of these pesky menaces for good. Obviously they would have to do all this when they were not busy advising the makers of Spooks. Once we have dealt with wasps, they could wait ten years or so and then frame The Tweenies.
Then maybe, just maybe, I would consider my taxes well spent.
When he finally regained his composure after the shock of Saoirse's sudden departure, Walter picked himself up and looked out over the countryside. The view from the ledge was breathtaking, yet this was the first time he had noticed it. While Saoirse had been there, all his senses had been focused on her. Now they were open to receiving magnificence and beauty. The myriad of colours and shapes presented by the rolling landscape touched him like they had never done before. Many times had someone said to Walter, 'What a beautiful view!' At such times he would mutter agreement but had never been able to muster the enthusiasm that the tone of his companions' voices revealed. This time he really got it and he stood for a few moments silently drinking in the splendour. He caught himself humming 'Top of the World' by the Carpenters, a song that only a year ago he would have cynically mocked as soppy nonsense.
After a few moments Walter breathed in sharply, breaking the trance that he had entered without knowing and he turned and headed back down the spiral staircase to the Leprechauns' cavern. The going was much easier on the way down and he soon reached the cavern, following the wall until he once again found himself at Magic Dara's. He was struck by the fact that he could not hear any of the revelry which he knew to be going on inside until he opened the door and stepped over the threshold. When he did so, it was like being suddenly hit by a wall of music and laughter.
Through the throng he picked out Seamus who was sitting at a large table with a small crowd of people gathered round him listening intently. Walter was quite familiar with this sight. Many times he had witnessed Seamus spin one of his enchanting yarns. He knew not to interrupt his flow and so he pushed his way through to the bar where Dara greeted him with a friendly and knowing smile.
"You feeling better now, Walter?" Dara asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yes I am. Thank you. I really mean that. Thank you." Walter replied.
"You're welcome, my friend. That is what I am here for. Well, amongst other things." Dara graciously accepted. "Can I get you a drink?"
"Umm. Yeh. I'll have a Guinness," Walter answered. Before he could blink, Dara had placed a Guinness in front of him and when Walter offered to pay, he waved his hand in dismissal. "This one's on the house," said Dara. "Just so long as you promise to give us a song."
"Ah, I don't know, it's been quite a while since I've been in front of a crowd. I'm not sure whether I am ready for it," Walter said. As he spoke the words, he became suddenly aware how they seemed to puncture the bubble of freedom, peace and elation that had surrounded him since he last spoke with Dara. Dara looked Walter straight in the eye, managing to repeat his question simply by raising his left eyebrow a couple of millimeters. Out of Dara's sight, Walter made a fist with his right hand and then said, "What am I saying? Of course I will give you a song. I am Walter the Sofa Elf. I was born to entertain." Dara's questioning look turned back to a warm smile. He nodded to his assistant who went over to where the band were playing and whispered in the ear of the bodhran player. As he did so, a chorus of laughter rose from the group who were gathered around Seamus' table, indicating that he had reached the end of another ripping yarn. Walter took the opportunity to go over and talk to his cousin before he started another one.
"Ah, Walt! Oi wondered where you'd got to," Seamus said as he saw Walter approaching.
"Have you seen Saoirse anywhere?" Walter immediately asked.
"Oh, dat's where you've been is it?" Seamus said with a hint of laughter in his voice. Walter suddenly remembered the kiss that Saoirse had given Seamus when they first arrived at the pub.
"Oh, listen, sorry mate, I didn't think. If I've overstepped the mark .... " Walter said apologetically.
"Aaah, don't you worry 'bout dat, Walter. Saoirse belongs to no man. Jaysus. The chance'd be a foine ting. Saoirse does what Saoirse wants to do. Sure, Oi've been lucky enough to share her company from toime to toime. But if today she's chosen you, Walt, den good luck to you cuz. Don't get me wrong, moind. Dat doesn't mean she is easy. Far from it. De feller who manages to tame dat one will be a lucky feller indeed."
As he finished speaking, Dara's voice came over the microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen, it is now my pleasure to introduce a special guest from over the water. The cousin of our fine friend Seamus, and a big hit in his home town of Sheffield, England, please welcome to the mic Walter the Sofa Elf." Polite but uncertain applause was suddenly interrupted by a drunken heckle from the back of the room.
"Asking an elf from England to sing! Moight as well ask a mouse to keep an oye on yer cheese," the heckler said.
"Yeh, or ask your barber to give us a hair cut. Shut up, Sean O'Gill," Dara put the heckler in his place and raised a laugh from the rest of the crowd, then he stepped aside and beckoned Walter up onto the stage. Walter sprang out of his seat and bounded up to the microphone. He took his position and quietly said something to the members of the band. He was so clearly in his element now, vibrant and confident in his movement and expression. His presence commanded the room to fall silent. He started the first few bars of Happy Cow. The band quickly picked up the melody and began to accompany him with brilliant ease. The end of the song was greeted with a loud cheer from the crowd and many calls for more. Walter turned to the band and they began to play the song again, only this time they raised the tempo. Walter began his reprise and the floor began to fill with dancers. The pub door opened and in came Saoirse. From his new vantage point, Walter was suddenly aware of the number of heads that turned as she glided across the room to once again mesmerise Walter with her dancing. With every turn of her body she looked deep into Walter's eyes and gave him a captivating smile.
When he finished the Happy Cow remix, the band invited Walter to stay with them as they continued their set of Irish classics. Walter knew the words to many of these after many nights out with Seamus over the years and he revelled in providing very popular backing vocals. But at the same time he was longing for the band to take a break so that he could go and talk to Saoirse once more. Eventually they took a well earned rest, giving a warm thank you to Walter which was echoed by the onlookers. With his eyes fixed on Saoirse, Walter stepped away from the stage. He was high with the adrenaline of performing and bounded over to where she was patiently waiting for him.
"Look at you!" Saoirse enthused as Walter got close enough to hear her over the clamour. "Dat was brilliant, Walt, and you look so aloive. Beautiful!"
"Oh, cheers," Walter said, beaming. "It's been quite some time. I LOVE that. I'd forgotten just how good it feels."
"Oi can see dat, Walt. Does the feeling remoind you of anyting?"
"How do you mean?" asked Walter, unsure of what she was getting at.
"The enthusiasm in your voice remoinds me of when you were talking to me just a few hours ago - when you were talking to me about Tallina." Walter stopped and silently contemplated what she had said. "You told me you love her and just now you told me you love the singing. I wonder what it is dat makes you feel dat way. What is it dat's different about you at dose toimes?" Walter still wasn't ready to give any kind of answer. "Shall I tell you what I tink?" asked Saoirse.
"When Oi watched you on the stage just now, for the first toime Oi saw a Walter who was completely relaxed and at ease. Oi don't tink it's a coincidence that you speak of love when you recall experiencing dat. Now think about your toimes with Tallina. What was different about dat? Oi hear you were pretty popular with de ladies before you met her? So what was different? Why was it love with her?" Saoirse then remained silent for a few moments allowing Walter to contemplate what she had said. Eventually Walter spoke.
"Because with her there was no pretense. With her I could just be myself. Sure I have had plenty of girls in my time but I was always putting on a show. They usually liked me because of the singing and I played up to that image, putting on the bravado even when I didn't feel like it both for them and to maintain my image. With Tallina it was different. With her I could just relax. I could just let go. It was wonderfully effortless. I loved her and I just didn't care who knew about it. In fact, I probably annoyed he hell out of folks by going round telling them."
"Ha ha!" Saoirse laughed at Walter's last little confession. "Maybe you can see now Walter that it was the change in you that brought you love. I have no doubt that Tallina is a lovely girl, but you love her for the same reason that you love singing. You love her because for once you let go and allowed yourself to love without fear. In all aspects of life, Walt, that moment you let go will be the moment you find love."
If Walter had heard this from someone else, he may well have questioned what they were saying. But Saoirse embodied what she was saying with her every breath, movement and action and because of this her words carried great weight. Tears of realisation and relief ran down Walter's cheeks as once again he chose to let go.
Gary spent most of Thursday in a kind of mental haze. He could not concentrate on anything. His mind would not rest on anything other than that for which he was waiting - his date with Rosie that evening. He must have looked at the clock more than 50 times before it finally told him it was time to start getting ready. He never usually spent more than 4 seconds deciding what he was going to wear, but tonight was different. He opened his little wardrobe and for the first time in his life became aware of the fact that he didn't really like any of his clothes. Prior to this moment, he had been completely indifferent about it. He never bought clothes for himself. They were all given to him as presents or hand-me-downs by well-meaning relatives. Gary just accepted them and wore them, not even considering for one moment whether they were clothes that he would have chosen himself. Prior to this moment, he just thought of clothes as a means of keeping warm and covering the wobbly bits he didn't want people to see. Now Gary wished he had been a bit more proactive in his clothing acquisitions.
There was only one thing for it. Realising that doing so may well make him late for a very important date, Gary headed straight round to my flat where he knew that he would find the magnificent wardrobe of his good friend Walter. I was in the middle of juggling and handstand practice when I heard a little knock on the door. I opened it to find Gary crouching with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath.
"Gary! What are you doing here? Isn't tonight the big night? You've only got half an hour, mate. You'd best get cracking," I reminded him.
"Yeh," agreed Gary still getting back his breath. "I know. I know. But I've nothing to wear. Can I come and have a look in Walter's wardrobe. I'm sure he wouldn't mind."
"All right then, my little friend. In you come." I knew that Gary didn't have time to debate the issue.
Gary rushed through my door and headed straight for the sofa which contained Walter's apartment. A few minutes later he emerged resplendent in one of Walter's more traditional elfin outfits. Patent leather red shoes, tight green trousers with red pin stripes, a red silk shirt beneath a waist coat made of the same material of the trousers, and a magnificent green and red pointy hat. All fit Gary remarkably well considering that they were not his.
"What do you think?" Gary asked me as he emerged from the sofa. I said nothing, but gave him a smile and a Fonz-like thumbs up which made him laugh. Then Gary looked at the time. "Hell fire!" He exclaimed. "I'm going to be so late! She'll probably be gone by the time I get there."
There was no way I could let Gary miss out on the night of his life. I pointed to my rucksack. "Jump in, pal," I said. "There's no way I am going to let you miss this one."
Gary looked at me with surprise but didn't have time to argue and climbed into my rucksack. "Hold on tight," I told him as I swung it around onto my back and headed out the door. Like the wind I ran, my little friend's happiness depending on me. Like the scene from Trainspotting, I dodged in and out of more tawdry pedestrians and leaped over cars that got in my way until we eventually reached the entrance to Bolton Woods where the tree stump which housed Dave the Magic Barman's famous hostelry stood. I took off my rucksack, lay it on the floor and undid the zip. Gary climbed out wide eyed, his hat still hanging on precariously to his head.
"Here we are, little feller," I told him.
"Thanks Pete," said Gary. "I won't forget this." He straightened his hat, then off he dashed into the woods. As he approached the pub, he could hear a choir of raucous female voices. It was a little early in the evening to have reached the singing 'I Will Survive' stage, but as Gary got closer he quickly recognised the unmistakable lyrics. He opened the door and stepped inside. Around two tables which had been pushed together was a large group of she-elves who were clearly a little worse for wear. He guessed from their strange attire that it must be some kind of hen night. Sitting on a stool with her back to the rest of the room was the one who Gary assumed must be the bride to be. Polite individuals would have described her as 'a little on the large side' or 'cuddly'. The less polite would have described her as 'a great big fatty'. The ladies paid no attention to Gary's entrance but continued their very loud rendition of the classic Gloria Gaynor track.
As he made his way past the group, aiming for the bar, the cuddly she-elf suddenly stood up an threw back her arms in an exuberant gesture to go with the song. Her right hand hit Gary full in the face, knocking him out cold and he slumped to the ground behind her. The singing suddenly stopped and gasps came from the mouths of the other revelers.
When Gary came round he found himself surrounded by concerned female faces. He felt a sharp pain around his left eye and reached up to touch it gingerly.
"Are you OK? I'm ever so sorry. I never saw you coming. I was really getting into that song. So sorry. Can I get you a drink?"
"Give him some room, girls," Dave the Magic Barman came over holding a bundled up beer towel full of ice. "Here, Gary. Put this on your face and come and have a sit down." He helped Gary up and led him by the arm to a chair near to where the group of girls had been sitting. Feeling very groggy and disoriented, Gary took the ice pack from Dave and put it on his rapidly blackening eye as instructed. Dave went back to the bar and returned with a small glass of purple liquid. "Here, get this down you," he said to Gary. Gary did as instructed. The liquid had a very unusual sweet taste that he could not place, but once he had finished it, he found himself feeling immediately much more alert. The hen night elves began to adjust their seating positions so that they gradually drew Gary within their group and began showering him with drunken sympathy.
Then through the pub door came a vision of beauty that reminded Gary just what he was there for.
"Gary! I never knew you had such a way with the ladies," joked Rosie as she saw the company that he had gained. "You are a dark horse, aren't you? Have you been fighting?"
"No, it's .... well ...... you see ...... I was ......"
"Tell me all about it in a minute, Casanova. Sorry ladies, but this one's mine tonight." She took Gary by the hand, instantly causing a wave of joy to travel up his spine. With a little tug she encouraged him to stand up and then led him over to one of the more secluded tables at the other side of the pub. A few moments later, Magic Dave came over with two drinks which Gary was sure neither of them had ordered.
For the next three hours, Gary talked to Rosie like he had never talked to anyone before in his entire life. Just like on the phone, Rosie's calm and gentle manner made Gary immediately relaxed. His nerves were gone and for the first time ever he felt like he could truly be himself. It was like the bursting of a dam. Recollections, ideas and stories came pouring out of him. They had been held inside for so long. He had always thought his male friends would think him stupid or soft if he told the things he was thinking, so he kept quiet. He had never really spoken to a woman before. Of course he had spoken to them, but not really spoken to them. Now here was Rosie, listening. She seemed genuinely interested and encouraged Gary to carry on, urging him to elaborate when she thought he was going to stop. It felt wonderful, to finally be heard. For the first time in his life, he felt worthy. He felt interesting. Rosie allowed him to feel that he could be himself with no pretences, with no fear and with no barriers. He felt like he, Gary the Sideboard Elf, was truly worthy. For the first time in his life, Gary felt like a man.
When Rosie spoke back, Gary was captivated, watching her: the way her lips moved, the way she played with her golden curls, the way her breasts gently rose and fell with her breathing, the dazzling light of life and love in her big blue eyes and the unmistakable passion in her voice. At times he was so mesmerised that he began to lose track of what she was saying and had to catch himself in case he got into trouble for it. From time to time, when their glasses were almost empty, Magic Dave strode over again with fresh drinks. Whenever Gary offered to pay him, Magic Dave waved his attempt away and returned quickly to the busy bar.
Time passed so quickly. When Magic Dave rang his bell for last orders, Gary could not believe that it was time to leave already. He did not want to leave. He wanted this to last forever. Suddenly there was a loud commotion from the hen night elves. Stood amongst them was Magic Dave's bar assistant and understudy Not Yet Magic George. On top of the bride to be's head he had placed a big Bob Marley style multi-coloured woollen hat. She was remonstrating with him with the rowdy help of her entourage.
"George, what are you doing?" Magic Dave shouted from the bar.
George walked back over to the bar and said to Dave in a low voice, "I'm just doing what you told me, boss. You said: 'Go and put it on the mental she-elf over there so that whoever left it behind will be able to see it if they happen to come back in.' "
"Mantle shelf, George, you great Sillett. Mantle shelf!" Magic Dave said shaking his head.
The pub slowly cleared until Gary and Rosie were the only customers left.
"I think you'd better walk me home, Honey," Rosie said to Gary. Hearing the word 'honey' made a wave of pleasure shoot up his spine. Gary did not want to leave. He knew that Magic Dave would let them stay as long as they wanted, but he reluctantly agreed. They both gave their thanks to Magic Dave and George and headed out into the cool night air. All the way back to Rosie's home, Walter felt like he had returned to his childhood. Everything seemed full of fun. He danced along, leaping over obstacles, balancing on fallen sticks, diving into piles of leaves and 'swimming' through, emerging on the other side beaming. Rosie's laughter encouraged and emboldened him with every antic.
Eventually he reached Rosie's home, She turned to face him, standing close, smiling and looking deep into his eyes. "Thank you Gary," she said in a voice that continued to hypnotise him. "I had a lovely time tonight. I'd really like to see you again."
Gary said nothing. Rosie's body was inches from him. As he gazed into her sparkling blue eyes, he felt a surge of raw masculinity. Feeling strong and powerful, he put one hand on the side of her waist and pulled her towards him. He felt her wonderful firm breasts pressing against him as he raised his other hand to the back of her neck and slowly brought his lips towards hers. Rosie closed her eyes and waited. A fraction of a second seemed to take a minute. Then at last their lips touched. The intimacy and connection took them both to a place of exquisite ecstasy. It was as if during that moment, they were one.
It was about an hour before Gary came down from Cloud 9. When he eventually did so, a sudden realisation hit him. He was going to have to actually make the phone call. On St Patrick's night he had managed to relax with Rosie. The beer, the music and Walter's antics had taken his mind off the very worrying fact that he had no idea how to interact with women. Now in the cold light of day he was going to have to pick up the phone and start a conversation. Fear cut through him like an icy cold wind, making him shake. What should he say? How should he say it? How the hell was he going to get the phone down from where it was attached to the wall way beyond his reach?
Eventually, Gary managed to stop himself from spiralling down to complete inaction and decided to pay me a visit. About an hour later, I heard a faint knock on the door of my flat. Hoping it might be a nice juicy Jehovah's Witness, I went to investigate. I opened the door to find nobody there. I was about to close it again in a grumpy manner when Gary called from below.
"Hey!" He shouted. I looked down and noticed the little feller by my feet.
"Heeeeey! Nice one Gazza! What are you waiting for?" I took the phone from my desk and placed it down on the floor next to Gary and lifted the receiver off for him. "I'll go in the kitchen. Give you a bit of privacy. OK?"
"Cheers, Pete," said Gary. I made my way into the kitchen and closed the door just enough so that Gary could feel a sense of privacy and yet I could still hear absolutely everything that he was saying. His heart was beating like a bongo and his mouth was dry. Once again he was shaking with trepidation. He crouched down and put his face in his hands. He remained like that for a couple of minutes then suddenly sprang up.
"Come on!" He said to himself. "Do NOT let this slip by you!" He pulled the paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded it then began to press the keys with his hand. After a few seconds, the sound of the ringing tone brought the fear back to him once more. "Oh my God. OH MY GOD!" He thought inside his head as it rang 5, 6, then 7 times. Gary was about to resign himself to nobody answering when the ringing stopped and he heard a sweet voice that soothed his turmoil.
"Umm ... er ... Hey babe, how you doin'?" Gary replied, making a total hash of the line he had been planning on the way over to my flat.
"Gary!" Rosie said with obvious delight in her voice. "Why are you talking like that?"
"What? Oh, erm ..... ha ha .... don't know really. I suppose I was just trying to be like Walter. He's always been a big hit with the ladies."
"Gary!" Rosie said again, this time with a little chastisement in her tone. "If I had wanted to go out with Walter or Joey from Friends, then I would have given my number to them, wouldn't I?"
"I guess so ...." Rosie's calm and beautifully feminine voice was making Gary feel more relaxed with every syllable.
"I'm so glad you called me, Gary. Is there anything you'd like to ask me?"
"Um... how are you?"
"I think you already asked me that Joey, oops, I mean Gary. I am fine thank you for asking. I was thinking maybe you might want to ask me something else. I am really busy tomorrow, but I am free on Thursday night."
"Oh!" Gary suddenly realised where Rosie was leading him in her wonderfully gentle manner. "Err.... would you like to go out with me on Thursday night?"
"I'd love to! Where would you like to meet me?"
"Errm ... how about 8 o'clock at Magic Dave's place?" It was the only place that Gary could think of. If he was being honest, it was the only place he ever went.
"I love Magic Dave's. See you then, honey." With that, Rosie was gone.
Gary stood still and silent for a moment. He was in shock. He had thought of a thousand things that could go wrong with the phone call. Yet it had gone so right. "She called me 'Honey'," he thought to himself with a sense of wonder. I came quickly back into the room.
"Any luck?" I said, knowing very well what had happened. Gary said nothing but simply raised his hands in the air in triumph and started to jump for joy around my feet. It was infectious and I soon joined him. We jumped and danced without any music except that which was playing in our heads until eventually we collapsed on the floor, the laughter of elation pouring out of us both.
In the good old days before Global Warming, when large political parties had principles, organic was a branch of chemistry and there were far fewer types of yoghurt, it sometimes snowed a lot in England. It doesn't any more, unless you are up a mountain (or maybe I should say big hill as England is rather lacking in mountains). Sometimes it even snowed so much that school was cancelled. At the time I could not understand why a load of snow outside meant that school had to be cancelled, but I wasn't complaining as it meant an entire day of completely unexpected bonus fun.
On one such occasion, my brother John and I decided that we would make the biggest snowball in the world. Not just East Anglia or Europe and Western Asia, you understand. That would have been rubbish. The biggest in the world. Our house was about half a mile walk away from the school which we both attended. The snow was the perfect type for balling. With snowball battles raging around us, John made a suitable sized ball his hands and we began rolling it towards our house, gathering more and more snow with every roll. After only a short distance the ball had already become so large and heavy that we had to start taking it in turns to push, with the non-pusher taking a chance to rest and recover. Other kids passed us, able only to watch in admiration at our splendid endeavour and to wish that they had the imagination and determination to bring such a project to fruition.
By the time we reached the end of our street, the snowball was almost as tall as me and we were unable to push it any further, despite both of us putting our shoulders into it at the same time. The field next to our house, where we had planned to park our world-beating creation, was only a tantalising few hundred yards away and the ball was only a few yards away from a slightly downhill section of road, where pushing would be considerably easier. Yet between the two of us, we could not budge the frosty globe. So we had to start calling on the help of other kids who were making their way slowly home to streets near ours. In return for their hard labour, they would be allowed to play with the coolest kids in the village for a while. With such an incentive on offer, we quickly managed to gather a small army and once again the icy giant began to move. Before long, it was standing proud in the field next to our house. We briefly considered calling the Guinness Book of Records, but soon decided that we didn't need to bother ourselves with such technicalities. It was quite obviously the biggest snowball in the world and we didn't need a man with a tape measure and a clipboard to reassure us. We weren't in it for the fame and fortune, but for the sense of personal achievement.
Inevitably, after standing and looking at the monument to our efforts and sighing deeply with satisfaction for a while, we needed a new challenge. What should we do with this thing? We can't just let it sit there and slowly melt. The obvious thing to do was to roll a somewhat smaller giant ball and lift it on top to make the biggest snowman in the world. But this was just a bit too obvious and besides, we didn't have a crane.
Eventually a plan hatched and we began to hollow out the massive ball from the top. We got a milk crate and packed more snow into this to make a lid or hatch. Eventually, we had made ourselves a quite unconventional igloo. I was able to get into the hollowed out ball and then pull the snow-packed crate into the gap that was left in the roof, creating a completely enclosed little room. As the youngest brother, I was the only one small enough to get in and fully close the lid. Such a great privilege meant that I forgot about trivial issues such as having enough air to breath and over the next few days I spent a considerable amount of time in the chilly cocoon. We delighted in inviting less brilliant village kids round to view the now famous giant snowball and I would suddenly jump out of it as they were gazing in awe at the spectacle, adding surprise and shock to the already heady experience.
Long after the snows had melted, the biggest snowball in the world stood defiant. Every day we hoped for another snowfall so that we could reinforce the giant. But alas it was not to be and eventually, after what seemed like weeks, it finally passed into legend and folklore.
If you have ever looked at my photographs or videos on Facebook, you will note that I have quite a collection of unusual hats. You can see most of them in the video 'Funny Hats, Funny Faces'.
In case you don't know me very well, let me assure you that this fabulous collection does not stay confined to my flat. For quite some time now I have made a point of wearing a piece of marvellous head gear wherever I go. Occasionally I am in a rush and I forget, on which occasions I am able to wander the streets of Sheffield unrecognised. I am always on the lookout for new hats. Not just any old hats, mind you. There has to be something unique about them. If I come across another person with the exact same hat, I am likely to be keenly disappointed. If anyone has any tips about where I can get me another unique hat, then please let me know.
Sometimes people wonder why I do this. Perhaps you are wondering now. If so, good! Here are some of the possible reasons which friends, acquaintances, arch enemies and bus drivers have suggested in the past:-
I am a great big self-obsessed poser. I am trying to compensate for an underlying lack of self-confidence. I am trying to draw attention to myself when out in public.
None of these are in fact correct. What's that you say? Yes, I am quite sure. I will now explain the real reason. I wear unusual hats because they are a tangible physical reminder to me that I do not have to be 'normal'. I do not have to fit in with what everyone else considers fashionable. I do not have to give a monkey's what other people think of me. I am an individual. Let me make it clear that it is not the hats themselves that make me an individual. That I simply am, as we all are. But the hats remind me of that fact, so that I go through life making my own decisions and do not succumb to the suffocating pressure to be 'normal' and to fit in that comes at us from all angles.
That leads me on to mentioning a video I recently watched from TED. You can watch the video here.
In it, Philip Zimbardo discusses what it is that leads previously quite 'ordinary' people to commit extraordinary atrocities. I recommend that you stick with the video through to the end where he also reveals what he thinks it is that makes others become 'ordinary heroes' in the same situations.
In summary, the studies which Zimbardo has been involved in indicate that the potential for good and the potential for evil is in every one of us. Certain extreme circumstances and environments will tend to push us either one way or another. The things which make people much more likely to commit evil deeds are conformity, anonymity and lack of accountability. These are the very things that organisations such as the armed forces actively promote. Dressing everyone in uniform, teaching them to follow the orders of superior officers without question, deliberately encouraging them to think that they are not individuals and are not accountable for their actions. People are deliberately dehumanised and once this happens, it is very likely that they can easily commit acts which we would describe as 'inhuman'. On the other side of the coin, the things which make people act heroically are a strong sense of individuality and unshakable personal principles that cannot be affected by peer group or authority pressure. These people are completely personally accountable for their actions and make decisions accordingly.
It appears to me that, unfortunately, our society as a whole is geared mainly towards encouraging conformity and stamping out individuality. Schools dress children in uniform from an early age. The exam system tests their ability to repeat what someone else thinks rather than to think for themselves. In offices up and down the land employees are encouraged to stick to a dress code and follow rigid corporate rules. Politicians have to follow the party whip rather than vote freely for what they think is right. Fashion magazines encourage us to follow trends rather than to buck them. Television and the press encourage us to forget our own unique lives and our own potential and to instead live our lives through celebrities, reality TV contestants or even fictional soap characters.
Well bollocks to that! To quote a Style Council song, 'We don't have to take this crap. We don't have to sit back and relax. We can actually try changing it.'
My hats are a physical reminder to me to do that every day. I am not a follower. I am an individual. I am not a sheep. I am a wolf. I am Pete Hughes and I will decide for myself how my life unfolds. Forward I will stride, shoulder to shoulder with my friends and help create a better world. Who is with me?
As the early morning sunlight filtered through the cracks in his sideboard home, Gary woke with a sense of urgency and excitement. He was not normally a morning person, but this morning he was immediately wide awake. Then a sudden sense of fear overcame him. What if it was all a dream? Of course it was all a dream. Things like this never happened to Gary.
He turned his attention to his body beneath the patchwork blanket that was keeping out the cold. He noted that he was still fully dressed. This was not all that unusual after a night out with Walter. He was wearing a pair of trousers with the standard four pockets.
"If I don't look right away then my dream won't be shattered so quickly. I can hang onto it a bit longer," Gary thought to himself. He rolled out of bed and made his way to the door of the sideboard. Once there he eased the door carefully open and lowered a length of string down to the ground. The string was fixed to a nail just inside the door, allowing Gary to climb down to the floor and make his way to the bathroom of the house in which his sideboard abode stood. All the way there he was in turmoil. Part of his mind was screaming at him to check his pockets now. But another part expected and feared a terrible let down. For the moment, fear was winning the battle. He held his hands slightly away from his body just in case optimism was to suddenly get the better of him.
Then the words of a song began to enter Gary's mind. Loud and clear they came, but not in his voice.
Whenever you are feeling down, forlorn or a little blue, Come see Magic Dave, he will tell you what to do. He serves the greatest beer in town. There's darts and pool as well. The duke box still costs 20 pence and plays Bat Out Of Hell When it comes to closing time, Dave rings his little bell. Everyone ignores it and Dave says 'ah, what the hell?
The speaker inside his head had a beautiful and delicate feminine voice and seemed to end with a little giggle.
"Rosie!" Gary whispered to himself. With that he quickly thrust both hands into his front trouser pockets. His heart sank a little as he felt no sign of a piece of paper. Undeterred, he then tried the back pockets, but once again his hands emerged empty. A pain shot through him like a glass shard to the heart.
"F**********ck!!" Gary shouted in his mind. But outwardly he was silent. He fell to his knees and began to berate himself inside his head. What was he thinking. As if it could have been anything other than a dream. As if things like that happened to someone like him. For a long time he knelt there, his face in his hands. When he eventually looked up, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the bottom of the metallic shower unit. There it was staring him right in the face. How had he not noticed until now? From the pocket of the red shirt that he had slept in protruded the corner of a piece of folded paper. Gary felt his heart race suddenly. He could almost hear it beating directly behind the piece of paper that was the cause of the sudden rush.
"Please, please, please. Oh, please!!" Gary said to he knew not whom. Slowly, slowly he raised his hand and reached for the piece of paper. As he pulled it out and unfolded it, he closed his eyes. When the paper was fully opened in front of him, he gradually opened one eye. The text was just a blur at first. Eyelashes and lack of focus making it impossible to make out the words.
Then it seemed like a trumpet fanfare of celebration played in Gary's head. There is was in black and white: 'CALL ME'. Gary closed his eye again and opened the other. Then he opened both. Still the words were there. It was real!
Gary leaped from his crouching position high into the air with one smooth movement, punching his fist up above his head in triumph. Waves of pure joy swept down his spine again and again. He landed back on the ball of his right foot and then began spinning gracefully round the room like a seasoned veteran of the Royal Ballet. He was dancing in silence but the most exalting music continued to play in his head, lifting his spirits higher with every leap. With every twist he looked again at the paper he held in his hand. This dream wasn't going away.
This was exquisitely real and he felt like it could be the first day of the rest of his life.
Many moons ago I worked as a fitness trainer in a health club which was attached to a hotel. It was a fairly small place, with about 350 members at most. I ran it together with my fine colleague Neil. At certain times of the day, particularly about 2 o'clock in the afternoon, the gym usually got very quiet and we often found ourselves thinking up imaginative ways to amuse ourselves.
As the club had so few members, we got to know them all quite well and Neil and I had nicknames for many of the most regular attendees. Among them were Little Eric, The Dullards, Well Hard Lee and Fat Mike. One day we were discussing the fatness of fat Mike when we realised that we both knew a remarkable amount of Mikes, all of whom were rather portly. Not only that, but a number of celebrities prominent at the time also sprang to mind: Mike Gatting, Mike McShane, Mike Reid and Mike Harding to name but a few. It seemed to us that an unusual proportion of people called Mike were fat.
So, as we had nothing better to do, we decided to do a little research amongst the other club members to find out whether our hypothesis was correct. It turned out that an astonishing 80% of the members of the club who were called Mike were fat, compared with around about 30% for all other names. When we threw in all the Mikes we knew in our personal lives outside work, the figures remained the same.
Now, I am aware that a sample of about 400 is not likely to be accepted as conclusive proof that calling your child Michael will dramatically increase his chances of attaining porkiness. So I would like to extend the survey by inviting readers to do their own little bit of research into the Mikes that they know. All you have to do is write down all the Mikes you can think of in your life and then recall whether they are of generous proportions or not. Then add up all the jumbo Mikes and work out the percentage of the total who could do with losing a few pounds.
You can let us know your results in comments below.
As many of you may already be aware, this year I went through just over three months of difficult struggle when my daughters and I were being denied the right to see each other by their mother. It was not the first time this has happened. It is a pattern that has repeated a number of times since I split up from their mother. I disagree with her about something. She says something along the lines of 'do what I say or you can't see your children', at which point I have no choice but to walk away from the situation until she withdraws that threat. That may seem like a harsh decision and it is indeed a very hard one, but I strongly believe it is the right thing to do. I cannot allow my daughters to be used in that manner and to do so would be a betrayal. Also, if I gave even an inch in concession, it would just happen more in the future. So I have to walk away and then stand firm. You cannot negotiate with terrorists.
My girls' mother usually fabricates one or more reasons to justify to herself why she is withdrawing access. These don't usually emerge until some time after her original decision. This time was no different. Almost three weeks after I had last seen my daughters, I received a letter stating the reasons why I was being denied access. I immediately replied to the letter, but my reply was ignored for a further 10 weeks.
There was no reply to this letter. I wrote a simple letter every week and an e-mail every few days for the whole of the period requesting that my daughters' mother suggest new contact arrangements if she was not happy with the previous ones. She ignored every one of these communications. Eventually, having exhausted all attempts at reasonable communication, I was preparing to go to court when their mother had a remarkable turn-around.
During the three months, my main fear was that my daughters would be thinking that I did not want to see them. I had no doubt that their mother would be telling them this. There was no other way that she could justify to them what she was doing. I sent them cards and letters every week, but did not know whether they were being given to them. I even tried sending them to their school, who I subsequently discovered also refused to give them to my girls. Some of my good friends also sent cards to Erin and Lottie, as we thought that they might have more chance of being allowed to open something that was not in my handwriting. I will never forget their kind efforts.
Luckily, I had prepared for this. I knew that something like this might happen and so every time I had seen my daughters before this time I had made a point of letting them know that I would always want to see them whenever possible and would never deliberately not see them. In one beautiful five minutes, my fears were allayed. I decided to just turn up at their house one Saturday morning having written a letter a few days earlier saying I would be doing so. The letter stated that if I received no reply then I would assume it was OK. When I arrived, my children's mother was just taking them out. I managed to get a few minutes with them. In those few minutes I knew for certain that they knew exactly what was going on and did not doubt me at all. Their bravery and strength brings tears to my eyes now as I write. It was just what I needed to give me the resolve to carry on doing what was right.
This was a very difficult time for me and I want to take this opportunity to thank all my friends who showed me support during this time. Every one of you made a difference. You helped me always remember who I am: a good father and a good man. I never doubted for one moment that what I was doing was right and your support helped me keep that vital strength. At times of doubt, I kept one thought in mind: "I am love and I cannot be defeated. However long it takes."
If you are on the list below, it is because I deeply appreciate the time you took to support me during this struggle. My apologies if this comes rather late. I have only just reached a point where I feel able to write about this.
Leigh Fiorentino, Hannah and Ruby Jenkyns, Kelly Jayne, Bec Rhodes, Susanne McCabe, Sherri Leger, Lisa King, Beverly Oakland, Kerry Parkin, Sara Horvath, Lee Turner, Steve Moseley, Mike Robinson, Suzy Gould, Therese Mary Savage, Caroline Foy, Mark Bagnall, Tomasz Ondrusz, Marie Piekarski, Jill Hennig, Kate Hughes, Megan Bennet, Matthew Campbell, Michelle Cooney and last but certainly not least my own parents, grandmother, brothers and sister.
It was during this time that I came across Steve Moseley's video on YouTube and decided to help him. Every day my situation brought up a strong need to fight in me. I just needed to do something, anything. But some days, many days in fact, there was nothing I could do. So I had all this fight inside me and nowhere to channel it. I am pleased to say that I found my positive channel by helping Steve spread his video. Steve remains a great inspiration to many many fathers out there.
They say when you help dig someone out of their troubles, you make a hole to bury your own. How very true.
The video below was recorded the day I got my daughters back after more than three months:-
