One day a couple of years ago, I was at the supermarket, once again engaging in the fine art of supermarket strolling, and a shiny red and yellow packet of crisps caught my eye.
[Note to marketers: if you want to sell something to me, use red and then yellow, in that order].
The famous crisp company had come up with an interesting variation on 'cheese and onion' to catch my attention. It was something like 'Supercalifragilistic Peruvian Magic Dragon's Cheese and Onion of Truth'. The combination of the colour and the name made these crisps stand out from the crowd and I seemingly had no choice but to place them in the basket with my usual cocktail-barman style juggling flourish.
Later, as I was relaxing at home after a very pleasant run around the park at sunset, I took the packet of crisps down from the cupboard, ready to give myself a well-earned treat. As I was opening them, I noticed that printed on the back of the packet was the instruction: 'If you are not entirely satisfied, please write to the following address....'
I proceeded to open and taste the crisps and they turned out to be remarkable in every way. The texture and taste surpassed any other overly salty snack I had ever had the pleasure of popping in my mouth.
However, my hamster had just died, a horse I had laid quite a large bet on that afternoon came in fourth, and my girlfriend had, only the day before, subtly hinted she didn't like my haircut (managing very skilfully to not actually say so, so that she could completely deny it if necessary later).
I would have been deceiving myself and anyone else who cared to ask if I had considered myself 'entirely satisfied', so I got out a pen and paper and prepared to write a letter to the crisp helpline informing them of my various woes. I have to say that I was rather disappointed with the response which finally arrived three full weeks later. Although it was very gracious in thanking me for my interest in their brand of nibbles, it made no attempt whatsoever to rid me of the daily dissatisfaction which had been dogging me for so many years.
I was left wondering why on Earth they had got my hopes up by advising me to write to them in the first place, and from that day forth, I vowed only to buy extravagantly named blood-pressure elevators from their arch-rival brand.
I was feeling rather fed up the other day so I thought I would try a bit of that Comfort eating they bang on about on the telly.
Well, I have to say that I was very disappointed. It tasted all nasty like soap and didn't cheer me up at all. I added some salt and pepper, but it didn't help.
I was listening to the news on local radio the other day. They reported on a story about a man who had gone on the rampage in Meadowhall Shopping Centre. The man apparently ran amock with a rusty old cheese grater, stopping random terrorised shoppers and rubbing the grater over their faces.
It was over half an hour before the man was apprehended by security staff and handed over to the police.
Appearing at Sheffield Magistrates' Court yesterday, the man (who had pleaded guilty) was asked by the chief magistrate if he felt any remorse for the fear and injury he had caused.
"No! Why should I?" The grater fiend replied. "It's no skin off my nose."
When I was sixteen years old, I took a trip to Leeds where my brother John was attending university and where I was to follow him a couple of years later. That year my brother was sharing a house with (amongst others) our inspirational friend Rob Aslett. Close to their house in Woodhouse was a pub called The Chemic on Johnson Street. This was an exciting time for me. I was away from my parents for perhaps the first time, and was expecting to have myself some mighty fun.
On a Saturday lunchtime, John, Rob and I took a stroll down to The Chemic to partake in some not at all well-earned liquid refreshment. I am not sure whether The Chemic is still like this, but at the time there were two sections to the pub: the lounge and the tap room. Before they all got turned into trendy open-plan bars with carpets, duke boxes which cost £1 for 2 songs and shiny metal rails at the bottom of the bar (what are they for?), quite a lot of pubs had this two-room arrangement. The lounge was normally the more plushly furnished of the two rooms. The tap room was usually a pretty basic affair with a stone or wooden floor, benches around the walls with adjacent tables, a few wooden stools in front of these tables, and two or three high wooden stools next to the bar. The high stools were for those who didn't like to venture too far away from the bar in case they wasted some very valuable supping time.
On this occasion we decided to go into the tap room and as there were three high bar-stools there, we settled ourselves next to the bar and ordered ourselves a pint each. This turned out to be a remarkable experience I would never forget. Sat in the tap room already were three elderly Yorkshiremen. With what seemed like a built-in ability to do geometrical calculation, they had sat themselves as far away from each other as they could possibly get. Each man sat in silence, staring into his pint. It was almost like walking into a cathedral. It felt like we ought to keep our voices to a whisper as a mark of respect.
Then every few minutes one of the men would call over to another.
"How's your Irene?" One would say, not taking his eyes off his pint for a moment.
"She's not so bad, Frank. Not so bad." The other would reply. Then both would nod their heads knowingly and return to the silence again for many minutes.
Some time after we arrived, another old man arrived. While he was at the bar, the other three men automatically shifted their positions in the room so as to make it possible for the newcomer to fit into a new perfect geometrical pattern, so that with four of them now present, each was still as far away from the other three as it was possible to get.
"Hey up," said the newcomer as he turned from the bar and went to take his seat.
"George," the others said in unison and then the silence resumed as George took his seat and commenced his ale meditation.
As I look back on this experience I feel a sense of sorrow that most pubs have been refurbished in recent years. One seldom comes across a genuine tap room any more. It really was as if this was a sacred ritual for these men. The one place they could come to find a bit of peace and solitude, to be alone with their thoughts, free from the cares of the world for a couple of hours. None of them seemed hell-bent on getting plastered as seems to be the case with my generation and those that have followed it. You might say there was a deep serenity to what they were doing.
It seems a shame that the spending power of the younger generations means that if they want to find peace and solitude, these men might now have to resort to going to a church, where everyone knows you can't get a decent pint of Tetley's.
Yesterday's inauguration of Barrack Obama was an historic occasion. His speech was very moving and I am sure it will go down in history alongside those made by other great leaders such as JFK and Martin Luther King.
However, one phrase which he used jumped out at me and made me a little disappointed about what was otherwise a great piece of oration.
"The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness."
"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."
What am I disappointed about? I think that the phrase 'the pursuit of happiness' shows a fundamental misunderstanding or, if you have a little less trust in the essential goodness of people than I do, you might consider it deliberately misleading.
Why should people only have the right to the pursuit of happiness? Surely it would be much better if they had the right to the attainment of happiness. What use is the right to the pursuit of it?
"I'd like some happiness, please."
"Ha! Sorry, mate, we can't give you happiness. We do have a bit of it out the back though. We can let you chase after it for a while if you like, but you can't actually have it. Where would be the fun in that?"
I have read some opinions which argue that this was very deliberate wording, that governments don't want people to actually attain happiness. If all the people actually attained happiness, there would be no need for government.
I like to live in a world where such sinister machinations do not take place, and therefore I choose to take the view that this is just a misunderstanding about the nature of happiness.
Happiness cannot be pursued. It isn't round the corner, or in the distance. It can't be caught up with by making more money, buying more things, gaining more status, fitting in or finding that 'perfect' partner any more than it can be caught up with by taking alcohol or drugs. Happiness is a choice. It is a decision and anyone in any position or circumstance can make that decision right where they are without 'pursuing' anything at all. Indeed, the act of pursuing is very likely to prevent them from doing what they need to do to attain happiness, which is look inside and change their thoughts and beliefs about life.
It puts me in mind of someone trying to pick up water by grasping at it. The water continually eludes them until they relax, cup their hand receptively and simply allow the water to fill it.
This is a tribute to my brother Mike who has been struggling to like himself recently. I hope he gets to read it soon.
I remember it so very clearly. I will have been about 11 years old. I was trying to do my maths homework. We were learning some simple algebra and being asked to plot some graphs from simple equations. That night I was struggling to understand it, not something my little ego was used to and I got more and more upset the harder I tried. My mother tried to explain it to me, but I was too frustrated about not getting it to take in her explanations and eventually she gave up, exasperated. She left me in my room where I continued to cry with frustration.
A few minutes later my brother Mike came into my room and sat quietly in the chair which was across the room from the bed on which I had assumed the foetal position to comfort myself. Mike is several years older than me, so to me he was a young adult at that time. He did not say anything at all for a few minutes. He just sat. I could feel his love for me without him having to do anything. I knew that I wasn't being judged at all. He just sat and waited. Soon the calm presence he brought into the room soothed my troubled mind and peace and clarity began to return.
"All right?" he asked in a simple tone, putting me even more at ease. I began to explain what was upsetting me. Michael sat quietly and listened, occasionally looking into my eyes and smiling. He picked up my maths homework book and looked at the problems I had been set.
"I used to find this hard too," he said. "I remember crying just like you."
Mike then spent half an hour very patiently explaining to me how to do my homework. At the end of that time, not only did I understand my homework, but he had taught me how to do simultaneous equations, a full two years before it was on the curriculum at school. My teacher was astonished by my understanding at the next class.
Many times similar situations arose, and many times the total unconditional love, generosity and complete non-judgement that Mike embodied helped me through. A true quiet hero, never asking for anything in return, even when we were much older and I too was a young adult.
The troubles of the world often weigh heavy on those with strong compassion. They want to help everyone and of course they can't. They want to make a difference and don't realise what a difference they have already made just by being who they are. For once I now find myself in the position of the listener and those words ring out in my head loud and clear:
"I used to find this hard too," he said. "I remember crying just like you."
Today I look and see a man who has temporarily forgotten what it is that makes him a hero in the eyes of me and I am sure many others. The fantastic humility and patience, the ceaseless generosity and unconditional love. Never asking for anything in return, never seeking praise for his actions, just quietly lifting us up whenever we needed it, then going about his business as if nothing happened. What made it so easy for me to talk to Mike was that I knew I was never being judged. Not once, not ever.
Sometimes it is hard to block out the endless false messages which we are bombarded with day after day in the form of television, newspapers, advertising, religion and political propaganda. Those are all about judgement. Sickening judgement which destroys people's self-esteem, shamelessly luring them away from the way to true happiness. You are worthless unless you think this, do this, buy this, look like this, earn this much or believe this. You can't be happy until you achieve this, can afford this, have a house this big or have a relationship this perfect.
The hero that is my brother knew at a very young age that this was all bollocks. He knew where true self-worth came from and he knew how to effortlessly bring it out in other people too. As we all do from time to time, Mike has temporarily lost his way. Some judgement has crept into his thinking. Most significantly of all, much of that judgement is directed at himself.
I want so much to be able to tell Mike what a great impact it had when he sat silently across the room from me that night. The peace it brought, the understanding that I was loved no matter what I said, did or felt. I want so much for him to sit silently across the room from himself and give to himself the complete acceptance and the space to grow that he gave to me so many times as a kid and young adult.
Many moons ago I was at my remarkable friend Tim Barber's house with my brother John.
Those were the heady days of youth, when my brother was lead singer in a band and I was chief roadie and daft dancer. We had been out on a bit of a long night on the ale, so long that our hangovers had not really kicked in yet and there was still much merriment in the morning air.
Tim made us a round of bacon sandwiches and I think a cigarette with interesting ingredients was being passed around the room also. I told you, rock and roll!
Suddenly, the phone rang and my brother John picked it up with a mischievous glint in his eye.
In his best Sir John Gielgud voice he said: "Good morning, Tim Butler's barber."
On the other end of the line, a very confused Tim's rather conservative father-in-law asked if he could speak to Tim's wife Liz (I don't remember whether they were actually married at that time). John quickly handed the phone to Tim with a look of horror on his face.
"Oh hi Bert, yeh, just some mates larking around," Tim excused John's faux-pas.
When Tim put down the phone, we all fell about laughing for about half an hour.
Many moons ago, just before I went to university, I decided to do a bit of traveling. I had read a few books and seen some TV programs which all seemed to indicate that this would be a good idea so that I could 'find out who I really was".
After a number of months visiting several countries on a shoestring, I finally made the rather surprising discovery that I am really Princess Stephanie of Monaco. I have no idea who that cheeky bint is who has been spending my money and wearing my dresses and tiaras all these years, but it's hard not to feel a certain amount of resentment.
On Christmas day I went to see my daughters who were spending the day with their mum. I spent about an hour with them that day, before collecting them on Boxing Day for the rest of the holidays. While I was with them on Christmas day, I noticed that my almost 5-year-old daughter Lottie had written something on her leg with a felt pen.
It said: "LOVE PEEPL"
When I asked her what it said, Lottie confirmed what message I suspected her not yet perfect spelling was meant to convey.
"Did someone tell you to write that?" I asked her.
"No, I thought of it myself," Lottie assured me.
"Why do you think we should love people?" I enquired further.
"Because it feels nice," Lottie replied with a tone which indicated she thought that ought to be quite obvious to everyone.
I am very grateful that I have the opportunity to benefit from Lottie's pure innocent wisdom and in that moment, my new year's resolution for 2009 was sorted out! :-)
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.
