The Youngbloods - Get Together - 1967 - 5 .1 Surround (Stereo in)

Dave Nark has an existential crisis

'Does Santa wear a full wig, or is it a ring of white hair attached to his hat to make it look like a wig? What does he do for the rest of the year, what does he think about?  Does he garden at all?'  Dave Nark muttered as he paced back and forth in front of the row of composting toilets behind the yurts as the snow began to fall.  He was wearing khaki-coloured fingerless gloves and biting his nails. 

'I can't go on like this,' he thought. 'What am I doing with my life?  I'm 59 years old and the world has passed me by.  Or is it the other way round?  Am I really happy with Val?  Or am I just making do - settling, as they say.  I think I know the answer to that one.  Oh dear.  But it's not just that.  The wildlife vids are just not cutting it.  I'm losing my touch.  Everyone's tik tokking now.  My vids are old hat.  Nobody's interested in otters.  They want killer whales and breaching humpbacks.  I have to up my game or move on.  Basically that's it, isn't it.  Up my game or move on.  Move on into the fucking grave.'

'DAVE!'  screeched Val from inside the healing yurt.  'Don't forget that you've kindling to chop, logs to bring in and the woodburner to clean when you've done digging out the toilets.  And you can make me a cup of goji berry tea while you're at it.  Properly mind!  I want the water freshly boiled not flat and under-oxygenated like the last time.   I'm worn out hot-stoning.'

Dave stopped pacing for a moment.   He rubbed his long nose in a thoughtful manner and removed a drop of moisture with the back of his fingerless glove. 

'DAVE!'

'DAVE ARE YOU LISTENING!'

'DAVE!'

And then he started pacing again, only in a different direction.  Rather than pacing back and forth in front of the toilets (which he hadn't dug out by the way), he narrowed his eyes, adjusted his bobble hat and headed behind them - towards the moors...

next time - Dave has an odd encounter in a sweat lodge

Beginning the year with TS Eliot

 

Keep Going until you Can't

 

'Keep going until you can't,' said the T-G, pausing by the open flap door of Val Nark's Holistic Vaxing Yurt to pack some Black Bogey into his Meerschaum pipe (with its bowl fashioned into the shape of the Transantarctic Mountains).  'That's my motto these days, Santa.  For what it's worth.  Which is probably quite a bit, coming from me.  Why do yourself down - that's another of my mottos.'   And he gave a wink and a thumbs up as he moved on.

Santa was 'proning' on Val Nark's portable massage table with five 'hot stones' on his back.  His red jacket and hat lay folded on a yoga mat on the floor beside him.   Val's ear candling kit sat tidily on a low stool, ready for use.  A sixth 'hot stone' - a large chunk of granite, salvaged from a ruined croft up on the moors - sat sizzling on top of the log burner in the centre of the yurt.

'Thanks,' he replied stoically. 'Unfortunately I think I've reached the 'can't' part.'

'How are we getting on Santa?' Val bustled in. 'Ready for your ear candling?  Oh - I think you could manage another hot stone on that dodgy 13th lumbar vertebra.  Here you go!'

Val reached over to the log burner and picked up the stone with a large pair of iron tongs.  'It's been on there all day -  must be super hot.'  She dropped it quickly on Santa's lower back.  'Which is the whole point and I'm sure it'll do you a power of good.  Take the pain and always be positive!  That's my motto!'

'OWYA BANDIT!' Santa bellowed, as the burning stone made contact.  The massage table buckled in the middle at its vulnerable folding point, depositing Santa in a red and white heap on the floor on top of six hot stones and the ear candling kit.  

He pulled a Sharpie out from behind his ear and wrote on the back of his hand 

KEEP GOING UNTIL YOU CAN'T

WHY DO YOURSELF DOWN

TAKE THE PAIN AND ALWAYS BE POSITIVE

Next time - Santa returns to the North Pole/Greenland/somewhere cold and nurses himself back to health, ready for next Christmas

Christmas Eve

 

Christmas Eve was a doozy.

Santa fell down the chimney in a cloud of soot, landing arse-first in our customary blazing pile of driftwood.

As he lurched out of the fireplace we could clearly see that he was rather drunk.   And -  as his red white-bobbled hat slipped to one side - completely, as it happened, bald.  

Tuppence winked at Alexa, murmuring 'See?'

'Ho ho ho everybody!'  slurred Santa, gesturing grandly with a bottle of Jack Daniels then throwing himself down on the couch.  'God I'm depressed.  I feel so OLD.  I'm definitely past heaving sacks down chimneys, that's for sure - my back's totally gone.  I can't even FIT down a chimney these days - not that it was ever easy.  I'm barrelling along in my sleigh towards a bungalow smelling of piss and biscuits like John Cooper Clarke.'

'Don't be depressed Santa,' said Tuppence (for it was he who had brought Santa to our home and rammed him down the chimney, against all basic common sense), ' Keith Richards says he's not getting old, he's evolving, and he's ANCIENT.  Even you can't be THAT old.'

'I am,' sobbed Santa, 'I'm a myth older than time itself.'

'No you're not,' said Alexa,' You're a Victorian.'

'Am I?  Am I not the embodied spirit of St Nicholas ? Forget Prince Albert, the Coca Cola advert and the threadbare supermarket versions.  I'm the real deal, and that makes me Very Old Indeed.'

'Never mind all that,' I said,' What about our presents?  Haven't you got anything for us?'

'Oh - of course,' said Santa, groping in his pocket,  'Here you are.'

And he handed me three lumps of coal.

'One for each of you.'

'Charming,' I said, throwing them on the fire.  

'Well it's always want want want with everyone isn't it.  You can't have it all your own way.  You three have been pretty nasty this year, and you know how this works.'

'What about me and Dave?' asked Alexa. 'Do we get coal too?'

'I don't want coal,' said Dave,' Val would have a fit if I started burning fossil fuels.'

Next time - Dave and Alexa open their presents, and Santa heads back to Greenland after a rejuvenating spa treatment from Val Nark.

 

Normal service will resume shortly.  Merry Christmas to all.

Jethro Tull - Ring Out Solstice bells BBC Promo Video 1976

I wheel this one out every year.

Existential Solstice Gloom

 

'How do we survive this darkness,' said Dave. 'This bleakness.  This cold thorny wilderness. How do we get through?'

'This vale of tears called life,' murmured the T-G, leafing through last week's Bugle. 'We're all weak-eyed bats,  no sun should tempt out of our four walls.  Or something along those lines.  Blindly groping our way in the dark.  There's no easy way through. But whatever you do - avoid Facebook and Whatsapp.'

'Strong drink,' I offered, swirling my hot vodka and Bovril.  'Barbiturates.  Opiates perhaps.  It all helps to take the edge off.  Especially in the dead of winter.'

'I find loud music really helps,' said Tuppence. 'When I play my Moog at volume 11 with my headphones on it blasts everything else out of my head.  Also shooting things.'

'I can't communicate,' said Dave.  He stood up and started to pace.  'I'm trying to explain myself to people and everything but it seems to just not get through.  It's like there's a massive wall between me and the rest of humanity.  It's so PAINFUL.  Everyone else looks like they're all sorted and having the time of their lives.  I try to join in but it's like I'm behind a glass screen and they can't hear me.'

'Maybe they're just ignorant bastards,' I said.  'Maybe it's them, not you.  Maybe you're better off without everyone else.  Whoever everyone else is.  It certainly can't be US because here we are giving you full support Dave.'

'Only connect,' murmured the T-G, skewering a pickled worm with a cocktail stick.  'If only it were that simple.'

'Val's raving on about the Solstice and the psychic conflict between the waxing Moon and the waning year.  She says it's that. Plus her mother coming to stay for the Festive.  And my IBS and my dodgy prostate doesn't help - I haven't mentioned that before because it's embarrassing but I'm sharing so,' Dave shrugged,' I mean that's all terrible but it can't be JUST that because I feel like this most of the time.  She says it'll be better when the Spring comes and I can get out and about wildlife vidding a bit more but it's not that.  It's not that at all.  There's something deeper I need to face.'

Next time - Dave faces something deeper and Santa comes to call.. but which one??

Bald Santa

 'How do you know which one's the real Santa?' asked Geoffrey.

We were all - all being me,  Geoffrey, Alexa, Dave Nark, and the T-G - in Speedispend car park.  Right next to a flashing sign in the shape of a large finger indicating Santa's Grotto was THIS WAY, an empty trolley bay, a rusting coin-operated kiddies' Postman Pat ride and the disabled parking spaces.  Someone in an elf hat and a hi-viz jacket leaned against the wall at the far end of the building in a sickly cloud of cranberry-scented vape smoke.  Customers pushed past us whey-faced with half-empty trolleys and dead eyes.  Crumpled receipts and shopping lists blew around the car park in the mud.  It was neither sharply, healthily cold nor pleasantly mild, merely nasty.

The Grotto consisted of a fenced-off area indoors next to the customer service area and the photo booth.  Two Santas stood forlornly by a chair wrapped in white cloth and a strand of threadbare tinsel.  A third Santa pushed past us, hatless, revealing a shiny bald head with a tattoo of Mel Gibson in 'Braveheart' at the back.  'Jesus Christ,' he snarled,  ripping off his red jacket and throwing it into the back of a 2009 red Citroen Berlingo parked in the disabled bay.  'Thank fuck that's over.  And aye -  UM ARE disabled by the way.   No all disabilities are visible, so fuck aff or ah'll get yeez done for a hate crime.'

'That can't be the real one,' said Alexa. 'Santa isn't bald.  I don't think he's from Scotland.  And I think he's probably nicer than that.'

'How do you know?' I asked.  

'What does UM ARE mean?' asked Dave.

'I think we should just go home,' said Geoffrey. 'I don't like the Real World.'

'No no.  Hang fire,  Geoffrey.  Hang fire.  Excuse me Sir,' asked the T-G, approaching the bald Santa, who was waiting for the Berlingo 'heat rods' to warm up sufficiently for the engine to start.  'Might I enquire as to whether you are in fact, the real Santa Claus?'

Bald Santa glared at him as the engine finally coughed into life.   He raised his middle finger, wrenched the Berlingo into reverse and roared off in a cloud of diesel fumes.

'Oh dear.  Our search continues,' murmured the T-G.  

Later - we discuss our nasty day over warming mugs of Bovril and vodka by a roaring driftwood fire - upshot being that we pretty much needn't have bothered.  And Tuppence arrives with a mysterious visitor...

'

Putting the Grot into Grotto

'Shall we get Dave a Christmas stocking?' asked Alexa.

'Oh why not get him two,' sneered Tuppence, who was not 'on board' with the whole giving-Dave-his-best-Christmas-ever deal.  'Might as well get him a pair.  And while you're at it, has he written his letter to Santa yet?'

'There's no need for that attitude,' snapped Geoffrey.  'We intend to embody the whole Christmas spirit this year.  We want to do it right and we've no time for cheap sarcasm from the likes of you Tuppence.'

'When did you find out that Santa wasn't real Tuppence?' asked Alexa wistfully. 'I remember being very upset and feeling sort of betrayed by my parents.  Like they'd been lying to me and I wasn't sure I could trust them any more.  But I got over it I suppose.'

'The Santa myth is the first betrayal,' intoned the Tupfinder General, tapping his swordstick briskly on the fender and sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. 'The first of many, for some.  Or the first of some, for many.  In any event, it isn't good.'

The T-G had stopped by to hand in some black sausage rolls and a jar of pickled worms, an early Yuletide gift from his wife.

'Santa has got nothing to do with Christmas,' said Tuppence. 'That's if you mean Christmas in the Christian or even pre-Christian sense, as we all should.  He's a coca cola guzzling, materialistic, obese, subjectively judgmental old man with an awful taste in clothes.  He's probably a pre-vert as well.'

'You're talking as if you really believe that Santa exists Tuppence.  As if there's only one of them.  Whereas you can find Santas all over the shop.  Literally.  Unemployed people dressed up.  Just look at the grotto in Speedispend.  They have about five Santas, all working shifts.'  said Geoffrey.

'For minimum wage,' said Alexa, 'and zero hour contracts.  If not enough kids turn up the Santas get sent home.'  

'I don't mean them,' growled Tuppence.  'I mean the REAL Santa.  Of course he exists.  I've met him, and he's even worse than I said.  If you're interested,  I can arrange for you to meet him as well.  Though you might regret it...'

Next time - Tuppence arranges a 'meet' with Santa, and everyone regrets it...

    

Harry Nilsson - Sail Away (Audio)

Love this.  

Roger Waters, Van Morrison, The Band - Comfortably Numb

This performance says everything about why I totally love Van Morrison.  I'm not keen on the prolonged guitar solos  - obviously,  it IS a Pink Floyd song -  but I just love that Van Morrison looks like some random, mundane bloke at a wedding or in a pub, yet he lifts the whole experience, reminding us that the magical and the spiritual can be found in the everyday, and in everyone.

Christmas Dread

 

We were sitting round the fire again.  Well, there isn't much else to do at this time of year.  It's dark at half past two, rainy, sleety, horrible.  Best to tuck a tartan knee rug round, light your pipe, pour yourself a mighty slug of something extremely mind-numbingly powerful and chuck another piece of driftwood on the fire.  Maybe find a decent book to read before slipping into a coma.

But I need to go out to work, you say.  I can't buy baccy and drink and knee rugs when I've no money.  And I have no answer to that.   I realise how fortunate we are Hereabouts, with easy access to smuggled goods and lots of driftwood lying about.  

'I hate this time of year,' said Dave. 'I just want it to be Spring again.'

'Don't wish your life away Dave.  It won't be Spring for four months.'

'Three.'

'Four.  I don't count March as a Spring month, it's too brown and cold.'

'What's everyone doing at Christmas anyway,' asked Dave. 'We've got Val's mother coming to stay.  I've got to say I'm totally fucking dreading it.  She's a joyless old bat with a seriously bossy streak.'

'Commiserations Dave.  You're always welcome round here if you need to escape.  We won't be doing much.  Cracking open a tin of corned beef and sticking a sprig of holly in it.'

'Good to know.  I will need to escape, thank you guys. Val's bad enough but her mother's a million times worse.  She says I don't do the hoovering and washing up properly, I've to up my game and start rinsing the plates first before washing them in soapy water then rinse them again after.   She's always on my back to take the bins out and stuff.'

'Hoovering and washing up?' said Tuppence, aghast.  'Rinsing plates?  Dave, you've got to man up! Next she'll have you cleaning the toilet and making the tea for heaven's sake.'

'I know.  She's only staying for a few days but after she's gone there's always sort of a hangover effect on Val.  It's like she becomes infected by her mother's horrible personality and she starts on at me in a similar manner.  Like I can never do anything right at the best of times but it's even more so after her mother's been.   Oh well.  I'm in for a rough Festive but at least I've still got my wildlife vids.  Glass half full guys.  Or is it empty.  I'm never sure.  Anyway, thanks for listening.'  He dabbed his nose with the end of his sleeve and sighed heavily.

Geoffrey and I exchanged glances.  We both knew what the other was thinking. 

We knew what it was like to have a rough Christmas and we weren't about to see a mate go through similar, if it could be avoided. 

We were going to give Dave the best Christmas ever.  

Next time - we make plans for Dave's best ever Christmas, starting with cracking open two tins of corned beef instead of one

Sandwich of the day - corned beef

 I used corned beef from a packet rather than tinned, but tinned is also fine.  I added butter, tomato ketchup and black pepper.  A pretty good, substantial sandwich I'd say.  Maybe some pickles or something on the side could be good.  

 

Andrea del Sarto

 

'Ah but a man's reach should exceed his grasp

Or what's a heaven for?'

This famous quote led me to Browning's poem Andrea del Sarto.  There's something about Browning generally that I'm not quite keen on, I don't much enjoy reading his work, nevertheless I find this a really interesting and satisfying poem.  I think any artist could relate.  Or indeed any one of us struggling to reconcile and articulate survival, compromise, reach, internal struggles, regrets, hopes, successes, failures.  Reality (what is that?) and heaven (perhaps that is reality).    

'I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt

out of the grange whose four walls make his world.'