The One-Hundred-Year-Old Man…


Little blue books are becoming a thing with me. It could be a newly-found addiction. Next week I will try something that is already read.

I read this book a while ago. No, that’s not quite right. I started reading this book a while ago and finished it sometime later. My book reading is strange and  I can often put a book down for years whilst in mid-read and come back to finish it off much later. This book was not like that, but it did take some will-power to see me over the rump of its initial appeal.

I happened upon the novel by way of my neighbour and former cycling companion. He had started reading my blog and was interested in some of the stuff that I had been reading. He never gave me any feedback on my own writing, but I expected as much (or as little). The Hundred-Year-Old Man came as part of a bilateral book exchange. He got Graham Swift’s Waterland and I got this. At first, I thought he had the best out of the deal. On second thoughts, I think he got the best of the deal.

This little blue book is knowingly amusing. It plays with the genre of the ageless protagonist not only living through world-shaping events, but also playing an unwittingly major role in those seismic changes. It is amusing and annoying in turns in the same way that Forest Gump was. It does, however, keep its true soul to the end when the author speaks, Jonas Jonasson, and this left me with a rather enjoyable bitter-sweet aftertaste.

It’s not something that will live in my memory for all time, even now it is fading, but it was worth the read. I am, however, looking forward to getting Waterland back and must build a bridge to reestablish contact after a number of very quiet months during this endless winter.


Now, to work…

Second Sitting For The Last Supper…

images-544 The Sopranos

The second coming of the Holy Ghost
We need a pocketful of miracles
Two thousand years and he ain’t shown yet
We kept his seat warm and the table set
The second sitting for the Last Supper


As life has rolled out, I have moved further and further away from thoughts about God. However, I do like a Christ figure.

Christ is everyman and woman and child and everything else that thinks (dolphins, chimps, cats and dogs). He was a nice guy who occasionally had a nasty side; I’m thinking the stalls in the temple. Perhaps he was too nice though.

I didn’t and still don’t like the self-sacrifice that he performed to save mankind. Man and womankind are grown ups who just act like imbeciles. Life for them is a matter of learning right from wrong and then forgetting that wrong is wrong and not the right thing to do. On the other hand, some know that wrong is wrong, but decide to do it anyway as it is normally the fastest shortcut to where they truly want to get. People do wrong because it is the right thing to do for them, at that particular time.

Two thousand years and he ain’t shown yet…

Do you blame him?

Arrive in the world with a good, basic, simple to understand message (love fellow man, woman, dolphin, chimp, cats and dogs) and then get strung up before you’ve reached your mid-thirties. Not a healthy career choice.

And then, as soon as you are dead, people start to take that message and make it into something that can be useful to themselves in their personal search for power, wealth, and divinity. Another case of knowing that it is wrong, but seeing that it is the right thing to do for oneself and one’s shortcut to whatever one desires to possess.


The (yoke) yolk is on us.

Another Guru in the money
Another mantra in the mail…


Molly Bloom And Her Dirty Tongue…



I heard myself talking today. I was discussing the gratuitous sex in the early Game of Thrones series.

Being one or its original converts, I have recently felt a little aggrieved that the wagon that I was travelling on, with but a few, has now become a bandwagon. Every Wight Walker in the Seven Kingdoms is now a Game of Thrones fan.

Well, here is one man of the north who says,

“Tis mine and my like’s. The final season is coming!”

So back to a conversation that I was having about the ridiculous nature of modern day culture that confuses television with actual culture. The conversation started with an outpouring of sadness for a television presenter who just happened to crash into a car with a three year old girl inside. The line of the narrative went, “I think the public really feel sorry for him.”

My line was different.

Anyway, back to Game of Thrones which is not television but a documentary of immense importance. I was bemoaning the fact that the documentary makers had included earlier scenes of such a robust sexual nature that they existed merely as titbits for an audience incapable of following an epic narrative; fisting has no place in fact-based fiction.

And then I got to thinking about Molly Bloom and her monologue at the end of Joyce’s Ulysses (his little blue book).

“…when hes like that  he cant keep a thing back I know every turn in him ill tighten my bottom well and let out a few smutty words smellrump or lick my shit…”


This was high art in my day and I loved it.

The years have censored me.

Mini-Beast Arrives For Sunday Lunch…


“Oh, isn’t it pretty?”

Are those the first words uttered by gulag residents every morning they wake up and peruse the bleak and frozen wastelands of Siberia?

The amount of people who have recently smiled those words when describing the continuing perm-state of this year’s winter offerings has astounded me. I want to tell them, nay I do tell them, that the bloody white freezing stuff is not pretty unless one hyphenates the word with shitty.

And I dislike the cosy descriptions of: ‘blankets of snow’, ‘a covering’, and ‘winter-wonderland’. The only wonder is that we have not woken up to the fact that Putin is exporting huge swathes of his weather across European borders, without visas, various travel restrictions, and we are not threatening him with a life-time ban from either owning football clubs or making the top floor of Harrods off-limits.


Mini-Beast go back to your papa. 

Thunderbirds Have Gone…


The night in the church wasn’t too bad. I managed to sleep through some of the longer pieces and was only kept awake by the occasional mistake on the ivories. I smiled to myself when our daughter hit or missed a few bum notes, but had to evade the stare of an elderly gentleman who obviously took this event in the nature that it was intended; biblically.  

During the course of the evening, when I wasn’t dozing or inducing a medical coma, we read whatever literature was to hand. We browsed through the programme notes at least fifteen times before being tempted into the hymn books that sat confidently before us.

The church itself was one that belonged to Jesus Christ and his Latter Day Saints. It was modern, in a 1970s type of way, carpeted, centrally-heated, and had a sound-system. The toilets were of a standard that many hotel chains would envy. I spent some time in there in order to escape an infinity of Rachmaninov’s Prelude in C Sharp Minor. One can never wash ones hands enough.

When I returned to our pew, Sonya was buried in the hymn-book. She told me about Joseph Smith and his wife Emma as we travelled back in the car. It seems that Joseph did the wonderful thing of starting is own religion. Unfortunately, he was persecuted for that, being jailed over thirty times. His final jail stay ended with both he and his brother being murdered by a mob. It gave me an idea.

I have often toyed with the idea of starting my own religion. However, I have never wanted to be murdered for it. When the Mormons first started, they set about gaining converts. This was, in my mind, a big mistake. The fewer followers one has the better. My religion would not speak its name. I would be the only one who knew about it. And nobody would persecute me or eventually resort to murder. I would go with the Ten Commandments as I think they are rather sensible. I would add another just for good measure, Thou shalt not sleep with your neighbour’s sheep. I think that would be perplexing and thought-consuming all at once.

Oh, and I like the idea of toilets and carpets and central heating. 


If I lose my way and come knocking at your door, do not answer it. That way, you’ll be doing me a favour. 

If I have upset any one with this post, I apologise.