Language and the filthy tongue (and much else filth besides)

Language. Ah language. What an amazing invention eh? So expressive. So damn useful. Whether it be Schadenfreude, Je ne sais quoi, Yallah habibee or Twaadi maa…there is no doubt that without it we’d be er, speechless. Modern life would be nigh on impossible without the babbling tongue. I may not soar gracefully like a bird. I may not dive a thousand feet like a whale nor sprint as fast as a cheetah nor hear in the dark like a bat. But I can speak and I can write and with these tools I can conquer the world (steady on there). Just imagine trying to tell the girl of your dreams that you love her without words – without language what would you do? Use sign language? Like how? Make kissy kissy pouting faces like a chimp? Touch your heart with your hand and smile (nah, too gay), sit and stare at her with entreating soulful eyes (no, too weird). Before language came along how did men spill out their hearts to the whims of a ladies capricious soul?

I'll tell you: they impressed ladies by fighting bears to the death and wrestling lions with their bare hands. They chased antelopes on the savannah's and killed men who despoiled their honour. Those were the days when might was right - when mean was queen - when worldly passion was outta fashion - when language was naught and everything was fought.

But have you ever wondered when men first learnt to talk? And why? Why did man put down his spear and his stones and his lion and engage in prittle-prattle? Why? To score with chicks that's why. Chicks dig men who know how to use their tongues (not in that way). It has been proven by scientists that women developed the ability to appreciate speech before men learnt to talk. So, all it took was for one man, one of our ancient forbears; some genius of the Upper Neolithic Period, to sit and utter those first few words of love. You can just imagine him, sitting near the fire, the object of his affections sitting across the licking flames, the first man ever to say something romantic to a woman. So he sits there. Shy at first, but slowly, gradually, he gathers his courage and his words and finally lets fly with some verbal verbosity and verbiage verifying his valour and vainglory amongst these verminous volks with a vertiginous voracity that only women can love.

What did he say? Who knows? Perhaps something along the lines of:
‘Me kill lion. Me you eat?’ (the first ever romantic meal invite) followed by:
‘Me like Lion. Tasty. You find tasty?’ (the first ever after dinner conversation) followed by:
‘Come my cave. Watch stars’ (the first ever night time entertainment) and finally:
‘Me want you. You want me. Fucky?’ and so we have it. The first time a man ever told a women he loved her. Well almost.

So today in the year 2009, thousands of years since that first tentative fumbling foray in romance, has man come far? Judging by what I've seen, not really. If you wanna impress a woman don’t take her to an expensive restaurant or a popcorn movie. Don’t wrestle a lion to prove your testo-ratings. Instead read her some delicious poetry. Man evolved language for poetry’s sake. Language is for wooing women with. Use your wicked plucky-lucky tongue:


Women in the world; don’t believe
Words and wit; the heart deceive
Like hot lead; I let fly:
‘A devils instrument; this tongue of my’


The tongue is an instrument of immense power. Wield it wisely for with it one can traverse the physical and psychological gaps between bodies. The tongue is like a remote control device. Through it you can control another brain: you can plant thoughts, ideas, passions and feelings into another brain. Just through words you can cause a chemical reaction in another brain seeding love or hate. No other creature on earth can do that.


Do you know the reason why?
You love poetry; and so do I?
Magic words and mystery rhymes
Past nursery days; they do remind

There’s nothing better than a play
With words and words strung like clay
Mould and fold and twist and turn
Words like fart and words like ‘urn’

In the garret of my mind I sigh
Here’s a tale to tell you why:
Upon a time there lived a girl
For centuries old; under a spell

The spell was cast; many a yond
By a smelly witch; with such a pong
Under wind afloat; the pong it rose
The prince he felt it; queer his nose

The prince he came; from land afar
And at the bottom; he cried to her:
‘Your beauty is mine; is mine to keep
But what is that pong? it mighty reeks'

Upon those words; the spell it broke
The pong dispersed; and entered a goat
The prince was happy; the princess free
‘The spell is dead; your pong is sweet’

To which she replied; in earnest for sure:
'My darling, but are you sure?'
‘As sure as the sun that sets today'
'As sure as the moon mine eyes do say'

‘What of the stars and heavens?’ she said
‘What of the rainbow and peaks ahead?'
'What of the sands in deserts thus?'
'What of the tides…go on I must?'

'As sure as the stars; come out to play'
'As sure as the heavens and sands I say'
'As sure as the rainbow and mountain tops''
The spell is dead. Your pong is forgot'

She smiled a smile that lit the sky
Day on day; nigh on nigh
She and the prince; lived happy ever
And bequeathed the world; a merry litter

What is the point of such a fable?
That love reigns all; and is able
To conquer the thickest; hearts of cold
And words and I;
Do have a soul

[pong = smell]
[litter = children]
[reek = stink]


Origins of language
There is a human gene called ‘FOXp2’. Defects in this gene result in defects in language and speech. i.e. a condition known as verbal dyspraxia. The gene is important for the development of a part of the brain concerned with communication. The gene is also present in chimpanzees and mice. But mice and chimps don’t have language so why do they have the FOXp2 gene?

Biochemists have recently compared the structure of this gene in human, mice and chimps. The gene codes for a protein that is made up of 715 amino acids. The mouse and chimp gene differs from each other in only one amino acid. The human form of the gene differs in three amino acids. You see what this means? Although humans and chimps share the vast majority of their genes, the FOXp2 gene is one place where humans seem to have evolved more rapidly in the short time since we split from them. And of the most important aspects in which we differ from Chimps is that we have language and they don’t. Scientists have also measured when the FOXp2 gene changed to allow speech. 200,000 years ago. Hence, humans may have acquired language 200,000 years ago.

However, this would have been simple language at first like ‘do you see that well?' or 'do you see that zebra?’ - it would initially only have been based on what could be seen. Only later, about 50,000 years ago, something momentous happened. Instead of saying ‘the waterhole which we can both see’ language and thought underwent a quantum leap so that humans could say ‘suppose there was a waterhole the other side of the hill’. This might seem like a small thing but it is momentous. It is the idea ‘What if’. ‘What if’ implies imagination and the ability to think about the future and the consequences of our actions. And it is this small change in language, this quirk, that allowed the 'Great Leap Forward' in human civilization and the flowering of human arts about 50,000 years ago. It enabled imagination to run riot and humans started creating art and, dare I say, poetry and music. And they've been at it ever since:

At first we were; to beauty blind
To natures moods and natures rhymes
FOXp2; it made us see
Language, art and fantasy

****

My stars to be

Hear! All stars; ever to be

Weave me a future; conspire with me

Hear! All women; with beauty hold

My heart in clasp; in future mould

Hear! All creatures; with love of sort

A path through life; to have wrought

Hear! All princesses destined to be

Fairytales; at the bottom of the sea

Take! This love; but nay you say:

Why’d you take my heart; so far away?

I search in vain; where is my heart?

From mind and body; forg'd far apart

Cast asunder; tossed like shell

Tiny and adrift; on Pacific swells

I dreamt my heart; beached on sand

Spinning and whinying; nigh desert land

I ran and ran; till breath no more

My empty lungs; what are they for?

I search the forests; and land to sea

My tired eyes; no heart I see

But look up; tis writ on high

God give me wings; so I can fly?

No feathers I grow; for He has fled

The furnace swarms; above my head

I wept and wept; my tears afloat

Up and up; do lift this boat

Survey all; from aloft I can

A sea born; of tearful glands

Sailing upon; an Ark you see

Given to ponder; this eternal sea

Of drifting junks and corroded lives

I pity those;

With no tears to cry

****

Bombers, virgins, masturbation and confessions (Part II)

For a thirteen year old I was a precocious kid. Given to day-dreaming and imagining fantastic scenarios where I would endeavour to rescue the whole planet from the clutches of an alien empire hell bent on turning people into slaves. I still do fantasise like this; especially when I’m on the top deck of a London bus. The fantasy usually involves a ruse; such as a beautiful girl, that I have to rescue from the ‘Big Boss Alien’ and also involves the people I hate dying horribly gory deaths. I often wonder whether other people do this, you know fantasise, or whether they grew out of this childish habit when they turned into ‘adults’. I don’t think I ever turned into an adult, not yet. Not adult in the usual sense of the word anyway. I shun responsibility and I am way too selfish with my time.

Anyway, back as a thirteen year old I was also a bit of a sadist. The type that takes sweet guilty pleasure in watching his mosque teacher squirm and squeal after asking him difficult questions. A barrage of questions like machine gun fire that a mosque teacher would be hopelessly ill equipped to ward off: Questions like:

‘How old is the world? Is it really only five thousand years old? And what about those fossils and dinosaurs why haven’t they been mentioned in any of the holy books and what about aliens – what do they believe?’

These questions no doubt embarrassed my teacher. He knew nothing about fossils and aliens and dinosaurs and he couldn’t answer them to my satisfaction – and nor did I flinch in letting my indignation with him show. So much so, that he conspired with my parents, to have me surreptitiously shipped off to a school in Pakistan. So on the pretext of us going on a family shopping trip we boarded a flight to start a new life in Pakistan when I was thirteen. I’ve never entirely forgiven my parents for the deception they wrought me. Its aftertaste is still etched on my tongue. Nonetheless, things eventually didn’t work out as my parents, in their infinite sagaciousness, had planned and three years later we were on a flight back to England. Woohoo! But I did spend three years in Pakistan. Three whole fucking years. Those three years were, as they say, a revelation and a crucial pit stop on the road to my development into the healthy, intelligent, open-minded, infidel, devil-sperm, nonbeliever that I am today. So thank you mum and dad. Look what you have wrought! But it would be unfair to blame my parents for the way I turned out. It was Charles Darwin and Douglas Adam’s that did it. And Richard Dawkins who put the final nail in the coffin!

But just imagine my shock and horror, please. Please try and empathise with me here. How do you think I felt when I learnt after arriving in Pakistan, that I would not be going on a shopping spree after all, but alas to school instead? But no ordinary school. This was a private and expensive and strict-cane-if-naughty kinda school. Burgeoning with spoilt brats of moneyed mums and dads. These were pretentious parents who boosted their social credentials by boasting how much it cost them to pay for private home tuition for their kids. My parents, not intent on being left behind, decided that I too should receive extra home tuition. So everyday, to my consternation, between the hours of 6 and 7 in the evening, my private home tutor Mr knowfuckall, would come round to ostensibly give me lessons in science, mathematics and Islamic Studies. I say ostensibly because these were lessons I didn’t need: science I already knew more of then him, maths was sorted and as for religion - I’d already sorted out all that mumbo-jumbo in the park when I was ten. And what an ignorant-fool-of-a-teacher he was too.

The tuition fee he was receiving from my parents was twice what he was earning from the school. I knew the moment I’d laid eyes on him that I was cleverer then him. His eyes were way too close together so I never trusted him. And he had a shifty bearing and his body language told me that he thought my parents were mugs for paying him so much. He knew that I knew that he knew that my parents were mugs for paying him so much; so we reached a sort of unspoken agreement: he could teach me science but he was not to shove religion down my throat. It worked. I was spared the horrors of religious indoctrination. Though he did insist that we start lessons by saying ‘God is great’

The ritual humiliation didn’t stop there though. Back at school my biology teacher Mr Khan Sahib, a chubby bearded roly-poly of a man, once told our class, which was mixed with girls on one side and boys on the other, that masturbation would make you blind. I’m not sure whether this was aimed at the boys or the girls nor whether it was part of the curriculum but I do remember having nightmares that night; waking up sweating and grappling in the dark. My chemistry teacher Miss Shazia (bless her) credulously believed that dinosaurs roamed on Jupiter. I did try to explain to her that Jupiter is a gaseous planet so there would be no solid ground for them to walk on but she just shrugged me off (like one shrugs off a petulant fly) by claiming that they were in fact flying dinosaurs. Ah, I see flying dinosaurs. Yes, that solves the problem don't it? Before you start laughing I just want to say that the idea of flying dinosaurs might seem silly at first, but palaeontologists’ now believe that birds are actually dinosaurs. But I still don’t believe there are dinosaurs on Jupiter; flying or otherwise. It’s not really a case of belief though is it? More a case of sanity. Was Miss Shazia sane? Perhaps to her own children she was but then kids are stupid and what do they know?

My Islamic Studies teacher Mr Rasool-ur-Rehman, a kindly fellow who was also my favourite teacher because he was so funny – unintentionally funny, once pontificated (to a mix class remember of boys and girls) that martyrs (men who die in war) get given a first class ticket to heaven and, when they arrive in heaven, they are greeted by sixty smiling virgins. Sixty virgins! You can imagine me sitting there literally lapping it up. It was a boys wet dream. The boy sitting next to me, who had no doubt lived a sheltered and clostered life, asked me what a virgin was. The girls in Mr Rasools’ class didn’t even blink. Nor did they raise objections to this sycophantic fantasy of the deluded. I raised my hand:

‘Sir, but what about the girls’ I asked. ‘Surely these virgins are like real people so what about them?

‘What do you mean?’ said Mr Rasool

‘Well these girls are like sisters and daughters. One must ask what they want. They must have brains so would they be content in being one of sixty virgins? What if they want to be something else like teachers or doctors as opposed to a part of a man’s fantasy?’

Someone sniggered in the class. There was silence. I felt a glimmer of intelligence flower in the classroom; a realisation of what my point was. I could feel the class thinking: ‘why that’s a very good question actually. Mmm. Why didn’t I think of that’’

The question annoyed Mr Rasool. It caused the sweat in his back come out in puddles and made him uncomfortable. He shifted his weight around on either foot but it made no difference. ‘Heaven is not earth’ he said ingeniously. ‘Things are different in heaven’ and then he mumbled something about ‘womanly duty’ to which the girls and boys (grinning now) nodded in chaste agreement. I sighed. Probably a little too loud: 'The poverty of the indoctrinated mind'. I was eventually reported to the headmaster for my ‘disobedience’ and for my ‘daring to ask the teacher a question’. Yes, I know. Stupid, huh?

Sex is important. So important that all religions try and suppress it. Don’t believe me? Look through the barbaric texts of the Old Testament and Talmud and you will see verses commenting on the ‘filthy and defiling nature of the female’. Menstruation is dirty; and women who menstruate are dirty and they defile everything they touch. The Holy text writers seem to exhibit an unhealthy prurience with sexual matters. The Jewish Holy Book, the Talmud, commands the observant one to thank the lord that he was not born a woman. Women are cloned from a man’s rib, and only then when Adam complained that he was bored! Talk about being confined to the scrap heap.

Throughout all religious texts there is a primitive fear that half the human race is defiled and unclean and yet a temptation to sin that is almost impossible for men to resist. That is why the Taleban so hate women – because they are a temptation to sin. And how do you remove this temptation? Yes, you cover it up; in long chadors and narrow slits for the eyes and you punish those women who show their flesh – for they are a temptation to sin. It’s not the men who are punished for rape in some parts of Pakistan. It is the women. I know. I have seen it. It is they who led the men ashtray, corrupted their weak feeble minds, tempted them to sin – how dare they show themselves in public! Such utter nonsense. As I write this girls are being shot at in Northern Pakistan for going to school. For wanting an education. What are the men afraid of?

But here’s a thought. For something like sex that is so forbidden and so repressed by religion, isn’t it rather ironic that the reward for martyrdom, the reward for the faithful, the reward for controlling and keeping under a leash your sexual desires on earth, is a heaven full of virgins! Yes, the reward is an orgy of sex! How ironic. But how telling it is too! The poverty of the religious mind.

I never shared my deepest darkest thoughts with my teachers. They, to put it mildly, would not have approved. Especially Mr Rasool, no doubt dreaming of himself cavorting in a lurid pornographic heaven populated with nympho virgins. Nor would they have understood. The punishment for apostasy is death and I didn’t want to die – not yet. But just imagine being in that stuffy classroom, the baking heat, the heavy oppressive air, the astringent teachers with their sweaty wooden canes. Imagine the inability to discuss openly, imagine the fear of saying something wrong or offensive, imagine the desire to run away, imagine the loneliness, of being… well of being me. A non-believer in a sea of believers all destined for a pornographic heavenly future.

N.B: Academic Textual studies

Christoph Luxenburg has been conducting textual studies of the holy texts in the Koran. As a result of his studies he published: ‘The Syriac-Aramaic Version of the Koran’ in 2000. Luxenburg coolly proposes that, far from being a monoglot screed (single language text in Arabic), the Koran is far better understood once it is conceded that many of its words are Syriac-Aramaic rather then Arabic. His best example concerns the reward of the martyr in paradise: when retranslated from Arabic to Syriac-Aramaic the heavenly reward consists of sweet white raisins rather than virgins.

So there you have it. There are no virgins in paradise after all…

Bombers, masturbation, virgins and confessions (Part I)

It was at the age of ten that I realised that there is no God. I remember that moment clearly; as if yesterday. When the devil popped into my head and uttered that abominable thought: there is no god.

At first I was taken aback by the audacity of the thought. The sheer cheekiness of it to think it could invade my privacy like that, and to be honest, in the beginning, I was expecting it to go away; to disappear like an echo. Or like a ripple in a pond; to melt into the placid ocean around it. But no. It kept itself in my head, like a headache, or a Polyp attached to coral. But slowly, gradually, I got used to it. I began, dare I say, to live with it and learn to get along with it. My guilty little secret. I would go to the Mosque with this thought in tow – defiling the house of God with it and everything I touched. In classes I would put it to the back of my head lest it disturb the rhythm of my prayer. Lest it show through on my face and in my eyes; for the eyes are a window unto the soul are they not? So I kept it there, in the back, for it had built a cosy little nest there. And to my surprise I continued to win prizes in mosque: oh yes! I always came top of my class. My teachers thought I had a bright future. They were proud but little did they know the secret I cossetted.

Then I hit the age of twelve and the floodgates snapped open: the floodgates to my hormones. They caused a riot. The teenage outbreaks had begun. It was then that I realised, upon astute questioning of my fellow friends, that they (unlike me) harboured no such ungodly thoughts. It was only I, with that little nest in the back. I was alone. Only I carried that devilish infection. It worried me. Oh yes! I began to see myself quite apart from the others. But I also, began to take delight in it too; a delight borne from harbouring such a dark little secret – forget smoking in the playground or drinking behind the shed, this was the ultimate crime! And it gave me a buzz. I started listening to heavy metal and Judas Priest; gothic, moribund and for my parents, rather worrying.

And then when I turned thirteen the thought grew legs and guts and migrated to my lips and they spake: 'there is no god' It was a scary moment to utter such blasphemies aloud for I seriously expected to die there and then – for God to strike me down with lightning or something. I waited. But nothing happened. So I repeated again but a little louder this time: 'there is no god' And again nothing happened. Maybe God can’t hear me I thought. (which was silly because God has super-hearing but maybe he doesn’t believe me?). So I went to my local park and stood in the centre of the grass and after looking around to ensure nobody was near me, I shouted at the top of my voice: 'there is no god!'. The voice echoed around and mingled with the wind and the trees and the bees. I looked out for any changes in the wind or in the air. No change. I shouted again: 'there is no god!!!'. I listened for the beat in my ribcage. For a second I thought it had stopped but, on closer inspection, the beat was still there.

And you know what? Nothing happened. The earth did not cave in and swallow me whole, the skies did not darken in apoplectic rage, the pigeons did not turn nasty and attack me in droves, and I did not die of a heart attack. My heart kept beating. It was strong. It was a big moment for me, that day, in the park. It felt like a release from the years of self-inflicted guilt. A weight and burden had lifted and I knew my future. I’d finally shaken the hand of the man I was to become and he’d approved and welcomed me with open arms.

Part XI - The adventures of Superfly

The flat looked bigger from the inside. This was because you couldn’t see the walls. They were muffled in a muddle of prints, books, journals, and crates. Lots and lots of wooden crates stamped: 'Fragile – Keep This Way Up – Jakarta, Java'. The crates clogged the flat and were everywhere. The living room cum study cum bedroom cum atrocity exhibition was adorned with black and white macro photographs of fossils.

‘That’s a Fishapod’ the Vagabond said brightly, pointing to an ancient looking fossil picture ‘It was found on Ellesmere Island in the Canadian North’

Superfly peered at it

‘It’s the first creature ever to leave the oceans for land. It’s called Tiktaalik Rosea. Look you can even see the bony fins for walking on land with. Charley boy would have loved it!’

‘Please take a seat and I'll get you a drink’ the Vagabond said disappearing into the kitchen

‘Er, take a seat where?’

‘On the sofa’

Superfly looked about for the sofa. Eventually he found it. It was buried under a geological strata of papers and books. He shifted the stuff and found it covered in a thick layer of fuzzy dust harbouring an assortment of microorganisms. He placed the books and papers gently on the floor lest he disturb the fragile ecosystem present therein. He was worried a careless movement of his hand might wipe out species new to science.

The living room cum bedroom cum museum was heaving in books and papers and specimens and crates. Books lying all over the place. Not a surface lay un-sodomised by the written word; Shakespeare, Milton, Proust, Darwin, Winchester, on the shelves, on the floor, stacked up against the walls, under the sofa, behind the radiator. He picked one up at random: ‘on the sexual habits of toadstools’ it said on the cover. He blinked at it. He picked up another: ‘contemporary teapot design in the age of plastic’ and finally another’ Java Man – the untold secret behind man’s origins’

‘Hey Man, what’s in all these crates?’ Superfly shouted

'What do you wanna drink?' the Vagabond said sticking his head around the corner

'Anything. No, actually you got a beer?'

'Sure'

The Vagabond stuck his head round again.'Sorry, I'm out of beer. How about green tea?'

Superfly looked at him as if he'd been invited to swallow a bug

'Er Yeah whatever. Listen, what's in these crates man?'

‘Ah, my latest project. A work in progress’ He shouted from the kitchen. His voice was fevered and excited. He stuck his head around again.

‘I think I may have found something. Something big. I doubt the curates and so called savants at the Royal Geological Society would be pleased though’ he snorted and disappeared into the kitchen again...

Slumdog Millionaire (movie review)

Slumdog Millionaire is a movie that could only have been made by somebody not from India. In this case Danny Boyle; a Westerner. Knives are being sharpened. Even the great Bollywood icon Amitabh Bachnan has thrown his empty-headed two punches into the fray:

'If Slumdog Millionaire projects India as a third-world, dirty, underbelly developing nation and causes pain and disgust among nationalists and patriots, let it be known that a murky underbelly exists and thrives even in the most developed nations,' he bellowed. 'It's just that the Slumdog Millionaire idea, authored by an Indian and conceived and cinematically put together by a westerner, gets creative global recognition,' he added.

So whats's going on here? Why the indignation and criticism? No doubt Bachnan and fellow Bollywood no-talents (have you seen Bachnan's performance of King Lear?) are riled (and slightly jealous) that the best film made about India in recent times was made by a Westerner (a white man: Gorah). But is the criticism justified? Would the film have been as well feted if it had been made by an Indian?

I don't know, perhaps there is an element of studios backing well known Directors (who wouldn't after all it's all about economics) but the bitter truth is that Slumdog Millionaire with it's 'true-to-life' portrayal of India's poverty-stricken underbelly could only have been made by an foreigner or ferengi. Bollywood producers, fixated with making 'feel-good-high calorie-popcorn-fillers' are woefully blind in seeing India for what it is. In Mumbai alone, 2.6 million children live on the street or in slums, and 400,000 work in prostitution. But these people are absent from mainstream Bollywood cinema (trust me I've seen it). Bachchan's blinkered comments prove how hopelessly blind he and most of Bollywood are to the reality of India and how wholly incapable they are of making films that can address it. Instead, they produce worthless trash like Jaane Tu, Rock On!! and Love Story 2050, full of affluent young Indians desperately, and mostly idiotically, trying to look cool, modern and Western.

Slumdog Millionaire is based on the novel 'Q&A' by Vikas Swarup. Vikas loves his country as much as anyone and did it the service of telling its truth with great warmth and humanity. And Danny Boyle's film continues in precisely the same vein. His innovative brilliance, fresh perspective and foreign money was vital. As an outsider, he saw the truth that middle-class Indians are too often inured to: that countless people exist in conditions close to hell yet maintain a breath-taking exuberance, dignity and decency. These people embody the tremendous spirit and strength of India and its civilisation. They deserve the attention of its film-makers. I have no doubt that Slumdog Millionaire will encourage many more honest films to be produced in India. But Bachnan et al should be ashamed that it took a foreigner like Danny Boyle to show India how to do it.

The film looks gorgeous. Danny Boyle adeptly uses wide-angle cameras and places them at wonderful angles to get startling shots. The camera is placed at feet level, it is angled, it is twisted, we get birds-eye-views of the slums and much of the filming takes place at sunrise or sunset. Every frame in the movie is a foto-graf in the making! When you watch the movie pay attention to the camera angles and their placement and you'll see what I'm talking about. The music complements the pumped-up visuals well and is composed by A.R Rahman. Being visually attuned I was more drawn to the imagery of India. The Taj Mahal, the slums, the dhobis, the streets, the crowds, smells, the hugger-bugger. It's all there. Regardless of the visceral reality it portrays it still manages to remain a feel-good movie at heart. How does it do this? How do you film filth and poverty and desperation and still be feel good? You film with a heart and soul. Through your characters and plot you show you care. And this film does this. On a slight negative I wasn't wholly convinced by the truth of the love interest between the two protagonists. Their love felt too facile and plastic for me.

More then anything else the movie excels on a visual level and good ole plain story telling. Go see it. (4/5 stars!)

Part X - The adventures of Superfly

London is as they say only a city. But do you not think it more? A creature no less: breathing and growing and belching and fucking. A dragon with moods: In winter sombre and frigid. In summer sexually deviant in buttercup glory. In winter the women are at their sexiest. Do you not think? – It’s all those layers you see. Like orange peel white underneath. I don’t know maybe I’m sick. Someone once told me or maybe it was something I’d read, that London is the great ‘equalizer’. In the London street with the chaffing shoulders and scratching nerves, you don’t matter. Some people find this disturbing. For others it’s a release. If you’re one of those non self-effacing people who think you do matter then you need to grow up. You need to grow a sense of scale. Death is also an ‘equalizer’ of sorts, but my new year resolution is not to stew on death too long – it’s too moribund a topic of conversation. Moribund - I like that word. I do think about it often though. Death. I’ve heard so much about it, so many things, and seen it on TV. On TV it doesn't really have impact, doesn't feel real. I wonder what it will be like in person. In the flesh. Will it live up to expectations? Or will it, like most things you see for yourself, be a disappointment? An under-achiever? Under the gaze of death we are a meritocracy. I find that strangely comforting. I am not the jealous type and nor do I envy but I do feel for all the Slumdogs out there. The Slumdog Millionares! My comfort is reserved for them, not me.

Superfly was in London. And the grim reaper was after him has he bounded through the great city maze. He’d first heard of London in Pakistan. ‘The city of Kafirs’ they liked to call it or the ‘Head of the manacles of empire’ and my favourite ‘The big smoke’. London is no longer a smoky city. Oh no! It is electric. The steam-engines were shut down many years ago and today you can find them in the Science Museum. Nowadays the only ‘smoke’ your likely to encounter is that coming from the mouths of prickly Londoners. And they can be prickly indeed if you know which buttons to press; especially in the North. Superfly had read somewhere that London was ‘that darkness that sucketh Empires ill-gotten gains and speweth forth the clanging hammers of industry’.

But the great thing about London, apart from the electricity and We Will Rock You, is of course the fact that it is so easy to get lost in. Be anonymous. A freak amongst fellows that don’t really give a damn exactly what you are or where you're from. City, country or planet. And to be honest who really knows what they are and where they're from anyway? Can you really stake your claim and say where you're from in todays' world? But think of the release not having a label affords! Hence, why the The Vagabond so loves London and is so taken in by it. Do you know those dark locked off parts of your brain? You know the one’s you don’t want anybody to know about? Well I know what’s in there. Oh yes! I know what your dirty litte secrets are. How do I know? Because of London. All of life is here; all squashed up and mangled in puttyfied slags and it seeps into my pores and infects my mind. I have nightmares you know. Other people’s nightmares and they’re mine to keep. So hands off.

But where were we? Oh yes we were saying how the The Vagabond likes London very much. It’s a symbiotic relationship. He breatheth from the city the stench of life and in return he giveth his soul. Perhaps that is why he keepeth coming back? Why he don’t have to play hide and seek with his own shadow. The vagabond loves to watch. And to think (or at least try to). He lives in a small but comfortable flat, nicely furnished, with just the right proportion of ostentation, taste and bookish charm not to look pretentious. It is a fact that one who is learned and well travelled with well scuffed heals, by osmosis, attracts towards him the trappings befitting his station: books and journals and obscure texts and carvings and prints. Crates and crates of the stuff from far away places that clutter his flat, his mind and his relationships. In fact he spendeth an inordinate amount of time in a stupor. Currently he is obsessed with the question: Why are people nice to each other? He is crazy no?! But there is method in this craziness. Look, do you know why people are nice to each other? Let me tell you: It’s not, as many would like to believe, because people are genuinely friendly, but because of the old adage: ‘you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours’. You see at the heart of all kindly behaviour is a motive. Oh yes! The motive is selfish. But it is hidden in our breast away from us. What does that do to you! Can you live a normal life knowing this shit? You can’t I tell you! It’s unfair to live with this burden of knowing.

The Vagabond lives in a salubrious (salubrious = nice) part of town where he generally keeps himself firmly to himself. 'Generally', because as much as it may ail him, he must occasionally venture into the open for milk and fresh air. He is not an overly ‘social creature’ by any stretch of the popular imagination! – in fact he is rather misanthropic, preferring the company of himself rather then others. Some may attribute this to an acute or chronic shyness - but that is humbug. The vagabond is extremely comfortable in the presence of human beings but with the proviso ‘when he wishes to be’. The bottom line is that he wishes that people were more like him: misanthropes - so he wouldn’t have to bump into them! Misanthropes are a rare breed. Most people are so in love with they're own image that they can’t help boasting about it. I like to call it wanking your ego. Or having sex with yourself – it’s the same thing.

The Vagabond has many friends. They're called books. Do you know what the best thing about books is? They don’t speak! They just sit there until you open them and then they come alive. And they have so many interesting things to say. They can be jam-packed with information on the Burgess Shale or be a window into somebodies heart. Unlike normal conversation with a human, which the Vagabond finds to be tedious and rather painful. Also, if books get boring or repetitive you can skip a page or two – try doing that with a conversation! What else? The Vagabond has no partner as yet. Notice the inflection on the ‘as yet’ – this simply means that he does one day intend to find a partner. Find, yeah as in find wandering around somewhere. Like in a park:

‘Hey there pretty girl I was looking for something and I’ve found you, you wanna be my partner?’

And the girl mildly flustered says: ‘Erm, ok, but what’s in it for me?’

Isn’t that what normal people do? Find partners? Though, and this is not boasting, there is no dearth of admirers for The Vagabond. He has been approached many times by the fairer sex for erm whatever it is they approach him for. But in truth he has no interest in pursuing a lengthy and time consuming ‘courting ritual’ when he’d rather read and do other stuff more productive like write and watch movies. So there you have it: The Vagabond incarnate. You may see him as a devil, a selfish oaf or the vilest abominable outrage of nature; but there is no doubt that he is a genius and a perceptive observer of mankind. Whatever his faults. Is he loveable? Is the moon made of cheese?

The Superfly pressed the doorbell. After a pause it rang. It was obvious the doorbell wasn't used to being pressed and found the whole affair annoying. There was music playing inside the flat. The door opened gingerly. It's hinges were not used to this either and they complained. A head popped out. It looked as if it had the weight of the world on it's shoulders. The head eyed Superfly with a severe look. Suddenly there was recognition and the eyes lit up, the mouth widened with a mischievious grin and the furrows eased out. The Vagabond was most pleased for this rare interruption in his routine...

To be continued...

Part IX - The adventures of Superfly : Earth Escape

‘Escape!? Why it is the most difficult of things’
(21st century philosopher, and misanthrope)


The universe is big. How big? Really really big. Huge, vast, immense, mind bogglingly endless ad infinitum. It goes on and on and on and on. Just like me sometimes.

And the earth is dull. How dull? Really dull. Brain numbingly dull. Imbecilic. Like tomato soup. But even tomato soup is more interesting. Cos it has bits floating around in it you see. Bits in a sea of tomatoeeness...but I digress.

So what do you get when you mix big space and the dull earth? You get no chance. No chance of any visitors from other worlds. No little green men going beep-beep. No flying saucers. No extra terrestrials. Why would they visit? There are many more interesting places out there in the deep dark recesses of space then a benighted rock 3rd from the sun whose ape-descended life-forms think to be the centre of the universe.

And Superfly knew all this. He knew it well. He knew it good. In fact he knew it like one knows a rash…intimately. And it made him cry. He’d seen the current entry in the Guide for the earth: ‘dull’, and he knew that it would be another thousand years before anybody would pay a visit to this backwater. A thousand years is a long time…especially if your stranded on earth.

He wondered what he would ‘do’ for a thousand years? The thought floated in front of him like those bits that float around your eyeballs in your sleep. Suddenly he had an idea! He could visit every country in the world and spend at least a year there. Since there are about 200 countries in the world that would be 200 years used up! Some countries he might actually like and spend more time in; but then some he might hate and decide to get out quick – so on average 250 years is about right; with a year or slightly more spent in each country. That still left him with another 750 years to go though.

He could get a job. Yes! Not for money obviously but to pass the time as they say. But then jobs do get boring after a year or so; so he could spend a year in each job before moving to the next. How many years is that? Well, it depends on how many different kinds of jobs there are? Hundreds: teachers, sweepers, decorators, doctors, accountants, mullahs, artists, ice-cream men, father Christmases, scientists, archbishops, writers, novelists (not a real job but still), actors, ministers, and presidents. And many more. If he was going to be a President he’d have to do it for at least 4 years. I mean you can’t just leave in the middle of a Presidency citing ‘boredom’ as an excuse! Well you could, but it wouldn’t look good on your CV. And then there’s something else; he couldn't possibly be President and then be a sweeper afterwards. President would have to be somewhere near the end and it would probably be wise to start at the bottom; with the mean menial crappy jobs and work his way up. You don’t want to be told by your subsequent employer that you are ‘over-qualified’ for the job. So, let’s just say that there are 500 different kinds of job. That’s 500 years used up leaving another 250.

Superfly thought he could spend some years being married. Say fifty years. An awfully long time especially in today’s ruthless marriage and divorce cattle market – but hey, he could find someone ‘really nice’ and let the 'niceness' drag on for 50 years. That’s 200 more years to go. He could write a book – that’s 5 years (cos it would have to be a very good book), and spend another 10 years writing the difficult sequel. He could read. Yes! he could read every classic book ever published. Say 2 books a week so that's 100 books a year and 5,000 books over 50 years – give or take a few stinkers and the odd incorrigible tome of unintelligible pretentiousness like 'Ulysses' (At least he'd be able to finish 'War and Peace').

Were almost there now with 150 years left. Movies, yes! He could while away 20 years watching every movie out there (including Bollywood) and then another 5 years recovering in a mental institute. 125 years left. That leaves women. A year per women seems sufficient before moaning and groaning on leaving toilet seats up start flaring up. Actually, the toilet seat moan is a good indicator that it’s time to move on. So if he was to have 100 women with a women per year, that’s 100 years in total. Obviously in these years he would be 100% dedicated to his 'gal' with no time for extra-curricular activities like work, reading and movies.

Phew! that leaves 25 years. He could go back to University, that’s another 5 years. That leaves 20 years. He’d have to say goodbye to all the friends he'd have over the years and centuries (if they're still alive) and since they’d be located all over the planet; that in itself would probably take 20 years. That leaves the final 5 years to do the packing. You know suitcases and stuff. I’d imagine they’d be much excess baggage.

So there we have it. An itinerary of Superfly’s time on earth for the next thousand years! Superfly thought about it and it made him feel miserable and gave him a stomach upset. There was a beacon of hope though. There was the slight possibility that someone at the Guide would notice his conspicuous absence and send an advance scouting party for him – but this was unlikely. Guide workers were generally ‘expendable’ in the grand scheme of things. He thought about the upcoming thousand years. They were spread in front of him like the endless steppes; melting into the horizon. He thought about the jobs he’d be doing, the shitty jobs and the good. He thought about the countries he’d visit; the rat holes as well as the nicer one’s. He thought about the many movies he’d watch and the books he’d read. He thought about the many women he’d live with and the thought filled him with dread.

But first he had to visit London. He had a friend there he had to meet. Someone he’d met in Pakistan whilst holed up in some stinking hovel. The friend had generously invited him around to 'his pad' if he was ever to venture to London Town and Superfly had every intention of taking him up on the offer. They’d discuss much: the state of the world, the peculiarities of earthworms, the latest Oscar contenders, selfish genes, Blake’s immorality and of course the meaning of life. Not that it mattered because he already knew, but it’s always a good conversation piece…and afterwards they’d smoke a bit and have a drink and no doubt get inebriated on some vile brew.

But it would also be an opportunity to meet the celebrated reclusive creator of the finest blog in blog world: The Swashbuckling Vagabond. A blog as Sony Corporation says’ : like. No. Other. It would be wonderful to finally shake the hand of the genius and brain behind the finest existential ramblings since the first cave man jumped out of his cave and grumbled: 'Grrrrrh! Gruuughh!' It would be fun and he was looking forward to it but first he had a plane ticket to book. Can you fly direct from Darjeeling to London he wondered?

To be continued…

Coming soon...Part IX - The continuing adventures of Superfly : Earth Escape

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