When I have a cold...

It all runs south...



Over my lips and into my mouth



Tastes like jam but without the pieces



Think I'm gonna bottle it
And feed it to my nieces...

Catwalk slum (excerpt)

...The city was a mob. A riotous mob of indifference or was it malevolence? Traffic moved somberly because of the mob; which halted at traffic lights where it could breathe. As the lights turned green a torrent of people swept across the road in a bouncing froth of light-weight calicoes and jaded colours as if some invisible sluice gate had been let open and if it wasn’t clapped shut the flow would seep everywhere, becalming the vehicles in an eddy of pedestrians. The sun was out and a blue sky mottled with wisps of white smirked down upon everything; gleaming off the shiny bonnets and the metallic paintwork and shriveling the puddles leftover from last nights rains. The air carried the faint tang of mulberries which jostled with a jungle of bewildering smells all competing for the attention of my nostrils.

The city I came to realise was a distillation pot. A concentrated broth of humanity and thankfully all within comfortable distance as I sat in my taxi. The window was down and with me were my three best friends: Mr Fume, Mr Heat and Mrs Din. The sun burned and the air was thin and meager and the grit from the exhausts was building intimate acquaintances; sticking to my sweat and making me clammy. A giant billboard bottle of ‘Sprite’ loomed overhead; cold, spottled with condensed droplets and promising refreshment and tugging at my parched throat. I was suddenly overcome with an urge for a drink – an ice cold bottle of Sprite for my thirst. I ordered the driver to stop over for a moment. We parked beside a street stall and carried out our transaction through a slit in the window.
The streets were thronged with people traffic on either side. A river thick and miry with domed bamboo hats bobbing up and down like corks. They were a small people of pale skin, black matted hair, petite breasts and pear shaped bums; clad in loose clothing that did nothing to allude to the supine forms underneath. The clothes were or seemed ill-fitting; almost as if everybody wore the same size and all stitched by the same tailor too.

The taxi bumped and ground its way through the narrow streets lined on both sides with buildings that looked like flat pack furniture. The bottom sections were in shade and the tops draped in the warm gauze of morning sunshine. People stood out on the balconies putting their washing out to dry or stretching their muscles. We entered a neighbourhood of rotting bin bags besides rotting buildings. Children playing in the stink with moth eaten faces with eyes set so deep within their orbs; and somewhere within, a flicker of life; a sign of the faint being driving the engine of these desiccated and moribund creatures.

The taxi stopped outside my hotel. ‘Hotel Hanoi IV’ – it too a crestfallen affair; a 4 storey squat concrete building with a baked 'Ryvita' frontage and a brass plaque that read: ‘plenty rooms available’ that was screwed to the pillar - 3 of the 4 screws were missing leaving it dangling morosely. The steps leading to the hotel were in a pose of contorted collapse and wore the look of antiquity lest they should dissolve under my feet and were lined with some sorry looking potted plants; weedy and wizened. It was such a pathetic attempt at comeliness it made me wonder whether the rooms fared any better. I paid the driver and then caught her eye:

She was a lonely creature and was walking down the pavement in such an unexpected elegance of get-up and go that in the first moment I took her for a sort of vision. A creature indeed for you had to be there as witness! Oh! A white dress made translucent by the sun that created a silver haze around her, sunglasses, hair out, so refined, so elegant, so sexy, so gushing! so weird – for she was walking besides the gutter oblivious to the shit and smell around her. It was like watching a shampoo advert. Her demeanour and confidence rebuking the squalor like a slap on the wrist and she had the look of vacant glassiness; then she saw me and her eyes crystalised with recognition followed by a curling of the lips - hence her thoughts so betrayed. It was the sight of this instrument of manly torture so at odds with everything else that had captured my imagination and set forth some unforeseen seismic activity within me. Bewitched, my mind summersaulted to lofty places; beyond the silver lining. I smiled at her as she walked past and nodded my head in acknowledgement. In acknowledgement of what? – Such a fool I was! If ever there was one that walked this earth!

So what was the meaning of it? Acknowledgement of her beauty perhaps? The thing of interest was that she probably lived in this squalour. She was of it! Born and bred in it no doubt. Her beauty and get-up had given her metaphorical wings so to speak so she could fly to a world of make pretend. A world made real by the attitudes and humours of others towards her. And she knew it. For elegance and beauty speak to men’s hearts directly do they not? - Transcending the fabric of our lives and the roots that bind us to the soil. Inspiring feelings that tug at the primordial torrent that seethes within us; elevating a woman to a throne beyond her earthly bounds.

I wondered where she lived. I imagined her bedroom. Probably no larger then a broom cupboard with leprous walls and mildewed ceilings and a few items of furniture; perhaps a small mirror, a little bed and a make shift wardrobe of skeletal frame draped in cloth behind which her few precious items of clothing resided; 2 dresses perhaps that she wore in revolution and then the little window in her room that looked out onto the clotted gutter. The window she looked through every day; her world. I imagined her as a little girl; pretty and naïve playing in the filth. Did she ever dream of escape? Of course she did. Everyone does. I looked around. The whole area wore the face of abject poverty. How many more were there like her I wondered. How many princesses were there in this catwalk of slums...

Currently reading...

Franz Kafka's Metamorphosis. A surreal study of alienation. The opening line of this astonishing short novel personifies the Kafka style : 'When Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from troubled dreams, he found himself changed into a monstrous cockroach in his bed. He lay on his tough, armoured back, and raising his head a little, managed to see..., His numerous legs, pathetically frail by contrast to the rest of him, waved feebly before his eyes'

Hence the auctorial description 'Kafkaesque' used to describe surreal distortion and the feeling of impending doom - that has seeped into the contemporary lexicon. There is another author whose name too has become an auctorial description : 'Orwellian' (George Orwell) used to describe a dystopian nightmare of 'thought-crime' and 'thought-speak' under the auspices of a dark and all consuming cloud of totalitarianism.

So you think you're in control then???

Read Kafka
Read Orwell

Grand Cayman at 10,000 ft

(click on image for full size)

Although I'm no longer a resident there I am still allowed to wax poetic about this.
Notice the curvature of the earth and the cruise ships docked in George Town harbour.
(courtesy of some friends in the Caymans - Ross and Andrew (say cheese!)

Coming soon...the misadventures of 'Super Fly 3D Sonic'

The ego has landed aka 'Super Fly 3D Sonic': Regarded by the Vatican as bigger then the Pope himself and by women as the best bang since the big one - love him or hate him; you know you want more of him.
Boasting intelligence quotient levels that took four full-time NASA Astro-physicists 1 week to calculate, charm levels that make Bill Clinton look like a dollop of bat poo, sex-appeal that sends feminites on multiple away missions to planet Orgazma, dubbed by FHM as 'cooler then -273C', and possessing a blatant and almost pernicious disregard for authority:

"Authority? I eat authority for breakfast"

The Railway Bazaar (Part 3)

Whisked upon silky currents we were tripping to the stars; not in a rocket ship but a soap bubble creeping through the crepuscular darkness. Floating past Saturn, effulgent shafts of light bounced off its rings and gently caressed her face. I kissed her. Hovering above the oceans of Neptune (oceans of helium) our vessels reflection, shimmering off the placid surface, lit her eyes. I kissed her. And floating momentarily above the 3rd moon of Dolgoran, night-glow spores attached to her lips. I kissed her. And for every second, every hour and every light-year that passed our love blossomed; I kissed her. And every kiss was like the last; it meant everything and lasted an eternity. And then we ploughed into the heart of a giant star. Swimming through the nuclear furnace in our soap bubble of love; kicking our feet like flippers, holding hands, wearing life-jackets with the dull thud of the music ringing in the background. Boom boom dan-dan, boom boom dan-dan – “Looking from a window above, it’s like a story of love…,” - Funky love – and then pop! We fell to earth thru the emptiness - falling – falling – falling…

The city
They watch you stealthly - the eyes. Stalking you from street corners, gazing at you from buildings, spying you from pillars. They’re even hastily daubed all over the buses, taxis and the rickety rickshaws. There’s no escaping them. No, this is not from George Orwell’s dystopian fantasy ‘1984’, but rather modern day India. And the watchful eyes are not those of Big Brother but the more genial Bollywood film posters that plague public air space badgering you through putrefying lurid colors and crimson ocean spray backdrops. The cynic in me would have none of it – cinema for the city mob. Cinema for philistines! I felt like a stoical art-theory critic recently handed the keys to this sprawling ant-hill of stolid slums and gold finery; my fictional thesis: to entangle the web of seduction that lures people in from the suburbs.

Earlier on, I had alighted onto the platform as my train continued its onward journey towards the Bengal. At the platform I was greeted with a huge smile; a billboard advertisement for toothpaste featuring a scintillating display of teeth of such whiteness that it left you utterly ashamed of yourself. For some inexplicable reason the most popular billboards in India are for toothpaste. Possessing a healthy smile is a cornerstone of a happy life it seemed; a paragon of Indian-ism - though you wouldn’t believe it if you did a spot check of the locals dental cavities. Perhaps the smiling faces that litter the streets and cities have some kind of happiness and docility inducing affect on the populace I thought. It reminded me of Aldous Huxley’s ‘Brave New World’ where the population of the future is kept in check with ‘soma’ pills. In India its smiling toothpaste adverts!

I stumbled bleary eyed thorough the twilight of the early morning station looking for the exit.
I found my exit and stepped outside, squinting into the dusty glow of the dappled morning light as the din of the rush hour hit me full on. Blaring horns, skidding tyres, screeching brakes, imploding exhausts, buzzing rickshaws and the signs – so many! Smothering you in exclamation marks. It was an infringement of my civil liberties to have to read this stuff stenciled all over the public arena: ‘Vandalism is frowned upon’ read one (what about the vandalism inflicted upon me?). ‘No noise please and no shooting’ (I’d like to shout at the imbecile who wrote this and then shoot him). Other gems were: ‘Pubic Notice’, ‘Street sellers will be persecuted’ (I thought burning of heretics was consigned to the dark ages?) and my favourite ‘No sleeping, littering, shouting, and defecating’ – classic

There’s only one escape from this Orwellian nightmare and that’s to staple your eye lids together. But then your ears take over.

I looked around for a hotel where I could freshen up. I found one: ‘Hotel Imperial’ – boasting a mental asylum next door. This was perfect. At least they’d be free entertainment in the evenings. I took a quick cold shower changed and headed out. Generally I prefer keeping to myself in the city. But there’s always the eagle-eyed career cretin who spots you amongst a crowd. One of these gems approached me for the time; classic trick. How you answer determines whether you’re a potential host to this parasite. He was a greasy faced, mousy, pug-nosed miscreant of the semi-moron variety. His skin was dark like German pumpernickel and pot-marked like pumis. He asked “do you have the time please sir?” in English no less, and with a please sir flourish - the cheek! I stuck my (cheap Casio) watch in his podgy face and told him to “Fuck off!” I switched on my ipod when the inevitable spiel began, closed my eyes, and cast my mind back to the train…

The train
The music faded as Vanekka unblurred herself into existence. There she was again as I’d left her; sitting opposite. So slender. So defenseless - cut open like a wound. Wanting to surrender totally to me; warts and all. Isn’t that strange don’t you think? Exposing your self totally to someone like that? Someone you barely know – such is the power you hold. How I was intoxicated by her though! – The littlest things a tonic; the way her hair hung over her collars, the collars themselves worn at the edges with the seams missing and thread sticking out, the way her eyes glinted and her cheeks glowed with mirth when we talked, and how through these she now looked at me; desiring and desirable. Falling in love (or was it infatuation?) is not a democratic process. Nobody asks whether you want to fall in love with a person. It just happens and you are helpless to control let alone steer it. You internalize it as something that is under your control. Yet it’s the most irrational thing in the world. Love is.

I tried to remove her spell; imagining what she would look like as a saggy old woman with dimples. I couldn’t. I tried to convince myself that she was a bossy pants and would make my life miserable. I couldn’t. I tried to imagine that her eyebrows were actually one. I couldn’t. The only thing I could imagine though, and quite vividly too, was how nice it would be to sleep with her and what a wonderful companion she would make – And I hardly knew her! – This was worse then I thought.

I bit my nails and peered out of the window marveling at the scraggy bush and the spaghetti entanglement of telegraph poles that whizzed by in blur, and beyond, the virgin hillocks on a layer of lunar pancake. Train journeys always stimulate the fantasist within me. My present fantasy was to imagine myself running outside with the train; jumping over obstacles; cars, trees, homes, factories, leaping over the giant industrial chimneys; and flying through the dense low lying clouds, all within view of the train passengers - all staring with wide eyed wonderment. But aren’t train journeys also inspiring?! Isn’t it wonderful to be able to slice through a country like a layered cake and see it change as you move from one end to another? In comparison, I find planes and airports wanting. You arrive at the airport and plonk! – You find yourself in another country with no sense of having traveled there at all. Where’s the fun in that?

Outside the clouds fattened in the distance and like muscle bound torsos they transformed into bulging biceps. Plump and delicious like sheep they were moving insidiously towards us blackening as they did so. Suddenly they burst and the rain started pelting like sheets of corrugated plastic and turned the landscape blotchy. The ground was rendered paste like; you could scoop it up with a scalpel and spread it like peanut butter and everywhere you looked there was a smokey mist that floated ethereally. In the distance you could make out the tree-trunks but not the branches and the fields now sodden; pregnant with murky water. People caught by the rain were cowering beneath leafless trees and clamoring under polystyrene bags. Then the thunder started. Rattling the carriage and rolling over the hills flattening all other sounds like a sonic boom. People cowered as the wind shook the birch trees and the lightning lit up the sky like St. Elmo’s fire. The wind blew into the carriage carrying with it sand and grit that you could smell and taste; a grittiness that got into your teeth and everything else. I spotted a bird way up high; swaying wildly its wings buffeted by the wind but still it kept its course. I remember thinking it was nature that had created the wind and the wings - nature pitched against nature.

The city
I escaped the loutish bazaar of witch doctors, Sadhus and leeches and ventured into a relatively harmonious slum of a neighbourhood. I strolled through with laissez faire running through my veins. I imagined myself as a super fly with 3D-phonic eyes (so I could see 360 degrees), quadraphonic hearing (so I could hear mouse droppings), antennas to pick up radio frequencies from distant galaxies and a mind high on substance cool. I was the epitome of cool. It was obvious that all the guys wanted to be me and all the ladies wanted to be with me. I was pestered by the usual suspects as I chilled, hung and moped around; like a fly I swatted my tongue and tasted some spice molecules in the air and smelt with my feet. My tractor beam grabbed a couple of feminites who invited me to a party – sorry girls, "but this fly has other fish to fly". My skin was thick and I was buzzing. Like a fly:

'A man will beg
A man will crawl
On the sheer face of love
Like a fly on a wall
It's no secret at all
It's no secret that a conscience can sometimes be a pest
It's no secret ambition bites the nails of success
Every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief
All kill their inspiration and sing about their grief'
(The Fly, Bono)

I chanced upon a little tea parlor in a dingy side street and sat slumped outside; the stench of the gutter driving me into a vacuous seizure. The owner was very welcoming. Like a mosquito high on mescaline he kept buzzing around me, feeding on my vibe, sucking on my aura, his wings whirring at 1,000 rpm and catering to my every whim and twitch. I ordered a cup of pink chai and chilled out disappearing into the depths of memoryscape oblivion…

The train
“So you like to travel then?” Vanekka asked
“Yes”
“What do you like about it?”
“It’s the feeling of the unknown. The travelers conceit is that he is headed into the unknown. The best travel is a leap in the dark. If the destination was familiar and friendly what would be the point in going there?”
“So what do you do?” she asked me
“Oh you know, just try and get lost. The best way to see a country is to get lost in it”
“No, as work silly. What do you do for work?”
“Oh, I’m a writer and a photographer” I lied. There was no way I was going to tell her I was an accountant.
“Oh! Really! – I knew you’d be something like that” she said beaming into outer space her cheeks pink with mirth. A huge grin pasted across my face. She had in some twisted logical way, justified my lie.

“Wasim, that’s an Arabic name?”
“Yes, it means handsome” I said as a matter of factly
I could see she found this extremely funny. Blood rushed to her face heating her brow, her cheeks a-flush and her eyes glazy like honey dew drops. I wanted to kiss her.
“Are you a Muslim?” she asked
“Well, I hate categorizing people but I consider myself a Humanist; a member of the tribe of man” I could see this had left her somewhat perplexed. But a light sprinkling of perplexity is always good.
“So are you married?” I asked fidgeting
“No!”
“So who’s that then?” I asked pointing an accusing finger at her boyfriend as if he had the plague.
“Oh, that! That’s my brother” she replied

She paused. Everything paused. The whole carriage paused. Time stopped. I did a quick lap around the equator and my mind gulped in huge quantities of hydrogen in the Orion nebula.
Time started again.

“Ahhh…I see” I said calmly with great restraint
“Seems like a nice chap”
“Yes, his lovely!”
“Erm, tell me Vanekka, what are you doing tonight. Any plans at all?” I asked coolly.
“No, No plans” she said looking at me funny
She continued “Well, I was going to go to the film but obviously…” she waived her arms around “I can’t because duh-duh, I’m on a train” she said mockingly

Ahh. Sense of humour I thought. I had just ticked off the final box in the compatibility score sheet I had going in my head. I loved the way she said duh-duh. I wanted to kiss her right there and then.
So I did.

The city
I awoke from my memoryscape, paid for the chai and trudged off down the street with a touch of debonair. At that moment it felt great being me. I was happy that I didn’t have to share myself with anybody else. I was all mine. So with a spring in my step and a smile I walked down the street pass the stewing rubbish, pass the stink of the pissed on walls that looked like baked whole-wheat biscuits, pass the air penetrated with food smells and smoke, pass the pulverized neighbourhood so decrepit and worn, pass the howling muezzin and screaming children – the lovely evening sky cochineal at the horizon and fading to orange, then yellow and finally limp green and then the darkness of the starry void and the sun finally extinguishing itself behind me as a final farewell and my feet walking seamlessly on air…

and tomorrow
well tomorrow would just have to wait...

The Railway Bazaar - Prologue to part 3

[Cue: Disco lights, twinkly balls, glitter and the song 'Only You' (by Yazoo)]



Boom boom dan-dan
boom boom dan-dan
boom boom dan-dan
boom boom dan-dan

"Looking from a window above
It's like a story of love
Can you hear me?
Came back only yesterday
I'm moving farther away
Want you near me
All I needed was the love you gave
All I needed for another day
And all I ever knew
Only you..."

Thus, upon the crest of a cheesy but endearing 80's pop track, our love was forged.
We floated together inside a soap bubble; that blew up and up on feathered thermals - as the muffled beat of 'Only You' sounded in the background. Behind us the sun setting to a cobalt blue sky as my lips met hers and then we melted together; as one.

Memory Byte #4 - The Railway Bazaar (Part 2 of 3)

The train continued to creak and crawl its way eastwards towards the Bengal delta as the hot air settled upon us like a heavy woolen blanket. The rusty metal joints in the wooden carriages, probably not replaced since the days of the Raj (and not oiled either) were squeaking and moaning with jolts from the eddies in the track and the rough and tumble of the land. The heat, the quiet, the soothing motion of the train; it was all beginning to lull me to sleep. Wrapped in a dreamscape of fluffy clouds I was floating; no not floating, but propelling! – up and up, through and through. Oh! little ants, little people, little jigsaw pieces in a puzzle field. I was headed somewhere. Armed with warp drive thrusters and fear of no death. Where was I headed? Looking. For what? For what had been lost, what had been. Gonna find you. Never give up. Till I find you. Yes I knew where I was going…

I awoke with a start and rubbed my eyes. Outside, the face of rural India greeted me with a buttered smile and then lolled its head from side to side, and inside the people began settling into a familiar routine for they had made this journey many times before. Most were visiting relatives, some starting new jobs and one at least was just there for the ride.

The gentlemen seated to my right, funny looking chap wearing helium inflated jodhpurs, was rummaging thorough his knap sack. Like a magician performing a magic trick; out came a chunk of crusty bread, a hunk of evil looking cheese and a withered tomato almost as wrinkly as the poor man’s face. His ears were like prunes and as he moved out of the shadow cast by the low lying sun, I saw that he had deep creases carved into his forehead; engraved almost - no doubt from much contemplation. He had a large nose perched uncomfortably like a beak that threatened to shift his entire centre of gravity. He bit into his bread (crumbs everywhere as he did so), took a ruthless swipe at the cheese and then the mangy tomato. I guessed him to be from a monastery as he had that unhurried air about him, as if he had long forsaken time; entering into a deadly pact with it (like Faust and the Devil). Later on in the journey, when I asked him what lessons he had learnt from life (as I do when I meet anybody that interests me) : “throw away your watch!” was his instant and immortal reply.

Outside, sand-blasted stucco huts raced past us in a hurry and skinny, gleaming figures sat in shade wherever it could be got; under trees, beside walls, and lines of school children taking cover from the blazing sun underneath their books; their forms vaporising and reforming in the dusty heat. Everywhere people working away; sometimes in groups and sometimes alone, tending the land with their ploughs and oxen and in the background hordes of restless children running after cattle with sticks and screaming, only for the screams to be absorbed with a thud by the deafening silence. The air was hot and sticky but not dry, as the rains had fallen in the distance somewhere - thus soothing it somewhat. I was happy and stuck my head out of the window and took in a lungful of life. She was calling. I could hear her calling in the wind tunnel. Egging me on.

The tranquility of train life was shattered when we stopped at any of the numerous stations that greeted us along the way. Station hawkers would sit crouched under the flimsy canopy, avoiding the sun and waiting for us to pull in before crawling out of the woodwork. Feeding time! First you'd hear there repetitive humming like jungle birds and then you'd see em' coming; squinting in the sun; ragged and sorry looking motley crew of odds and sods; men, women, children, the disabled and even pensioners. Suddenly they’d be a manic flurry of activity as passengers would start bargaining for goods from the train; shouting, bellowing, hooting, wheeling and dealing; the pained cries of commerce and mercantilism ringing through my ears and through the carriages; deafening but great fun to watch – On sale were fried savourites, fruits, nuts, fully cooked meals (chicken, dhals, fried potatoe snacks, chapattis) and drinks (sodas, sugar cane juice and tap water masquerading as the mineral variety). You were probably ok if you stayed away from the meat. I learnt an important lesson when I beckoned one of the street sellers over. I watched the wretched little creature as he came towards me. He was a boy of about 9 with wolverine eyes and scraggy clothes. I felt sorry for him so I let him keep the change. Big mistake. For kindness is rewarded with not a thank you but an aggressive display of play acting and begging. Kindness can be smelt a mile off and they flock to it in drones like vultures. It is like a weakness and is pounced upon. Later, as we started moving I realized that life on the periphery is not about graciousness. It is about survival. Why should they be gracious? What has the world ever given them to be gracious about?

My thoughts then morphed into a butterfly that leapt here and there until finally landing on her shoulder; Vanekka’s shoulder. I could smell her perfume and taste her passions and feel her heartbeat. She was sitting opposite, lost in her own thoughts, whilst her boyfriend was fast asleep drooling away precious wallpaper paste.

She stirred and looked my way. I gave her another one of those raised eye brow smiles. Maybe I should ignore her I thought – That was probably not a wise idea I surmised; advertising my psychotic tendencies at this earliest point of our budding relationship was perhaps not the way to go. Better to play it cool and steady. The attack plan was to spring her with a lightning blitzkrieg charm maneuver (leaving her gasping for breath in zero gravity space orbit) and then just as she’s rather enjoying it, a hasty retreat leaving her in the midst of confusion to pick up the pieces. I’d obviously be watching nonchalantly from the side lines. Watching her disintegrate and fall apart at the seams before finely gathering her wits about her and making the best decision of her life; that is leaping into my waiting arms, followed by us leaping from the moving train to ‘anywhere-land’ for a life-time of jinx and high adventure upon the seven seas - Bollywood eat your heart out mate.

“Would you like a coffee?” I asked her as I got up scanning the carriage for the Starbucks coffee booth
“Coffee?” she repeated
“Yes Coffee, you know coffee. Nescafe?”
“Yes. I know what you mean by coffee” she said “but I doubt you’ll find it here”
“I’m sure I saw a Starbucks sign somewhere?” I said in soliloquy

She looked at me with lucid, opalescent eyes not quite sure what to make of my humour discharge. I was now standing over her, looking down and watching her gaze up at me like a puppy-dog wagging its tail. I could have sworn her tongue was flapping crazily. I noticed that her accent had an air of refinement oxidized to it. A certain nobility; a magisterial quality even. Maybe she was a princess I fantasized. At that moment I felt like asking her what the heck her majesty thought she was doing in Economy class but then I felt the question rebound on me. Besides it may even offend her. Perhaps she had fallen on hard times or, even more plausible, that no-good boyfriend of hers had squandered her inheritance.

I knew that these long haul trains had dedicated kitchen carriages from whence would magically appear savory concoctions called Pakoras from Mr Onion Bhaji on cloud nine. At dinner time there was a proper restaurant kitchen with an army of staff churning out real food; the kind of dishes you'd get in any restaurant. If I was nice I thought I may just get a cup of coffee from the kitchen. So I took off down the carriage in search of a pleasant caffeinated drink to put in my mouth. I walked by the numerous bodies slumped here and there. I hadn’t noticed it before, but the stench of poor people clung to the air and got up my nostrils. It’s a common smell of dried sweat and un-bathed bodies hiding behind some cheap fragrance.

Ten minutes later I was back at my carriage, struggling with the considerable weight of having to carry a huge smile and two scalding cups of freshly brewed Nescafe. I handed Vanekka the cup as I walked past her towards my seat.

“I didn’t know if you had a sweet tooth so I bought these along” I said as I unwrapped the newspaper sheet with the sugar cubes inside
“Oh, just one please!” she said smiling
“You know you shouldn’t take too much sugar” I said as I plonked a cube in her cup
“Thank you”
“You’re gonna loose all your teeth when you get old and then you’ll be eating halwa all day long and nobody will look at you cos you'll be like this” I said as I started mimicking the face of an old lady with no teeth and she started laughing, almost spilling her drink on me. Probably on purpose.

“What are you doing here?” She said finally
“What planet Earth or the carriage?”
She gave me one of those looks that teachers give to cheeky children. I was hoping she’d spank me. I paused, looked out of the window and creased my brow. I was obviously trying to come up with a thoughtful answer to this most important of questions
Finally I turned my head around, bent towards her and said:
“I have no idea” and took a sip of the coffee and giggled into it watching as it frothed over the side and started eating away into my hands.

I could see a flame of curiosity had been lit but also something else.

The thing was and if truth be known, I really did have no idea what I was doing here! There was no reason or rhyme other then impulse really. How do you explain that to somebody? That you’re traveling for the sake of traveling? I leant back and worried about what she’d make of me. I did have my reasons but they were wishy-washy, dreamy, vague and buried somewhere deep inside my head and I couldn’t articulate them right now in this stuffy carriage with the oppressive heat and everything.

“I just got on the train to see where it would take me” I said honestly. It was said with a shrug of the shoulders and a sprinkling of fake self-pity; as if I was hoping that she’d seize and shake me in an attempt to pull me out of the madness that had flocculated my mind. But she didn’t. She just listened.

“You see I’m fascinated by what lies on the other end of the line” I said
And that was it. The spell had been cast. It’s like a switch had flipped in her head. I saw the moment it flipped; her pupils dilated and I swam through. And once that switch flips, it’s all over. Game over.

(To be continued…)

Memory Byte # 4 – The Railway Bazaar (Part 1 of 2)

“What is your good name sir?” inquired the ticket inspector as he fondled my stub with his greasy hands. His skin was leathery like sun-dried tannin and I could make out the dirty and frayed cuffs of his shirt. He had a skinny neck that protruded giraffe like between two ill-fitting collars and an unruly paper tie.
“Wasim” I answered
“Where are you from Sir?”
“Please stop calling me Sir” I said tartly. For I find the whole business reeks of colonization.
“Yes, jee Sir”

I had seated myself in the economy class carriage next to the window that looked onto the platform outside. The seats or benches were wooden, hard and slippery. It was stiflingly hot, a long difficult journey beckoned and yet here I was feeling rather content. It was only this morning that I had awoken and pretty much decided, on an impulse, to traverse the continent by train. I was wearing a pair of airy khakis and a white T-shirt. Well it was white when I had pulled it on this morning, although now a dull magnolia thanks to the dust thrown up by the chugging arterial traffic. I had taken a refreshing shower before checking out, but now as I sat simmering, it all seemed pointless; economy class has (amongst other things) no fans and the midday sun was venting its fury outside, scorching the already brittle and parched earth to death. Luckily I had my shades and presented them to my eyes for some relief. I took the book from my bag, turned it over and blinked at the cover ‘The Railway Bazaar’. I flipped it open but couldn’t start it. I had to wait for the train to start moving.

A young women seated herself on the seat opposite me. She was slim, with thick flowing black hair, a little well placed nose and dark eyes set underneath a pair of inconspicuous eye lashes. Her skin was flushed flamingo pink from the heat. She was wearing a little petticoat with ruffled collars and her hair was neatly trimmed at the front but had a mind of it’s own around the sides. Underneath she was wearing a T-shirt (with a pair of sunglasses hanging from the neck), faded jeans, dusty sandles and some bronze anklets that made the mind disappear someplace naughty. In fact she was very pretty and I was attracted to her right away. I looked at her and simultaneously smiled, puffed my mouth and raised my eye brows; you know the way you do when you acknowledge someone without saying hi. She responded with a little smile, blushed slightly and then stared out of the window.

It’s when you become acutely aware of somebody because you like them that everything you do becomes conscious. It’s strange how I suddenly became aware of the flies suddenly buzzing around me and the hardness of the seat. You try and act nonchalantly but there’s no disguising it. Swift, natural flowing movements become huge, lumbersome sweeping statements of intent as you see the individual freeze-frames that make up the motion picture of the world. If she had been a man or an old woman it would have been different. But sexual chemistry; hah! male-female chemistry, is something else and never to be underestimated for its potency. Two individuals, both young, single, sitting opposite each other. Its pure chemicals in your brain man.

I didn’t want to look at her directly or she’d think I was a pervert, so I attempted to avert my gaze or pretended to look at something interesting in the corner or in mid air. I began imagining what she was thinking and started hearing her thoughts in my head like ‘why is that strange man staring into thin air?’ Finally I picked up the book but alas! I couldn’t concentrate; the lovely women sitting opposite me and teasing me by flicking her anklets side to side was speaking in whispers to me. How she craved to be understood, to be held, to be kissed and loved and dressed in salad cream...Or was that my imagination?

The pretence would have gone on forever if she hadn’t spoken first. She introduced herself with a smile and gazed incandescently into my pupils, dispatching a probe on a seek and find out everything mission
“Hi, I’m Vanekka. It’s nice to meet you”
I could tell she felt the same about me. Why else would she start a conversation with a total stranger, on a train, in economy class?
I smiled
“Hi, my names Wasim” I said (making sure to emphasise it was Waseem not Wazeem)

The polished English accent and the quality of my delivery (perfect pitch and tone with a twist of testosterone) must have set some flammable substance ablaze as I felt her whole body innervate. Or maybe she already knew I wasn’t from these wee parts and the movement was her bowels attempting to jump out of the window?

“So where are you from Waseem”? She probed further

I felt a surge of electricity as she said my name properly. I felt that I was on the home straight. Such an open question! – I knew we’d be talking for hours. I could talk about the fact that I’m currently living in Dubai (5 points) though I’m originally from London (10 points). She’d ask me what I do and where I work (3 points + 10 points). Then we’d go onto our interests and what music we like (Queen: 10 points). Then I could talk about the ‘The Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy’ (-20 points) and my expensive headphones (-20 points). Finally we’d talk about her (30 points) and keep talking about her (30 points) and then finally, for the coup de grace, we’d move onto our families (another 30 points). I felt that I had been handed a full toss and that I would whack it for six out of the stadium.

Then her boyfriend came and sat next to her. He gave her a little hug and both of them looked at me wondering why I had such a happy and gleeful expression frozen on my face. Needless to say the expression thawed to a torpid and insipid smile…

(To be continued…)

The White Diamond

Showing at : Institute of Contemporary Arts (The Mall)
Dir : Werner Herzog

This is a documentary and character study in the classical Herzog tradition. Meet Dr Dorrington; a London University Professor obsessed with air-balloons; or to be more precise obsessed with designing an air balloon that will allow the pilot to float precisely within a few inches of the jungle canopy so that samples can be gotten of rare flaura and fauna. The documentary follows the mild mannered professor to the 'Kaieteur Falls' in the heart of Guyanan rainforest in South America, to test fly his contraption. The worlds canopies are home to an abundance of wildlife and remain relatively unexplored.

The subject of the documentary is Dr Dorrington himself; effervescent and brimming with enthusiasm and totally obsessed with his balloon. He reveals himself to be an intriguing character; complex, multi-layered, driven, restless and an eternal dreamer. He, like Joseph Conrad's protagonist in 'Heart of Darkness', is tormented by his past. A past which provides the incendiary for his scientific exploits that aim to challenge both himself and the universe. Werner Herzog has always been fascinated by such archetypal figures and what they represent; the lone, obsessed misanthrophe pushing forward and revealing, to all eyes that have insatiable appetite and wonder, the mysteries of the universe. There is a childishness at the heart of it all, a reckless childish desire to 'float freely' above the trees like a school kid; which is ironic because it is this childishness that ultimately leads to humanities greatest discoveries (and which we through the education system try to suppress)

It is characters like Dr Dorrington, with their puerile obsessiveness, their quirks and infinite compulsion, that drive forward human achievement. The documentary is essential viewing if not for the way it handles its central character, with warmth and candour, then for its ability to shine a spotlight and hold up a mirror to our own inner characters and daemons
- essential viewing indeed.

For within the chaotic and tormented soul a great broth, black and brooding, awaits. From whence look! beautiful butterfly strumming on heavenly currents, does do escape!

Coming soon...The decline of Hackney's Fish & Chip shops

In their hey-day they were a national institution. Providing the staple food (starch and protein) for the incumbent residents of inner city tenements. The thick chunky chips, the vinegar, North Sea Cod, the wrapping newspaper, the Chinese chip-shop owners (typically husband and wife team with kids helping out on weekends). Then there was the awful decor. The 60's style front serving counters (reminiscent of the bridge of the 60s incarnation of the Enterprise in Star-Trek). The formica clad tables. The kitsch Chinese wall-paper. And of course the black and white menus: chip roll, curry and chips, and er...chinese dishes.

"There's no profit in it any more" cries Mr Tan (owner of 'Foo-Lan fish & chips' on Shackewell Lane, Dalston, Hackney). "Nobody eats chips anymore. There used to be school next door and kids come and queue at lunch-time. But no more. Business good then. Now there's an academy and kids not allowed out anymore at lunch-time" bellows Mr Tan
What about the locals?
"The locals are poor families. Black families. They don't eat fish and chips. Too expensive. Only white people eat fish and chips. Not enough white people in area so not sell many fish and chips. I want to sell business and buy flats upstairs and rent out" moans the belagured Mr Tan.
"Bag of potatoes cost £97. After cutting out black bits, not much potatoe left. Not make much profit" Said Mr Tan.

Nowadays a bag of Fish and Chips will set you back a fiver atleast. With the profusion of 'Kentucky fried chicken' joints with their £2.99 for 2 pieces chicken + fries + drink - no wonder the chip shops are feeling the pinch. There are 2 main forces at work here in my opinion:

1) The Kentucky joints operate as franchises and have more power over suppliers. Whereas the chip shops are sole traderships lacking clout who get the rear end of the deal
2) Declining North Sea Cod levels have led to wholsesale increase in Cod prices. Chickens on the other hand are much easier to rear and prices have in-fact been declining
3) Consumer tastes have also been changing with a much larger variety of fast-food joints gracing the high streets

The story of the decline of traditional fish and chip shops is also the story of the changing landscape of inner-city London. It is the story of North Sea Cod under siege. It is the story of Kurdish/Turkish immigration. It is the story of the mighty Doner Kebab. But most importantly, it is ther story of globalisation. The story of the decline of Hackney's Fish and Chip shops is a story with an international cast and a global stage...

Great Adventures in Hi-Fi

Once upon a time, a long long time ago, I used to be an audiophile. That is, a sucker for sound fidelity. Obsessed with squeezing out every nuance, every timbre of sound, every drop of sweat that went into the making of the music I was into – a noble aim I might add; to get as close to the music as possible. Lucidity in the midst of chaos and tempestuousness.

In those glorious days of high fidelity, when the sun always shone; bathing the world in a layer of amber. When the summers arrived early and then moped around for yonks. When bumble bees would buzz and bumble about gorging themselves stupid on nectar and then take the afternoon off. Well in those days I used to have a perpetual ringing in my ears – The ringing in the ears was caused by a pair £800 headphones I had acquired – to get as close to the music you understand…

So what do a £800 pair of headphones look like then?
Well, they’re wooden (made of mahogany) and very comfortable (they'd have to be). They have distortion levels so low so as to make a grown man weep. I won't bore you with the technical aspects but lets just say that they have the minor affect of making you rediscover your entire music collection (but that’s just a mute point really)


Every sound that comes out of these headphones reeks of aural orgazma. Be it barking dogs, Mozart or vitriolic expurgiated bile courtesy of The Clash, there’s no let up. It's as if suddenly god has decided to allow you to experience the true ability of your ears by taking off the invisible mufflers. They’re also not shy of exposing shoddy studio production, because you hear everything. You hear every instrument, separately in 3D sound space.

I took them out yesterday after many years. My ear drums are currently on the road to recovery and perdition. Also, that ringing sound has started again.
So what are these amazing headphones called I hear you ask covetously? Grado RF1 – Reference Headphones Yes, reference – meaning they are a reference point with which to judge all other headphones in the world. I'm not kiddin'.

Sound reproduction just entered the future guys. You wanna rediscover your record collection? Definitely not recommended for audiophillic philistines.
Government warning : These headphones will do serious damage to your social life.

Guesswhatimdoingtonight.com
Wherehaveallmyfriendsgone.com
icanthearathinganymore.com

How to have a wonderfully good time!

So how does one have a wonderfully good time then?

Well, its really about having a certain philosophy about life; certain core beliefs that are then manifested externally by your attitude.

Let me explain:- we all know that life is basically absurd. Right? - if you haven't figured that out yet then I urge you to read the Nobel laureate Albert Camus's essay 'The Myth of Sisyphus'. Hopefully, then you will be awakened from your deep slumber. If it doesn't have the intended affect i wouldn't fret too much; your're pretty much in synchrony with the rest of humanity who are shuffling and babbling along with the majority.

Anyway, assuming you have figured out that life is inherently absurd, then you can get down to doing what REALLY matters - which is to have a wonderfully good time.

You see once you have figured out the true meaning of life; and i lay stress here on the 'true' for there are many sly imposters out there who claim to have the monopoly on truth (but are just a bunch of charlatans who would like nothing better then to inflict their evil mind control tactics on you); once you have figured it all out you will realise that their is only one natural outcome of your new found freedom - to have a wonderfully good time!

So how do you have a wonderfully good time then?

1) Give up TV, Newspapers and magazines - these are the worst vices of modern life. They tempt you with pointless temptations and give you anxiety: "Buy this, buy that" "You won't be happy if you don't get this" or "Don't go out cos you'll be attacked. There's crime, hoodys and gangs everywhere so stay indoors and buy lots of stuff from the shopping channel to make you feel better"

You'd be surprised the effect reading about crime everyday can have on your stress/anxiety levels. So bin the papers. Why should you care about celebs? You have your own life, why should you waste it by following someone else's?

2) Have time/down size - do you know what I enjoy most? I like nothing better then sitting down with a good book with the knowledge that i have nuffink planned for the whole day. Having your own time. Not work time. But your own time to do as you please, to do not because you have to, or because its expected, or because it would be rude not to, but because you want to; that is happiness. So, chuck out everything you don't want, remove family and friends you don't need. Only keep the friends and family that make you feel good or you genuinely enjoy the company of. Everybody else is dead weight, burdens, chaff - tell em' to piss off and leave you alone!

3) Get creative - why rely on others to provide entertainment when you can do it yourself. So in your spare time write a poem, a short story, write how you feel, write a review, invent a funny new word, take up a hobby i don't know, but be creative. Cook a meal for friends, enjoy good food, make merry, have a laugh (with people you genuinely enjoy the company of - not smatterers)

4) Nurture healthy independence of mind - How? See point 1 above. Also, stay away from Starbucks et al. It's crap coffee. (only grade 3 - yeah i've been to Costa Rica), it's a rip-off, they exploit people and it's such a cliche now anyway! - Sitting in Starbucks is so not cool anymore. In-fact it's anti-cool. It also shows you're a sheep and don't have healthy independence of mind! - so brew your own. Get a French Press (much cheaper and better coffee)

5) Rise above the banality of everyday existence - Life is absurd. People are absurd. Goverments are absurd. Pain is absurd. My job is absurd. In-fact the human condition is absurd! So what do you do when you know everything is absurd? Break down and cry? No! You rise above it! - this doesn't mean you tell your boss to fuck off. No. No. No. It means you start thinking, you start saying: "you know it's all a load of crap, but it's a fantastic load of crap!"

Revel in the crappiness and pointlessness of it all, and you'll have a wonderfully good time. I promise!

A heart

i have a heart you know
it beats like any heart really
c'ept it beats louder
and pumps harder than most
filling my veins with an un-godly vice
that goes to my head
and sets fire
to my imagination...

i do have a heart you know
wandering in a starry wasteland somewhere
if you look carefully
you can see it amongst the myriad stars
shining brighter then
the farthest galaxies
Oh yeah!

i really do have a heart you know
and it aches like any other heart
and quivers too;
sometimes it stops beating for a while
as if in a trance, wandering off somewhere;
on super-fantastic adventures no doubt
Oh yeah!

i do have a heart you know
honest
and it'll keep on beating forever
ever and ever and ever
until time says: stop!
but even time can't stop it you know
cos it's a special heart you see
and it'll keep on beating
and the evers will go on
till there are no more trees in the forest
or pages in this book

it's a really strange heart you know
my heart
and it can't help it really
and it doesn't care anymore
what little people think
what the world expects
or the gods decree

cos it's a real heart you see
and that's what real hearts are s'posed to do
be free

Coming soon...London - The Images

The Capital of the world. Unlike New York the Tube stations here are clearly signposted. Unlike New York the streets are all squigley and it is really really old. South of the river Thames, is a mythical land that those on the North talk about in nervous whispers, but it actually isn't that bad and is fast becoming the only place in the city besides cardboard boxes that is affordable to live in.

Go on the London eye but don't visit the London Dungeons. Go shopping on Portabello road, or in Camden, not in Covent Garden. Go to the opera in Regent's park, and to speaker's corner in Hyde park on a sunday afternoon. Trafalger Square in the evening, Leicester square at mid-day. Karl Marx and Charles Dickens are buried in Highgate cemetary.
All of life is there.

English person: Have you been to the U.K. before?
Foreigner: Oh yes, I've been to London five times on holiday.
English person: Anywhere else?
Foreigner: No, there's nothing worth seeing outside the M25, it's just a barren wasteland
English person: Ignorant fool. DIE NOW! *pulls out knife and stabs repeatedly*

His Dark Materials (Phillip Pullman)

Once in a million years (or if you're lucky in your life-time) a book comes along (or in this case a serious of 3 books) that blow the socks off you. Phillip Pullman has crafted a sci-fi/fantasy adventure that is so beautifully realised, so well written, that it leaves you convinced that it all exists somewhere out there. The 'His Dark Materials' trilogy has it all; characters that jump out at you from the page, heroes crafted in the classical mould, a multiverse, a mysterious substance called 'Dust', Oxford dons, a great conflict and perhaps the greatest villian in all er...villainy!

Do yourself a favour: unplug the television, switch off the phone, take a few days off work, make yourself comfortable (but not too comfortable yeah?) and treat yourself by immersing your mind in the finest sci-fi/fantasy novel of recent times - trust me you won't regret it.

His Dark Materials has consistently been voted in the top 10 best books ever and is to be made into a Hollywood blockbuster...watch this space.

'The Bothersome Man' (Review)

Watched this at the ICA today. Fantastically directed Scandinavian take on modern life; the perils of the IKEA-esque lifestyle. Highly pertinent.

We begin with a sombre landscape; dry and parched flatland surrounded by equally uninviting mountains. In the middle of this dreary dust-bowl lies a two pump petrol station where our protagonist is dropped off by a creeky old bus that then disappears along the same dusty track it emerged from. Our hero is told that he has a job as an accountant in a good firm

Fast forward ----> the world our protagonist finds himself in is a bourgeosie nightmare of banal professionals, living in an IKEA fantasyland. Decor is minimalist, un-cluttered and functional. This applies to both his office space; which is metallic-silver, tidy and free of obstructional devices. The entire city and indeed world is coated in subdued colours, opaque with a hint of bluesy hues. The cinematography helps in this regard. Even the light is cold as if filterd through a gelatin filter. It's a dreamlike world of order. This also extends to the people who are robotic without emotions. Somehow our hero realises that it doesn't quite feel right. There is something not quite right about the world. The chocolate doesn't taste good, foods have no smell and there are no children. No children making noises, being dirty and running around. It's a world of fake smiles, disposable friendships and polyvinyl relationships.

The movie is a subtle attack on our modern culture of hard-work, obsession with interior design, capitalism; that has taken the place of traditional family life, children, warmth and real food that tastes good; not the processed gunk we are force fed everyday; overpriced, trite, unwholesome, un-nutritious. It also takes a swipe at modern relationships, seeing them as merely mutual contracts devoid of any real emotional attachment.

The other problem our protagonist finds is that he can't escape from this IKEA-esqe world. He tries to kill himself by jumping under a train with gory but darkly comic results. He is trapped in a comfortable lifestyle of champagne parties, designer furniture and predictable boring people. Dull, life-less and totally pointless!

Coming soon...'Oh my god it's Buurmingum!'

Small Heath, the Balti triangle and er cows on the railway line...

The driver announcement in the railway carriage didn't bode too well for the forthcoming journey:
"ladies and gentlemen, I would like to apologise for the delay to your journey. This has been caused by a cow that has wondered onto the railway line..."
This was said with not a hint of humour or sarcasm. In-fact the driver was speaking in very serious tones and with matter of factly exactitude - and this is one of the peculiarities of the British ain't it? The steely professionalism. The cast iron gaze in the face of absurdity.

The train hurtled through English countryside and then bellowed past the long abandoned stone mills and factories of industrial Britain that lie on the outskirts of Birmingham; permanent reminders of a great industrial heritage. The train finally chugged into New Street Station - a mighty, concrete monolith; an ugly sore for the eyes. Yes, there are many more urbane and modern stations out there, with glittering lights, beautifully crafted people spaces, well designed 'consumption booths' and ergonomically designed relaxation spaces where one's stresses are supposed to evaporate into thin air - but I suppose this station does the job it was designed to do; although I must say it does look rather odd next to the futuristic vision that the now fully re-designed Bull Ring shopping centre exudes and encapsulates.

You travel to the ends of the earth in search of the worst. The worst food. The worst hotels. Worst people. Worst airports. Worst officials and the worst transport. Who would have thought that after Cuba, Guatemala, Belize, Vietnam, Nepal et al, I would find the worst transport right here in modern Great Britain; member of the G8 and permanent member of the UN council. Ladies and gentlemen, please allow me the honour to introduce to you, the London Euston - Birmingham New Street railway service!
- the flyers should read the following:
"why travel to India for the 3rd world experience, when you can get it right here on your own doorstep!"

Yes Ok, the seats are comfortable, the air-con works a treat, the ticket inspectors are pleasant, no stinking aroma of stale breath, dry sweat, piss, fart fumes, baby puke that is the stench of people in poor countries, but if there's a 'slight' problem though, it all grinds to a halt. On the return journey due to a 'fatality' on the tracks I was left stranded at Coventry for 3 hours. Yes, there are worst places then Coventry but it got me thinking. If this had been Kenya, If this had been the Nairobi to Mombasa express, they would have removed the fatality from the track in minutes; no waiting around for Transport Police, no flaffing about with paperwork, bureacracy, officialdom - none of that. Shove the body out of the way and let the train pass. Yes it's crude. Yes it's probably wrong, but how I miss 3rd world lack of professionalism. Go Kenya! - Go figure!

London - The Rover Returns

Yes, I have finally returned to London after a long absence. The time away has opened my eyes and my mind and left an indelible mark on me. Walking through central London yesterday, I didn't notice, till somebody pointed it out to me, I was wearing a permanent smile. It was a permanent fixture on my face as I strolled through aimlessley. taking it all in; the faces of the people; a great mass of people; of every nationality - rush-rush-rush. Jostling, hurrying, going somewhere. God knows where. Here you blend into the organic mass, nobody takes a second look, nobody notices, you are for all intents and purposes invisible; Anonymous. How easy it is to disappear in London! Melt away into the crowd. Never to be seen again. Bought a new jacket yesterday. Even with the sun out it can get a bit chilly. 'Energie' that's the brand, from a nice little store in Carnaby Street; it's off Regents street so you must visit if you're ever in London.

Spent yesterday idling about really. Bought an Oyster Card for travel and maxed it out. Coffee, people watching and watched a movie - This Is England (about Racism in 1983). And the bookshops! - I'd forgotten how great London's bookshops are! - London has the best bookshops in the world bar none. You have your Waterstones, Foyles etc...but you also have your independents too; these little dusty stores, with ancient owners who peer at you through the rim of their spectacles. You walk in and you feel that you will be engulfed by the numerous titles that line every available wall space from floor to ceiling. There's books on every conceivable subject, whatever takes your fancy.

Today, It's a lovely day, the sun's out, a bit chilly but perfect for walking around in. Meeting up with a mate for a good old pub lunch then I'm off to the Tate Modern as they've got a photography exhibition on - This is London!

Half the world away :-)

I would like to leave this city
This old town don't smell too pretty and
I can feel the warning signs running around my mind
And If I leave this Island I'll book myself into a soul asylum
And I can feel the warning signs running around my mind

So here I go still scratching around in the same old hole
My body feels young but my mind is very old
So what do you say?
You can't give me the dreams that are mine anyway
You're half the world away
Half the world away
Half the world away
I've been lost I've been found but I don't feel down.

One day I'm gonna leave this planet
You know I would stay but I just can't stand it and
I can feel the warning signs running around my mind
One day I wanna leave my spirit and find me a hole and I'll live in it cos
I can feel the warning signs running around my mind

So here I go still scratching around in the same old hole
My body feels young but my mind is very old
So what do you say?
You can't give me a dream that's mine anyway
You're half the world away
Half the world away
Half the world away
I've been lost I've been found but I don't feel down

The greatest experience in the whole Universe

Do you not find something poignant about old photographs?


(Dorset, 1913)

Well I do. For me these are lives that were once lived, lives that fell in love, lives that walked along a pebbly beach, lives that felt the warm rays of the sun on their skin. Lives that have since been extinguished. Like gravestones in a graveyard - lives no more. Seeing the faces of people who once lived makes me realise that I too one day will be gone. Like the life above. It's a sad thought I know.

But I am pulled out of this melancholiness by the equally arresting thought that yes, I will be gone one day, but isn't it amazing that I (against impossible odds) am alive today? What is the probability that I would be born? What events had to take place in the past to conspire to ensure my existence? There are many many more people, possible people, who will never be born. Who will never see the light of day because events never conspired in their favour. We are the lucky few. The lucky one's. Rejoice in your luck. Saviour every moment of the experience we call life. There is nothing like this experience in the whole universe!

There is nothing ordinary about being 'you' - being you is magical. Being you is wonderful. Being you is the best thing that could have happened to you. For what is the alternative? The alternative is nothing. What do you remember of life before you were born? Exactly, nothing. You were born in a pre-packaged device that has the ability to see, hear, taste and feel the world. A device that knows it is alive. There is nothing ordinary about the life condition. Nothing ordinary about seeing dark clouds. Nothing ordinary about feeling raindrops. Nothing ordinary about having lunch. Nothing ordinary about driving your car. Nothing ordinary about the life experience.
I would not swap this experience for anything else in the universe.

Slip inside the eye of your mind

Slip inside the eye of your mind - don't you know you might find - a better place to play - You said that you'd never been - but all the things that you've seen - are gonna fade away...

Lyndon's Cayman birthday Pub crawl

(All pub crawl fotografs taken with a Canon G7 - light, nimble and er...relatively inconspicuous - but shitty battery life. No flash used except for the pic of the gangsta with the mobile phone)


Slip inside the eye of your mind - don't you know you might find
a better place to play - You said that you'd never been
but all the things that you've seen - will slowly fade away


Yeah nice camera. Watch me steal it from that showoff when he's not watching

...And how much do they pay you in the bottle factory Mike?

You wanna follow me into the toilet as well do you?

Don't look back in anger / Does my bum look big in this?

Fuming in the background

We've just come back from a holiday to Chernobyl. See, no side-affects

No, you can't have my lollipop

Whose the freakshow on my left?

I bet If I race you I can beat you on my scooter? Don't believe me? What's so funny?

piss take

Ok guys, whose gonna tell them that dominoes is a girls game?

Spot the twat with the white helmet

Absynthe minded

Menthol addiction

No, I don't think you should ride your scooter home tonight Lyndon

Commercial shot (for Smirnoff Ice) - soon to grace billboards in Cayman

Oh my god. That feels good. I'm about to explode.

Cheeky chapper / Mmm...threesome

Automatic for the people

Wasim! What have you done with the rest of my body? / Bobby's got Knobalitus

Human traffic

Mmm...shall I nick this bike?

Yeah, I've got a bike now!

Shhh! (whisper) : I think he's a heavy drinker

Short Canon G7 Review

This is a nifty camera for those people not wanting to shell out for an SLR. Features of note include manual controls allowing you complete control over aperture/shutter speeds and a maximum aperture range of f2.8 - 4.8. The design of the camera harks back to the Leica, with precision engineered dials that feel robust. ISO can be selected quickly and the camera layout allows quick and hassle free changes to all major settings.

This is a great camera for those starting out and wanting to learn the essentials of photography. It can also fit in one's pocket and doesn't draw much attention to itself. I've taken this baby to Cuba with no problems. It's not as responsive as my Canon 5D - shutter lag, slow focusing. But it's a matter of adapting to it and knowing it's limitations - and then you can make the most of it's abilities. Definitely comes recommended.

Buzzing with intelligence?

Ever since my undergraduate days at Imperial conducting experiments on the fruitfly Drosophila melanogaster, we were taught that insects (and indeed most biological organisms) are nothing but biological automatia; robots incapable of freewill; albeit very sophisticated ones. I've always believed that animals simply respond to external stimuli, which their brains then process and send out the necessary response. However, an international study of fruitflies appears to show that they appear to 'make choices' - that they may be capable of exhibiting a primitive form of freewill; a precursor to the advanced freewill we humans enjoy. Contrary to what most people believe, we humans don't have 100% free will either. We too, like our cousins in the animal kingdom respond automatically to stimuli without conscious thought. Don't believe me? Next time you see a gorgeous girl and your heart skips a beat, when you see a little child and you start going all goo-goo-gaga, the process of falling in love...well now you know. Freewill? How much do we really have? Are we not the product of our past and genetics. Creatures of habit. Break free from the determinism that binds us i say; that clogs us; that siphons off our childish wonder for life and the world. Live for now. Live for today. Because when tomorrow comes, it may well be too late...

One world, One life, One need...in the night (Cuba)

Foto-grafs taken with a Canon G7 (point and shoot)

Aperture priority, ISO 1600, widescreen mode