Turkey on the plate.
It used to be my best mate.
That’s until I ate.

Well, that was it. Church (no fit chicks), turkey (dry and tasteless), TV (boring) and so another end to Christmas.

—

Wow, it was amazing! Great gifts, fun family, fantastic food!

—

But now it is Boxing Day. London will awake from its slumber today and get back down to business. Whatever that is. Or wherever they may go.

It is weird to see Europe’s biggest city devoid of life. Suddenly it is possible to traverse the city in an hour! There are few shops open and in fact, you can get a glimpse of what the city would look like if the stone age hit and a lot of people died off.

—

To be honest, it was great to catch up on some funky tv. Yes, all five hours of it! Well, it is nice to switch off for a while…

—

A but of an event though. Family, friction and frolics.

I frolic too much, don’t I.

—

Honestly, I hope you all had a very Merry Christmas and let’s look forward to 2010!

(Considering it is Christmas, this is a controversial story to write, but this one has been playing on my mind for a while… remember, this is (mostly) a work of fiction, so don’t get offended – CMD)

‘There has to be something more to this, you know, something after this life when we all…’

I looked up from my packet of chips but he couldn’t finish the sentence he had started. It was an accident, no one blamed him for it. But still, months after it happened his hands shook a little bit too much. His gaze couldn’t hold your own for very long. It was as if he was still reaching out, searching for a reason, fathoming a concept far beyond his own existence.

To be honest, I don’t know how I would have coped with it. As I said, it was an accident, no one blamed him for what had happened. But that does not make it any easier. A sharp sound, a yell from across the road, anything could be a trigger for the memories of that night. The mind is an exceptional tool, us humans have evolved it over millennia. And it can deal with all the traumas of life throws at you. But how does the mind deal with death? The reality of this final destination that we will all reach, maybe tomorrow, maybe many moons in the future. And how does the mind deal with death, when you were its very agent?

‘You know, there has to be a purpose…’

I swallowed the chip. Despite its heat, I didn’t feel it slide down to my stomach. Instead I had to think fast, on my feet. Now what could I say. I didn’t just sympathise with him, he was my friend, we had known each other for years, been through way too much. But I also had to be careful, at this point not to speak entirely what’s on my mind. Something that had got me into a lot of trouble beforehand.

‘Well,’ I started.

He looked up at me. His eyes were filled with a glimmer of hope, but holding back something much more forceful. A torrent of emotion was there, but his mind was struggling to apply some logic to that horrific night.

Come on, I did not believe in jack. Look, in life, you make your own choices. And whatever happens, happens. God does not put his hand down, touch you on the shoulder and ‘whoosh’! Life is life. And then we die. We all die. It is a universal law, just like gravity, or the sun rising in the east. Life and existence continues. One day humans will evolve into something else, and all the hopes and dreams that posess today will be fossilised as coal.

God exists, God does not exist, I can’t prove that and nor do I care! I have bills to pay, I got mouths to feed and I got to turn on the heat. No God has ever put cash in my pocket. My own mind, my own wits have got me to where I am and to be honest that is not very far. After all, it is a Friday night, all I have is bag of chips and a friend looking for answers. Philosophy behind a set of dustbins, and not much else to keep out the cold air.

‘You know, there might be something, for us after this life. There may be an afterlife and some divine reason behind all of this. Then again, there may not be. And everything on Earth, that we experience is a result of human action. There is no guiding hand. Or maybe it is a little of both. I don’t know, the Ancient Greeks and beyond were coming up with the same questions. I guess since man first looked up at the starts, we have all asked the same thing!’

He chuckled.

‘Yeah, I suppose so. We’re trying to answer in a night what no one else has figured out so far!’

He grabbed a handful of chips, and shoveled them into his mouth, his hands still shaking that little bit too much. I had eased the pain for now, and whatever was inside him had subsided. But no matter what, until his dying day, he would always have that horror in his mind. No matter how many times we all told him that it was not his fault, he would still lie awake at night and think, ‘what if?’

He chewed on the hot chips, rapidly gasping as he tried to cool his tongue. It was a chilly night, and the vapours from our lungs filled the air. I looked at him, but he did not seem to notice. Whatever was going on through his mind, I hopefully would never know. But in this life, you are always one step away from death itself…

Bah Humbug.

I am not Christmassy at all.

I have no kids, no future or any prospects, such has been my 2009.

So bah humbug to the debt driven, sour tasting whole event. At least Scrooge had cash, I have very little to celebrate and all I can say to the rest of the festive world is bugger off.

Yes, I may be a Catholic, but I am cheesed off this year, and no amount of carol singing (my charity begins at home – to my broke bank balance), tacky decorations (and the subsequent electricity bill) or lousy presents (I do have an income, I buy what I want, when I want) will make me crack open a smile. There will be the forced smiles on Christmas Day, having to phone family and wish everyone a Merry Christmas. Then the usual food, arguments an make ups. People will nap in the afternoon and I will start my tax form. Bah bloody humbug to the lot. The whole event sickens me.

It has, as I have already mentioned, been a lousy year. Maybe in the future I will look back on 2009 with great fondness, but I doubt it. I am glad to stick up two fingers to this whole year and leave it well behind. No amount of joyous celebrations, nor amount of forced dancing is going to make me change my mind.

So Merry bloody Christmas.

Happy frigging New Year.

I am not in a good mood, hell, I am in a foul mood. And I am not optimistic about the future. For myself that is, not the fate of humanity. Such is the structure of the human mind, what is in your own back yard is far more important than the wider world. And so, while I have my health, and I am not in debt, there is really nothing else to celebrate.

Grrr…

‘Money talks.’

Some people do not bother visiting their relatives at Christmas, nor do they buy a stack of presents to post back home. That does not mean that they do not love their family, far from it. But, for them, love is not expressed by showing up and eating nor is it shown by a stack of gifts arriving in the post. Instead, it is shown by money being wired home.

Now there are a variety of ways to send remittences. Through a bank or for those that do not want their cash to be traced, through the many companies set up to send and receive cash over thousands of miles (for an extortionate fee). Billions are sent around the world at this time. Mainly by men. That is not to say that women do not send money back home, they do. But they also do the other things, like visit and send presents. Men just send cash. It is easier than shifting luggage around or waiting at the post office. And they also know exactly what the relatives back home love. Cash.

So back to the quote at the beginning of this post. ‘Money talks’

This year, I have ququed up at the post office and sent money back to the family. Unfortunately, I have not jetted off somewhere exotic, but there is always next year…

‘There are a lot of queues at the post office.’

Some of us can’t go back home in person. We can’t get time off work, we believe that we have important existences here in London, we have no cash to spend once we head off this wintry isle. And as we cannot join our loved ones, we head to the post office, to deliver the ma piece of our love. Usually the gifts aren’t that expensive. After all, with China producing everything we need for a song, and availability being worldwide, our gifts have to have more imagination than just this lousy t-shirt.

And so back to the quote at the top of this post. ‘There are a lot of queues at the post office.’ And it mainly women who are queuing at the post office. Sure there is the odd guy, scratching his head, but the vast majority of punters are women, with gifts galore, a stack of cards and a lot of patience while the queue inches forward endlessly. I also feel sorry for the guys behind the counter as well as the thankless tasks of the postie. But I wonder what’s in those presents being posted far and wide. Cakes, jumpers, liquor?

Oh well, curiosity will have to be satisfied by imagination for now…

‘There are a lot of suitcases about in London town.’

Now, let me clarify that statement. It is Christmas. And despite the best wishes of many, it is a time that people want to spend with their families. Some jet off home to loved ones, other take a tube from North London swank pad to South London suburban family home. Whatever. But now is the time that people head off home. It started this weekend, waiting in the cold, shivering away, annoyed that they had forgot to pack their gloves, waiting for a nightbus to take them to Heathrow (for the long distance jaunts), Victoria Coach Station (for those prepared to slog it by coach across Britain and Europe) or up to Liverpool Street (and onto lo-cost Stanstead). Some of these guys are light packers, others are lugging very heavy weights. The bulk of them are women as well. Interesting that.

Does that mean that women are more homebound than men? Probably not, but they are more likely to put up with the vagrancies of late night public transport in the city.

So let me get back to that first statement, ‘there are a lot of suitcases about in London town’.

And I wonder what is in them. After all, few will be leaving London for good, but they seem so…alluring. I have an inquisitive nature at heart and I would love to know what are the essential things for two weeks (without the graphic details), just a hint of intimacy at what women pack for two weeks to spend with mama, papa and the rest of the family back home. After all, it could have been many months since their last visit, so what is in the suitcase. Gifts for all, lots of underwear, a good book, liquor?

Oh well, curiosity will have to be satisfied by imagination for now…

Police chases. The stuff of every good movie. Or reality…I have witnessed two police chases in my life. Surprising as I live in London. The first was in Streatham four years ago, and the second was last night in Worcester Park. In true South London style, the pursued was hopelessly outclassed by the police car in pursuit. You got to remember that our taxes are paying for flashy BMW’s and Volvos. And they are chipped.

Why bother running? Are you high? Been playing too much Grand Theft Auto? Thinking of Hazzard County? Anyway, the reality is that (I assume) 99% of police chases end up with the police catching the run-aways (usually because they crash their car). 1% of the time, you can beat the police, but they have the number plate recorded anyway, so unless the vehicle is stolen, they know where you live…

What was really funny was that last night, it was a mini cooper doing the escaping. You normally associate the new mini with effeminate estate agents or something else along those lines. Not a couple of boys high on crack and with guns in the back seat. Ha, the comedy of watching the chase!

Well, Copenhagen turned out to be exactly what was expected from it. A complete waste of time. Don’t believe the hype and realise that like Kyoto, the only people who won were the airline companies ferrying the delegates to and from the conference (in the greenhouse gas emitting aeroplanes).

So, what next? Well, if you’re in Bangladesh, the Maldives or the Pacific Islands, you have to realise that you’re just not that important. We in the West will continue to drive our cars to the newsagents. We’re just too lazy to walk. So, you guys will sink.

To those guys living in SubSaharan Africa, already an area filled with incompetence, don’t worry. Added to the chiefs who hold sway over your lives with AK-47’s, China will keep burning coal to keep its economy running. So you get the twin prods of mineral extraction and unreliable rainfall. If climate models are anything to go with, then this area is going to get really shafted. Unless you are the one holding the gun?

And what about us guys, here in the ‘developed world’? Well, everything will continue as normal. Denial, sorry, ‘more scientific proof’ will reign supreme, and life will seem pretty comfortable. After all, the Earth is fat and any rise in sea level will fall over the sides! All that education, and we’re no better than savages!

The driver pulled up to the bus stop and opened the door. There were two people at the bus stop, an old man with a walking stick and a young woman in a tracksuit. The driver knelt the bus down and the old man hobbled on, snapping his Oyster card onto the reader. The woman came on. She held her hands together. It was clear that she had been crying, her badly applied make-up now more obvious.

‘Er, can you let me on. My boyfriend’s just kicked me and I’ve left my pass…’

The bus driver gestured to her to get on board as he shut the doors and pulled off. It was not the first time that this woman had come onto the bus and claimed she was getting beaten up by her boyfriend. But it was 3am in the morning, and the secret to the Night Bus was to let everyone travel for free. After all, at this time, who really cares about a bus pass?

As he drove through the empty housing estate, the snow began to fell. He checked the temperature on the dashboard, and it stated it was 2C. That meant that the snow would not settle and instead leave behind a slush that would eventually turn to surface water. Good the driver thought, he didn’t feel like having a difficult night behind the wheel.

The driver looked in his offside mirror and saw a pair of headlights riding close to his bumper. He pulled into the next bus stop and whizzing past him went the taxi cab. In his mind, it was better to let them go. They were in rush, while he had an easy timetable to stick to. There was never a rush at this time of the night. All the revelers that had decided to brave London’s cold streets had long gone home and it would be another hour before the first workers of the day would be seen shivering at the bus stops. But at this time of the morning, it was only the strange that decided to ride on the Night Bus. Those that had no home to go to, those that could not sleep, those that had too much to drink and could not wake up.

He reached the traffic light at the end of the estate. He waited at the red light, ready to turn back onto the main road. A van passed by, rushing to somewhere that was only important to him. The driver overheard the conversation of that young woman with the old man. She was telling him how her boyfriend had assaulted her. Again. But by the end of the night, she would return to him. She always did. And the next time the driver was rostered to drive this particular route, odds on that she would be back on the bus, with tears running down her cheeks again.