Scott Norton Taylor

Famously Lost - My new book on Smashwords

2021-03-15T16:55:00.001-07:00

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Famously Lost - My new book on Amazon.

2021-03-15T16:49:00.004-07:00

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It's a Sin - Television Series Review

2021-02-26T21:40:00.000-08:00

It’s a Sin is a television master class from Russell T Davies.

Telling the story of a group of five friends who decide to share a flat in London in the early ’80s, and tracking their path as HIV and AIDS ravage their social group, we get to see the joy and exuberance of youth, with all their potential reaching out ahead of them, only to then see those lives crash into the horror of a pandemic that spares no one it touches.

Given a new perspective with the COVID-19 pandemic, it is hard not to empathise with these young lives as half are dashed and lost to the pandemic, leaving the survivors racked with guilt and pain about moving on without their friends.

There are so many pitfalls that could have tempted Davies to run off course, as his narrative is fraught with all the negatives that ran alongside the HIV/AIDS pandemic that would still risk alienating mainstream viewers. These negatives are born out of homophobia and ignorance, and general disdain from the mainstream public to people who are different.

It's a Sin bubbles with joy and the celebration of life. It touches on almost every relevant aspect during those tumultuous times, but Davies shows his immeasurable talent to avoid getting on a soapbox and preaching. He allows these aspects to run alongside the story without ever intruding on his narrative.

Beautifully cast with Olly Alexander as Richie Tozer, the character, who along with Jill played by, Lydia West, forms the heart of the group who all come together to live in the pink palace. This London apartment houses an eclectic group of five: Ritchie, Jill, Ash (Nathaniel Curtis), Roscoe (Omari Douglas) and Colin (Callum Scott Howells).

Colin’s story delivers one of the emotional high points of the show. His innocence, shy and slightly naïve character, with only one sexual partner behind him and designs on a very humble life, is one of the first to succumb to a disease that didn’t discriminate based on sexual promiscuity.

It is hard not to break down in tears when he delivers some of the most emotional lines of the entire series, as he tries to make sense of what is happening to him. It is Davies way of saying this disease was unfair, that it didn’t seek out those who were sexually promiscuous, that it could touch everyone no matter what their situation or sexual history. Davies also deftly makes the point that sexual exploration and enjoyment is a natural part of young lives and shouldn’t be stigmatised or avoided, despite what the ‘just say no’ and ‘stay celibate’ brigade tend to promote.

There are dozens of moments where Davies manages to get these sorts of messages across in anything but a heavy-handed way, and never with any other effect than to strengthen his visual storytelling. He briefly highlights issues that could themselves be a central story narrative for a movie or miniseries, and often the impact of these moments are immense while their screen time is fleeting. The mother of a young boy who we only see a glimpse of early in the series, comes angrily into the hospital to confront those in charge of the HIV ward to find out how and why they would think her rugged, manly son could be mixed in with those struck down by this gay disease? There is no other comment made by Davies than to allow this moment to resonate and make its point clearly without it ever being laboured. This entire story of a devasted mother and her son's unwilling outing is visually told and ended in a twenty-second sequence that smacks you right between your eyes.

He does the same with the terror and confusion in the early years of the disease, regarding the information available on how the disease is caught and transmitted. Showering and scrubbing the skin after Jill tends for the first of her immediate friends to fall ill, and that friend’s desperation to keep his news secret from his other friends. Clothes are burnt, and possessions thrown into bonfires rather than touched by those who love the victims struck down by the disease.

At one point, with Jill caring for Greg, an older member of their group and played perfectly by David Carlyle, she’s surprised when her friends show up with him at their apartment, and Greg announces he’s feeling better. Jill watches him drink from one of the apartments coffee mugs. We then see Jill scrub the mug twice; then, she decides to put the mug at the very back of the cup cupboard. As she tries to sleep, the paranoia over that cup keeps her awake, and she gets up to throw it in the bin rather than let any of her friends drink from it. Still unable to sleep, she gets up a second time, takes that cup from the bin and smashes it into pieces. It’s a beautiful visual representation of just how paranoid and terrified everyone was about the disease in those early years when the uncertainty and confusion reigned around how it was caught.

There’s a great deal made in the press about the use of gay actors to play gay roles. I find this counter-productive but until openly gay actors start getting cast in straight roles on the strength of their ability and not overlooked because of their sexuality and a belief an audience won’t accept them in a straight role, I’m willing to overlook them this redress.

Amari Douglas has the most fun camping it up, but it’s in the scenes with his African family, with traditional customs and superstitions that he comes into his own. It’s an extraordinary storyline that sees his father go from a homophobic evangelist to a man who recognises his son’s safety and happiness must be his primary concern. It’s a story of a second-generation immigrant and only enriches the front and centre drama, as Roscoe moves into the Pink Palace.

Equally noteworthy are Stephen Fry and Neil Patrick Harris, Fry as the politician with his ‘boy’, and a fantastic lunch scene with several other conservative politicians, all with their boys silent but sneering at each other across a lunch table at a cloistered club.

Harris warms up in his role as a stuffy English retail assistant in a Saville Row bespoke tailoring shop. His initial appearance comes across more a caricature of the older style English gentleman than a three-dimensional character addicted to manners and protocol. As he lets down his guard and mentors young Colin into gay life in London, we understand his mask is one he’s worn for a lifetime while living his real-life behind closed doors and safe-space venues with his partner of thirty years. When the first wave of the disease hits this couple’s closeted lives, we get yet another immense moment hidden by its brevity. The long-time companions are separated to die apart as families with more rights to their relative than a legally unrecognised partnership of thirty years, move to care for their loved one. These two men in their fifties die alone, separated, with neither understanding what has befallen them, mistakenly blaming domestic decisions with detergents or mold, and marvelling at the tragedy of both being hit with terminal diseases that seem random and unrelated. This story of separation due to a lack of legal standing has played out untold times across the ages of gay history, although it became particularly cruel during the AIDS pandemic.

Activists are trying to warn young gay revellers who dismiss their warnings of a gay disease as ludicrous and some sort of grand conspiratorial rumour started by the gay-hating conservative elements. As news of disease, largely cancer or other serious illness, seeks out and targets gay men, Ritchie Tozer loudly decries, “I don’t believe it because I’m not stupid.” It did sound stupid in those early years, these random, terminal illnesses befalling mostly gay men. Rumours swirled about poppers (Amyl Nitrate), being a cause, about a link to gay saunas, you could catch it off surfaces, it was born in a lab to target the gay population and on and on it went in an eerily similar rumour file to today’s pandemic.

The bravest member of the cast is possibly Nathaniel Hall, who has done much to dispel the stigma of those living with HIV through his one-man show, “First Time”. His show details how he caught HIV from his first sexual experience at sixteen and will hopefully be streaming sometime soon.

Cast as Ritchie’s boyfriend, Donald Bassett, one of the many young men who silently disappeared to their parents, never to be seen again, his inclusion in the cast is more than a nice touch; it’s an important statement. HIV is now managed by 29 million people worldwide, and almost fifty per cent of these are heterosexual. Most manage their condition so well they have an undetectable viral load with no chance of transmission. Hall holds his own alongside the extraordinarily multi-talented Olly Alexander.

There is so much to love and to cry about in watching It’s a Sin. Every cast and crew member can be rightly proud for playing their part in bringing such a series to life. It is a story that needs telling. Russel T Davies has taken forty years to gain enough composure to make sense of his experiences and find a story that entertains above all else. He has managed to include all aspects of a horrific world event that didn’t spare any demographic but tended to concentrate on some more than others.

Be brave enough to watch, but don’t do it lightly. You will need time to think and gather yourself for this one, possibly with a pause or two between episodes. You cannot help but be deeply affected, but if, like myself, you were alive and out during those times, you may be affected more than others. It’s a Sin is so well rendered; I found scenes I lived and words I heard spoken that I put to rest many years ago, only for them to jump out and grab me like I was reliving those moments again.

It’s a Sin is the best of premier television and will likely be a favourite tear-jerker to be streamed and discovered for years to come.

5 pink stars for this one.

Russel T Davies gives a fantastic interview in the Guardian about his experiences during the eighties and nineties, coming out and living beside HIV/AIDS.

There is so much in this interview that I recognise in my own story. It makes sense that I would relate so strongly to It’s a Sin. I'm aware this relationship to the material may have made the series feel more impactful to me than it will prove for others.

The Alternative Facts that Led to Insurrection

2021-02-02T16:29:00.002-08:00

Most of us know someone who occasionally slips in a talking point from Rupert Murdoch’s editorial pages. It’s not fair to cast them immediately into Hillary Clinton’s “basket of deplorables.” We’re all to blame for those opinions being pushed and so often believed; every one of us who has ever tolerated alternative facts shares in the guilt and responsibility for their current gross manipulations.

Today we have big oil shouting their concerns for the environment and the world's sustainable future. We have banks desperate for us to know how much they want to help us make the most of our money. We are ruled by the promise of trickle-down economics, now thirty years old and yet to start trickling. We have overtly sexualised underage models promoting everything except the age of consent. We have public utilities privatised and ruled by investors, and we have allowed science to take a back seat and be overlooked unless its outcome makes a profit.

Capitalism is the most efficient model for harnessing human greed and ingenuity. The downside is that it rewards the carnival barker and their exaggerations and half-truths. P.T Barnum is immortalised for his ability to double talk his way into profit, and his success reveals complicity in allowing all those variations of the truth to go unchallenged.

At first, it was treated as a joke. How cheeky we said when the Superbowl seat we paid for arrived in the mail – a small two-inch seat with the words Superbowl printed on the backrest.

Then we never asked for the Ponds Institute’s address or questioned why tobacco being toasted seemed more significant than smoking causing cancer. When the fossil fuel industry set our planet on fire for profit, and the Ponzi scheme of economic growth required a global economy to keep the wealth growing, we just nodded and accepted the situation, pacified by larger televisions and technological wizardry. We no longer pause to think about containers with false bottoms or packaging of mostly air. We overlook discounts that drop the price while reducing quality or size. We’re so used to looking the other way that there was no mechanism in place to stop America’s election being declared invalid for two whole months. Everyone who could have done something was looking the other way out of habit.

Russia, China, Poland, Brazil, the Philippines and others have created pseudo-democratic states that have long lost the battle to alternative facts. Their governments declare everything being done is for their people. They care so much they are willing to kill those people to ensure their beneficial system remains in place.

We have allowed our truth to be skewed incrementally over many generations. A considerable percentage of our populations believe nothing can be done to redress the inequality of wealth and power; that the system is both too big and too broken to change.

Simultaneously, the patriarchal, white, wealthy, Christian, cis-gendered, abled, skinny privileged members of society are screaming they are being attacked. They’re not. They’re just being asked to share – to enjoy the same benefits as others. Suggest women should have equal rights, and those who currently hold power will shout about being attacked and victimised. Suggest systemic racism, and they defend, deflect and undermine. To someone standing at the top of the pile, being asked to be equal feels like an attack.

Suddenly the truth is being massaged to sell a product or hide an inconvenient truth to maintain the current system’s foundations. We didn’t arrive here overnight. It took decades and began with the smallest and seemingly most trivial incursions on the truth; “It’s advertising. We expect them to stretch the truth.” “They’re politicians; they’re not expected to keep their promises.” We allowed ourselves to end up here by allowing the truth to be continually tested and pushed further away from fact.

We have all fallen victim to the seemingly inconsequential effect of micro-aggressions against facts.

Microaggressions are trivial misdemeanours against anything. They can exist in all forms: speech, action, attitudes, stories, emotions, bureaucracy, etc. Complaining about any single issue comes across as trivial and paints those complaining as being overly sensitive or out of touch with the real world – a snowflake. When there are tens of thousands of these subtle, nuanced, inbuilt negative comments, actions or attitudes, adopted and accepted by a community as acceptable, whatever target of these negative micro-aggressions loses standing. This can certainly happen to a minority: women, people of colour, LGBTQI+, those with disabilities, the overweight, elderly and on and on. It has also happened to the truth and a lack of factual information being reported when that information paints the rich and powerful negatively.

Micro-aggressions against the truth come in many forms.

‘What-about-ism’ is used by those being called out to highlight any hypocrisy by those arguing against them. “He says he wants tighter gun controls, but he has a gun licence.” The two issues have no direct correlation, but pointing out the person wanting to limit access to firearms also owns a gun sets up a false narrative that their argument is disingenuous.

Appealing to the extremes is also popular in replacing facts. “If we allow gay marriage, we’ll end up with people marrying animals.” This plays to the fear of an issue being a gateway for far worse things.

A straw-man argument is where an entirely new proposition is raised, and an alternative proposition is refuted rather than the original. “We should promote riding bicycles in cities to reduce emissions and slow global warming.” “When you give cyclists priority on city streets they run red lights and endanger pedestrians.” The straw-man argument often has merit and needs to be addressed, and a good straw-man argument will seem to be related, but both issues existing don’t cancel each other out.

False equivalency is an argument that draws two things together because of shared characteristics. “Why are you suddenly so alarmed by Donald Trump telling thirty thousand lies when Hillary Clinton has at least that many missing emails?” Once again, two issues don’t need to be mutually exclusive and can each be addressed. The advice given to four-year-olds of two wrongs not making a right never grows old.

Arguing from false ignorance is also used incredibly effectively by those with large platforms who intend to manipulate, incite, and fear-monger to gain and maintain an audience rather than have a genuine debate on an issue. This is how most shock jocks work. “How do our energy prices keep going up? Every year we pay more. Is this a result of the ‘do-gooders’ radicalising and demonising fossil fuels? It may well be.”

There is no argument here. It’s a series of statements designed to guide thought without ever citing factual information. Fox News uses this question led journalism all the time as their question mark chyron guides viewers from behind the network’s cloak of false ignorance – “Hillary Clinton – Guilty?” “Climate Change – A hoax to harm fossil fuel production?” Could be, we don’t know, we’re only raising the question.

Fox News has quietly transitioned out of their slogan, “Fair and Balanced,” to “The Most Watched, The Most Trusted,” and now, “Standing up for what’s right.” They’ve also transitioned their news to run early with prime-time now ‘Opinion’ although the personalities presenting opinion seem, in every way to be traditional news presenters.

This is how so many people have been courted and seduced into a world of the grand conspiracy theory.

It’s easy to dismiss the believers of alien lasers, JFK Jnr coming to save us, of a paedophile Kabul of lefties operating out of a pizza shop or any derivation of the more traditional conspiracies that involve minorities, religions, immigrants and foreigners organising coordinated attacks against a lifestyle that is felt to be disappearing. That lifestyle never actually existed, except in the romanticised memories of youth that seem simpler, more comfortable and happier.

It’s much harder to dismiss those we respect and love who only occasionally throw out a ‘Fox-bomb’ of misinformation into a family gathering, bringing a conversation to a dead-halt. It is hard to be the dissenting voice and draw the ire of ruining the family gathering. It is hard to raise an opposing opinion to those who are often more experienced and sometimes better educated. It is arrogant to assume your opinion is more valid than theirs and a cardinal sin to lump all opinions that differ to yours into a ‘basket of deplorables’ or any other condescending phrase.

We have travelled a long road to get to where we are today, and it is not all Donald Trump's doing, or Fox News, or big oil, or big pharma, or any of the other major ‘players’ that have taken advantage of political and social winds to build a market. We are all complicit. Every slide in ethics and quality, every excuse to forgo service and value, every unchallenged assumption or opinion in the face of facts that we’ve allowed to go unchecked has brought us to this place.

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with someone wholeheartedly buying into the politics of the left, even though I have seen with my own eyes a generation of people raised under socialism and accustomed to a living wage, bereft of motivation and drive to better their lives.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with someone wholeheartedly buying into the politics of the right, even though many free-market policies tend to help those already making ends meet while reducing the standard of living for those who are not.

Perhaps you fall somewhere in the middle, taking a few of the better policies from both sides to satisfy the capitalist and socialist at war within. Both sides have advantages and bring benefit to many – but not all.

I’m not sure it’s possible to satisfy everyone. This is why governing a large, modern population is so complicated and often is reduced to the politics of compromise. The human race survives off personal greed and diversity. These strengths make universal policy if not impossible, then highly improbable.

I think it’s wrong to argue against any idea or cause because of partisan politics. I think it’s wrong to disallow an opinion on any grounds without clear thought and a thorough investigation into merit and weakness. It’s inexcusable to go forward with any idea, big or small, without exploring, studying and considering the facts. Truth matters. Things that can be proven should be accepted in the face of that proof. Arguments based on expert analysis deserve to be considered. People’s measures and tactics to argue a cause need to be understood, identified, exposed, and disclosed. Opinions and news need to be labelled and separated. We need to be reminded and educated to think for ourselves. Everyone needs to be encouraged to form their own opinion and reminded of how to find and use facts to inform those opinions.

Don’t tell Pop he’s racist. That’s rude and shows a lack of diplomacy and respect. Give Granddad the facts without spin or argumentative trickery; just the facts. If he still thinks we should only allow immigration until the point where we have all ‘their’ recipes, then let him know you disagree and diplomatically let him know his ideas aren't welcome because he's ignoring quantifiable facts.

People are allowed to have different opinions, but make sure they also have the facts; unbiased, unspun, un-manipulated facts – because facts matter, science matters, experts matter. Opinions without the facts included belong on the other side of the shop with the rest of the fiction.

Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow.

2020-10-27T20:43:00.000-07:00

Now is a shadow.
A tightrope suspended over darkness.
Perhaps you stand six inches above a cushioned floor,
Perhaps you waiver up beyond the clouds,
With harsh and jagged rocks waiting down below.
The risk is why your past seems so inviting,
Beckoning you home with a sure and warm embrace,
Where waits a list you know so well.

Tomorrow is a lion poised to strike.
A surging wave crashing on the shore.
A race that’s still to run.
The triumph or tragedy is still yours to claim,
Your fate lies unresolved ahead.

Home is yesterday,
Settled and owned.
The present waits at your front door,
Tomorrow is every possibility beyond.

Will you stay home and ask what could have been?
Will you hide away, assured and safe?

No hurt or failure lurks on such familiar ground,
All thoughts distracted by a stream of shows you’ve seen before.
Or could you be so brave to head out and meet that storm?

Searching out to breach the unknown day?

Regrets attack whatever you decide.

Though failures pale behind the choices never made.

Which Way Do You Swing? - Politics

2020-09-26T18:25:00.002-07:00

Most conservative policies seem to help big business and entrepreneurs by extending tax breaks, incentives and reducing red-tape. These policies assist those already managing. Sometimes by a little, sometimes a lot. It is the politics and policies of capitalism that fuel the age of the billionaires, and the promise that everyone can achieve those heights.

These same policies tend to leave those not managing untouched, or, on occasion, worse off, usually in real terms across time, making it harder to quantify any direct disadvantage from an individual policy.

These are policies promoted as celebrating success and allowing the 'job-makers' to take advantage of the system, up to and including, rorting that system. Success and financial power seem to make all these indiscretions tolerable.

The left finds these greedy, grifting, profiteering examples intolerable and they shout about them as if these are the only examples that exist. They are not. These policies help and support some truly deserving business models, across the economic spectrum, to survive and thrive.

The progressive left puts forward policies that reduce the ability of the successful to make higher profits and placing more restrictions and oversight on businesses. This makes the difficult early years of small business and small sole traders even more precarious. The left also seeks a basic minimum standard of living for all, universal health care, they look to environmental issues at the expense of corporate profits and ensure those on the lowest rungs of society can maintain an equitable standard of living.

These policies are designed to raise the greatest number possible out of poverty and ensure that working full time is rewarded with a liveable wage that covers life's basics and provides for a family. This also allows some to choose not to work and live solely off welfare.

The right finds these greedy, grifting, freeloading examples intolerable and they shout about them as if these are the only examples that exist. They are not. These policies help and support some truly deserving individuals being let down by a system purported to be looking out for everyone.

I've always felt things work best when liberals and conservatives exchange power at around a 2 to 3 ratio. The right builds up the wealth with a strong economy and the left reforms social policies to help those who slip through the net of the conservative economic lift.

The ratio has slipped across the world because the right has outplayed the left at politics. This has happened because the left regard morality in politics as a badge of honour, and the right has long ago recognised that badges are worthless.

Once morals counted for something in life and in politics, but then came the age of spin where both side's spokespeople focused only on the faults of the other side, and never with themselves. Where no mistake is owned or corrected and doing the right thing, a standard that was once the default, or at least the desired position, is now the exception.

How did we get here?

It began when those charged with holding leaders responsible, the fourth estate, the news journalists, became confused with being personalities and entertainers.

When equal representation of both points of view became more important than facts as determined and checked by multiple sources by professionally trained, skilled and schooled journalists whose reputations depended on their accuracy, facts became irrelevant.

When the politically correct ideal of regarding every view as relevant and worth scrutiny on official news broadcasts became a benchmark, this worthy notion was exploited by those looking to hide issues, spin alternative facts and obfuscate truths. You can shoot a man on Fifth Avenue and get away with it provided you do something provocative enough to misdirect people from your crime. Throw in some 'what-about-ism', cloud the facts with suggestions the victim had a gun or a record, and alert the press that many other people shot people on the same day, and your crime will hardly rate a mention.

When the opinion/editorial/op-ed piece began to be presented alongside news with little or no delineation, news reporting stopped being news and became political propaganda. The ultimate extension of this is the dedicated partisan network that says whatever is needed by the government to convince people it's news. It is believed for no other reason than it looks like a news channel.

The multiplatform social media landscape has allowed every opinion to be a truth as the presenter presents it. All too often the term 'do your own research', a term intended to mitigate legal issues over commentary of stocks and investments has permeated into every opinion put forward as a phrase to legitimise that opinion by alerting you to the existence of any number of 'opinions' online that back up the opinion being put forward. 'Do your own research' now means, go and read equally dubious opinion pieces posted online by others who share my views.

If you see spokes-people introduced from two sides of politics or from two sides of a contentious issue, what is the point of staying to watch? Professional press agents now spruik their well-rehearsed talking points without ever listening to the other side, and those talking points are always extreme examples. For their team, they put forward positive outliers, for the other side, the negative outliers, and each example gets promoted as examples of the norm - which they are definitely not.

Politics has stopped being an avenue of service to do the greater good and is now an avenue to get what lobbyists want and stop the will of the people from participating. Journalists began this slide into the darkness of opinions based on wants instead of facts, and the internet has sped it up and made us all contribute to the demise of facts.

How many false stories have been reposted on scientific, medical, political and even current events?

What happened to common sense and genuinely doing your own research? Question opinions by seeking out multiple sources of facts as published by respected and accredited institutions and experts with current accredited standing. I want to hear other people's opinions, but I want to know they've taken some time and given some effort towards forming them. Reading a headline and reposting something without scrutiny becomes a waste of everyone's time, or worse, another nail in the coffin of our entire democratic system.

Hasan Minhaj in his address at the correspondent's dinner said: "I don't have a solution of how to win back trust, but I know in the age of Trump, you guys (the media) have to be more perfect than ever because you are how the President gets his news - not from advisors, not from experts, not from intelligent agencies - you guys. So that's why you've got to be twice as good, you've got to be on your A-game, you can't make any mistakes, because when one of you messes up - he blames your entire group; and now you know what it feels like to be a minority."

In the dawning age of conspiracy, where friends and family regularly state alternative facts as truth, and when challenged, remain defiant and tell you to do your own research, clear thinking, factual journalism and finding alternative sources to double-check alternative facts seems to have become the individual's job. The news media has become entertainment. Politicians have become infallible. Special interest groups have become public relations spokes-people, and facts have become subjective, to be massaged, manipulated, and misrepresented as the truth.

George Orwell saw this future in a misdirected democracy that delivered authoritarianism. His chilling dystopian tale is starting to feel all too real - the only thing George got wrong was the date.

“War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Ignorance is strength.”

“The best books... are those that tell you what you know already.”

“Doublethink means the power of holding two contradictory beliefs in one's mind simultaneously, and accepting both of them.”

“It's a beautiful thing, the destruction of words.”

"How can I help but see what is in front of my eyes? Two and two are four."

"Sometimes, two and two are five. Sometimes they are three. Sometimes they are all of them at once."

― George Orwell, 1984

The Plague That Dare Not Speak its Name.

2020-09-18T18:19:00.000-07:00

The Plague That Dare Not Speak its Name.

by Scott Norton Taylor.

Four decades of tomorrows past, a fearful breeze blew in a plague, a pandemic, an intimate kiss that outed those it touched through death.

You saw the numbers frail.

You saw the body count as brothers, cousins, sons; of fathers, uncles, friends and foe alike, all coming out in failing health, with diagnosis reluctantly revealed, exposing private lives.

The stereotypes long ridiculed and held as ‘them’, not us, swiftly dropped as every kind; every colour, creed and embodiment of manly type. Teachers, lawyers, doctors, the mechanic and the cook, lined up with athletes, artists and celebrities, not one exception, not one variety unseen. Artists known and yet to make their mark: of fashion and of film, from ballet or with brush, young and old, the powerful and poor, lining up to queue towards an uninviting end.

All were seen for who they were, as whole, their entire lives revealed, chased by shame and reputations stained, as tightly sealed glass panes to lives were finally pried ajar, though friends and family quickly came to claim, their loved one’s inclusion a mistake, that window led to somewhere else afar.

Remember the boy, not yet a man, in gown and metal bed, who, at twenty-one, mistakes his nurse for mother, “I knew you’d come,” he said. But she would never come for shame and pain, and disapproval ruled her world and outshone even son.

To the young man watching friends ahead all leave; his future seen. He closed his door, with scared and lonely click to lock his tragedy away, but it escaped through quality of cuts and blade. Those who came to save a life, the holder never wanted saved, and fought against his screams that left him free to bleed, his work unfinished and undone. Convicted, tried and sent away for smearing, splattering, spraying his poison life on uniforms with lack of empathy for interruption done. Fuelled by media and lynch mob-like obsession – that lonely, desperate man spent his last days wasting in a prison.

At someone’s side, in near confusion, called to dance, marked by transfusion, a girlfriend, a wife or even newborn child, would all be vilified and shunned through ignorance towards such random chance.

The friends, who drifted quietly away, thought of infrequently, their fate and lives imagined, unrolling alongside. The unknown years, sometimes in decades glide, then shocked into reflection, a name in quilted letters found, their final autograph; few words, a date; the sum of one whole life. A flood of mournful thoughts of moments left untold, the nights of love and laughter and particular inflexions, yet, none of this is mentioned in that small, neat epitaph.

Those who flamed so bright within that overwhelming storm, their passing told of numbers unimagined, from every walk of life, from every nation born, and under every type of opaque veil. Their stories remain important, to speak, to remember, to mourn.

The green-eyed boy, with jet black hair, who fell unwell and came to tell at twenty-two of his return to boyhood home, to rest and mend; I never saw again.

My naïveté and nervous kiss of one so bright and full of life who took such care not to spread his despair, but never told of what he held within, for fear he’d never hold or love again.

At twenty-four, the call received from one so briefly known to warn I should atone and seek a clearing sheet; the fear and prayers, and frantic calls to find out what to do. My childhood doctor beaming welcome to see me fully grown who showed me quickly out his door once request for such a test was known.

Of two who rang to say farewell, their antiviral joy no friend, the stigma and fear of drugs too dear, a system geared so lowest-ranked lose their will and quickly disappear. They were supposed to go and never cause a scene, behind the privacy of their closed door, a repeated drama, a million times before – but they refused to fade, and still remain, with help, to live and love again.

Did it really happen, with all those lives now gone?

A life that ends, to relatives and friends, it leaves a monumental cost.

When numbers grow beyond account of names, all humanity is lost.

Today’s same crowd unmarked, as large as that before, sent back to hide by subtle held decree; a duality of roles; of dual lives with wives, captive to declare they’re free.

More easily disguised, as privilege lives bark nuanced calls for all to fall in line with lifestyles based on prayer, sanctified in clever nuanced words that make it clear, their good-will’s not to share.

How did so much recent suffering, revealing so many lives that lived and loved in such a colourful array, not move us forward?

I am so tired of coming out, a thousand times already with no end in sight; on form with pen, at bank with application new, on phones with confusion first, then overly effusive apologetic nurse, administrator, manager or worse.

Those addresses matter; the he/him, she/her, the they/them of lines blurred. I’m glad you don’t get it, that’s easier for you, that your life is not so many times denied or multiplied in explanations new, but please, stop for a moment and consider how it feels to be an ‘other’, a misrepresented disrespected brother or sister, as someone misidentified.

Four decades of tomorrows past that fearful breeze, with its numbers of diversity, the regular and most unlikely, the many broken hearts torn prematurely apart, who showed so clear the numbers from homes and families, and yes, even in your sacred pews as they sought guidance despite your whispered views.

Have any yet heard the voice of faith proclaiming clear, the virtue of those who live and love with nothing to repent? They preach their words beside each fence, for in their eyes; the eyes of those of greatest faith, the fluid, non-conforming crowd are still not innocent.

How did the legacy of a missing rainbow crowd, robbed of choice to hide, have us slide back towards the shame and guilt that makes it brave to show one’s pride?

Why is bravery still needed to wake and go to work, or bravery to be yourself, or just to claim your place of those who did survive?

Today’s fresh deadly plague, a novel kiss at setting sun, has stopped the world, but that other breeze still blows, now hardly ever named.

Does anyone believe that lost fateful generation, numbering in their millions, was some mere aberration from the norm? That this ‘next’ generation or the one ahead again will any less confront convention and embrace the fluid storm?

Do you want your children safe?

Can you not recall that recent chilling page?

Where is the bravery to call a plague a plague?

Where is that last vaccine, or better yet, a cure, brought on at pace?

Where is the research for the chronic medical embrace?

The managed threat ignored and tamed, the silent, hiding voice of leaders meek, bowing to power, without the lack of will or bravery to speak, perchance to dream of those now managed as an endless income stream.

Some have survived, with pointed, heavy nod to every soul that went before and led; equality remains ahead, a distant clear horizon at the tail of one almighty fearful storm.

How I came to understand religion.

2020-08-28T19:25:00.002-07:00

My mother sent me to Sunday school when I was four. She told me it would be fun and I would enjoy myself. She said there would be singing, storytelling and playing games.

It was not fun, and I did not enjoy myself.

The stories they told all had weak endings.

These were not stories for a little boy. I wanted bloodthirsty endings that left me thrilled and chilled. Jack and Jill shattered their skulls before careering down a hill. There was no miracle second act where they came back to life healed – they were dead.

The three blind mice weren’t shown sympathy for their disability; they didn’t have their sight restored by the farmer’s wife. Instead, she doubled down and cut off their tails with a carving knife.

Little Red Riding-hood’s grandmother was ripped apart by a wolf. Then a hunter took revenge and carved up the wolf. There was no counselling to understand the mistakes made. By the age of four, children know what to expect when a wolf arrives.

The only story that had any substance seemed to be Noah and his boat full of pets. Noah built his ark in his backyard. His neighbours teased him. Then the flood came, and Noah stood on his boat’s deck and watched all the people who had teased him drown.

“Who’s laughing now?” I imagined him saying.

The lesson was clear, if someone teases you, meticulously plan, then move to a safe place so you and your family can watch that person’s slow and panicked death in comfort.

After Noah had watched all the screaming and wailing from his floating gated community, he went sailing for forty days and forty nights. He sent out a dove that came back with nothing, and that was pretty much it until the dove came back with an olive branch.

The Sunday-school teacher made a big fuss over that branch. She said it was a sign from God to reward his true believers. I thought I must have misheard or she missed a page or something.

“Excuse me,” I said with my hand high. “God killed all Noah’s friends and neighbours, along with all the other animals in the world, and then sent him a twig?”

“As a sign of his love,” she said.

“Did it at least have an olive on it?”

“It was a sign of dry land.”

It turns out, unlike me, Noah was so impressed by that twig that it distracted him enough that he ran his boat aground. My four-year-old self was entirely unimpressed with this story.

The other stories they told us were about Jesus. I kept waiting for him to face danger and change into a superhero suit, but all he did was wander around in a toga with his friends. He did do magic tricks, but none of them were showstoppers. Feeding people bread and fish wouldn’t go over at a four-year-old’s birthday party. Jesus turned water into wine – hardly an age-appropriate story at that stage of my life.

Walking on the water was cool, but Jesus didn’t seem to do anything with it. He just walked and never put the skill to good use. Then he died and came back to life – but the moment he came back, he left again. Jesus wasted a perfectly good opportunity to haunt people, I thought.

Then the Sunday-School teacher let us sing songs. I liked singing songs when I was four. We sang a lot of them at kindergarten. My favourite was Humpty Dumpty, who fell off a wall to be maimed for life. Good stuff. All the King’s horses and all the King’s men, couldn’t put Humpty together again. That’s a story a four year-old-boy can understand.

The Sunday school songs were about Jesus loving me.

I wanted to sing Humpty Dumpty. Humpty Dumpty made me laugh because he fell down and broke his crown – how funny. At least the story of Humpty had a comical main character; a big fat round man who did crazy stuff like falling down and breaking apart, never to be put back together again. No resurrection for Humpty. Also, there were King’s horses and King’s men which were cooler than the bunch of hangers-on Jesus seemed to cruise around with.

The people in charge of my Sunday school refused to let me sing Humpty Dumpty.

There was only one thing for it, escape in protest. I took off and ran out of the hall where my Sunday school was being held. I climbed up a tree in the front garden of the small suburban church.

Climbing trees was also something I was very good at when I was four. I was so good they couldn’t get me down. They couldn’t even reach me because I was so small that the branch I was able to climb up into was so thin and fragile if they tried to climb to me the branch would have broken, and they’d risk me falling down and breaking my crown. I was also a very patient child. After an hour up the tree, they decided to call my mother, and she had to come to the church hall to coax me down. This was my first day at Sunday school.

My mother tried sending me to Sunday school one more time because she heard they were having a day to welcome new children. She assured me again there would be games and cake, and she was sure this time I would have fun. I did not have fun.

For some reason the Sunday school decided the way to impress young children and ensure they returned on a regular weekly basis to learn about Jesus was to have a clown.

This was a Church of England Sunday school with progressive leaders who played guitars and were always telling everyone to turn around and shake their neighbour’s hand. I’d been refusing to go back to Sunday school for sometime after the whole tree climbing protest over what songs should be sung, but now there was a clown and I loved clowns, they were funny.

At this point in my life I had been entertained by a number of clowns at my friend’s birthday parties, and they told great jokes, made balloon animals and did silly things like farting out powder through their pants. For a four-year-old, this is seminal comedy. Once we even went to see a circus in a big top and we sat there and smelled the animals and saw the five little clowns driving around in what looked like a Smart Car, but smaller. The doors to this car wouldn’t stay closed and the horn made you laugh because it was so weak, so, I guess, exactly like a smart car.

When I arrived for this Sunday school entertainment extravaganza I was disappointed. The clown was a mime. No one had told me this clown would not be talking. On TV and at my friends’ parties, the clowns talked and told jokes. The better party clowns made balloon animals. This Clown’s big-ticket item was playing the guitar while the Sunday school teacher sang more songs about Jesus loving us. I was having none of it. I was certain this clown could talk, and I set about proving this. I tried to trick him into talking.

“I really need the toilet,” I said. He mimed walking and pointed to the small door at the far end of the hall.

I tried goading him into talking.

“How do we know you’re a real clown because you don’t seem to know any of the routines, at least not the funny ones?”

I tried to guilt him into talking.

“It’s bad to pretend you have a disability when you don’t. My mummy told me that, like pretending you can’t talk.”

He pretended to pull himself away from me on an invisible piece of rope. I chased him and stamped on his toe, which took four attempts because, in his enormous clown shoes, it was hard to tell where his real foot was. When I honed in and found his big toe with my heal, he grabbed me by my ear and pulled me behind a bookshelf.

“You’re ruining this for everyone,” he said with genuine anger in his voice.

“You can talk!” I screamed.

They rang my mother to come and get me.

Years later, when I started primary school, they gave us afternoon milk as a way to keep us all healthy. Some of the kids couldn’t afford fresh milk at home, so this was a way to make sure the poorest kids had milk at least once a day. The milk came in tetra packs, stored in a wire basket in some unused hallway waiting for the recess bell when the little cardboard packs would be handed out to each child.

The moment that bell sounded, the milk monitors would take that wire basket and walk around to every class. Every student would be given a tetra pack of warm claggy milk. I hated this part of the day beyond everything else, even math. I have always hated warm milk because of this ritual to help the poor. To this day, warm milk makes me retch.

They also had Christian education at my school. Every Christian child at the school was required to go to a weekly class of religious education. It was taught by a woman who, at the age of six, seemed to me, too old to be alive. She was so old her hair had turned mauve. She also talked about how much Jesus loved me.

“Why hasn’t he come and said hello, then,” I asked. My grandparents loved me, and even though they lived in Canada, they still came to see me once every two years, so where was this Jesus guy if he loves me so much?

“Jesus is always with you and watching over you,” she said.

“Like a ghost?” I asked, “Because he died, you know?”

She seemed pleased by my knowledge of Jesus dying, and she started in about how they tried to kill Jesus, but he kept coming back to life, completely ignoring how spooked we all were about being told a dead man would be watching us, always.

I went to my father and told him I couldn’t stand drinking milk. I also told him I couldn’t stand religious education. My father was a practical man.

“You can choose one of the two and I’ll write you a note to get you out of whichever one you choose,” he told me.

That’s how I came to choose Jesus over warm milk. It’s also how I came to understand that religion is more economic than spiritual. If you side with religion, you can bargain your way out of almost anything.

The Cuckoo's Calling - A review

2020-05-28T18:42:00.001-07:00

The Cuckoo’s Calling by Robert Galbraith, AKA J.K. Rowling is a fine detective novel.

It twists and turns and throws up many false possibilities while hiding the real culprit in plain sight. For once, I didn’t get ahead of the story with a solution until it was being rolled out for the slower detectives like myself. While that’s a good thing, I did need the solution of how Cormoran Strike, the enigmatic Detective with five stars worth of personal baggage to unpack, solved the crime. Even then, I found some of the most pivotal clues and found evidence slightly convenient to hand.

This doesn’t address the elephant in the room – that Galbraith is J.K Rowling’s pen name for this detective series. On its own, The Cuckoo’s Calling is a high three out of five stars, and I wouldn’t begrudge anyone for going that fourth star. The rating shouldn’t change because the writer under another name has written one of the most iconic series in literature and one of my favourites. I keep feeling the nom de plume is a very clever deceit by Rowling to avoid any comparison, every shock at the language and seedier sides of life that come into play within this tale.

I confess I read this because Galbraith was outed as J.K Rowling and not because I am a fan of the detective genre. My eye for what is well done and what contrivances should be expected, rejected or accepted are not as acute as a true detective fan, but I do know a little of world-building and Galbraith/Rowling brings this in spades. It is a real-world with real people who have emotional highs and lows and this includes Cormoran, who seems as flawed as any of us. I enjoyed the stories of its people and while I probably wouldn’t return for more of the same, Cormoran Strike seems to have a lot of potential for more.

How do you keep writing, and tell your good stories without people comparing every word and each twist of the plot to that of Harry Potter? Perhaps Cormoran Strike could set to work to solve that riddle?

The book has also been made into a series by the BBC - one I plan to try and find.

The Goldfinch - Book Review

2020-04-28T05:08:00.001-07:00

☆☆☆☆1/2

The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt is an exquisite book, rich character dramas brought together with considerable storyteller's coincidence and misdirection that never seem obvious or enough to intrude and ruin the narrative. I would really love to have half stars and would then give a 4.5, with only half a star missing for the length.

This is a story that takes time and is better for the length - but I couldn't help asking myself, at what point does beautiful prose override the need to edit. Even here, I'm torn, as the descriptions from Thomas of imagined happenings that may never eventuate are intricate and well-developed, yet at what point do we want pages of ruminations on what might be, rather than cutting to what actually happens? Would those cuts have been tough to make because of the quality of the writing - no doubt, but they are there to be found.

I loved it. I found a new writer, for me, and will search out her other books and hope they are equally as enjoyable. As a Pulitzer winner, I think This is certainly worthy - I just wish those last, difficult cuts had been made to take away the very few moments when I was questioning why we had so much detail on twists and thoughts that added little.

The Heart Of The Ritz - Book Review

2019-09-24T18:52:00.000-07:00

The Heart of the Ritz is an energetic and complex novel with a thoroughly entertaining and captivating story that cloaks an exploration into human morals, personal sacrifice and courage.

I recently read the Paris Seamstress, and while I enjoyed the read, I was a little disappointed when the story moved from Paris under the threat of occupation; the Heart of the Ritz was my remedy.

Polly is a sixteen-year-old orphan, sent to live with her famous Aunt Marjorie, a singer, well known in Europe. When Marjorie dies suddenly, Polly’s guardianship falls to Marjorie’s three best friends, Alexandrine, Zita and Lana Mae. Alexandrine is a minor aristocrat, Zita is a film star and Lana Mae a wealthy heiress, and all three live hedonistic, socialite lives of privilege – their home, the famous Ritz Hotel in Paris.

They’re interesting characters, fun to know in a sort of “The Real Housewives of Paris, in the thirties” kind of way, but as they are, rich, indulgent and somewhat narcissistic, you wouldn’t want to spend too long in their presence. Cue the war as it came creeping to the outskirts of Paris with the fascinating rumours of the approaching German armies, the propaganda and lies of the French government as they keep the truth of the threat hidden until the last moment and then the shock and stunned adjustments needed by the citizens, as one of the world’s most prized cities falls in days and becomes an occupied prize of war.

The German’s take over with ruthless efficiency and Polly, and her three larger-than-life guardians must find a way to survive under the occupation. Each must face harsh truths about themselves, the lives they’ve led and what it will take to be able to live with their choices when witnessing unspeakable crimes. It’s a question we all ask and will hopefully never be called to answer, but who dares to risk their safety for an ideal when forced to choose?

The Heart of the Ritz tackles these issues alongside a good helping of romance without ever being sentimental or relying on easy choices. Some of the affairs with occupying German’s are heartbreaking, and the death of the young, innocent Jürgen rests well alongside other tragic literary deaths such as Pvt. Roth from Mailer’s The Naked and the Dead.

Luke Devenish has written an extraordinarily well researched fiction, based on history, that is so rich in detail and fact that it feels like a window back through time.

Expect to laugh and cry, while being enthralled as these remarkable women change and grow to be so much more than they began. This story will stay with me for a long time, as it dealt with many of life’s big-ticket items in a subtle, thoughtful manner that is so relevant because of the times in which we now live.

My rating: 5 sidecars from the Ritz @ $1500 per drink!

Dan Brown's - Origin

2019-08-22T03:31:00.000-07:00

I keep reading Dan Brown because I have enjoyed his books in the past, certainly once before, and almost twice. Inferno had me rolling my eyes, while Origin is back to his religious explorations and is far more what I've come to expect, although there are moments when I found myself more frustrated than thrilled.

To be fair, DB can tell a ripping yarn, but he employs so many delaying tactics, so many moments of narrative exposition that tell us exactly what someone is about to do, or worse, tells us what they're experiencing internally without bothering to paint the picture or show us their emotions through action.

Origin hooks you in with the promises of an answer to life's biggest questions.

It's entertaining, although some of the convenient movement forward and out of stalemate within the plot stretch the imagination, but no worse than any other action thriller. I guess that's my biggest complaint here - am I reading this and seeing a movie because of those that have gone before, or is this written more to a screenplay's formula of short sharp scenes, where characters are able to move beyond emotional and physically exhausting moments with ease.

It also feels like Origin has taken the DaVinci Code's template and re-created it. Robert Langdon is present when a crime is committed. A hidden revelation may harm religious doctrine, and a mysterious religious sect with assassins try to stop Langdon from solving the riddles and making the revelations public. Change the content, match the template, and another best seller comes off the production line.

Enjoyable enough, with some worthy philosophical moments scattered amongst what feels like a guide book to art, history and religion.

This one gets a 3.5 on the ascent of man scale.

Yesterday – Film Review. The danger of a great premise.

2019-07-05T17:23:00.000-07:00

Imagine there’s no Beatles, it’s easy if you try…

When I first heard the premise of Yesterday, I was excited. As a life-long Beatles fan, a career-long Richard Curtis fan and someone with at least an affection and appreciation of Danny Boyle’s films, this seemed like a match made in heaven. A mystical genre film in the vane if Freaky Friday or any of a dozen other films where the main character is unhappy with their life and wishes on a star; fountain; talisman; lighting strike etc., for change and lo and behold, change is delivered with all its fantastic complications.

In this case, it’s a mysterious loss of power world-wide that wipes the memories of the world, or resets the world into a parallel universe where many significant elements of our known world are missing – for Jack Malik, the biggest of these is the lack of the Beatles. That’s right; they never existed. Only a few found themselves removed from the effects of the force that erased the elements now missing – like the Beatles, and in Jack’s case, his exemption came by being hit by a bus while riding his bicycle.

Suddenly, with his memory of Beatles’ tunes, he becomes this new world’s greatest singer-songwriter, seemingly able to come up with perfect songs any time he picks up an instrument. Ed Sheeran chances on Jack singing on local Suffolk public access TV, and needing a late replacement to support him on tour; Ed signs Jack to a tour of Russia. When they play in Moscow – Jack wheels out Back in the USSR, and on and on we go.

The problem is, where do you go from there, and it is to the credit and immense talent of Richard Curtis that this film does go somewhere. The cast is excellent, with Ed Sheeran proving his acting chops extend further than sitting around a campfire and pulling focus from an extraordinary cultural phenomenon that was GOT. Himesh Patel as Jack plays confused, guilty and undeserving extraordinarily well, and he can sing, although he’s up against it having to recreate the entire Beatles playlist. Lily James is sweet and adorable as the girl who always should have been the one, and the supporting cast do everything they need to do, with Sanjeev Bhaskar and Meera Syal as Jack’s parents standing out as they lovingly patronise and indulge their singing son.

Joel Fry does an admirable job as Rocky, the socially inept, but loveable weird best friend, who helps and hinders, with nothing but the best of intentions and delivers some of the films funniest lines. I couldn’t help feeling the character was a direct lift of Rhys Ifans’ Spike from Notting Hill, but when you write funny characters of quality, as Richard Curtis does, we forgive him for going back to that same well.

So what is the problem with Yesterday? Why did I walk away feeling ho-hum and not thoroughly entertained? It’s because the premise is as good as you can get. In an interview, Ed Sheeran commented that any person he tells the premise to gets it in a single sentence and immediately understands and wants to see the film. There lies the problem – the setup and concept are so good that what happens next, like the reference to fame within the film, becomes a poison chalice.

If Jack becomes the greatest singer/songwriter in the world and lives his life as a superstar, there would come a point where the fantasy delivers nothing more than the premise and no character growth, and that growth is what films in this genre trade on – Jim Carrey in Liar Liar, Freaky Friday or Peggy Sue Got Married. If Jack doesn’t learn and grow as a person, we’re watching Biff’s story from Back to the future, where Biff gets Marty’s sports almanack and leads a charmed life as a rewarded A-hole.

Again, it’s down to Richard Curtis to pull some rabbits out of the hat, and he does so in surprising ways – ways I have already seen derided and dismissed as sentimental whiffs in reviews, but to me, they are the only things that have stayed with me from the film.

Spoiler alert starts here. All the above is a derivation on the premise and apart from the Back in the USSR scene gives nothing new away, but to talk about the hard turns the film pulls to keep it safe from washing up on the rocks of mediocrity, I have to talk about specific spoilers.

Jack is set up to have a conscience, never being comfortable ‘stealing’ the world’s greatest single band songbook and passing it off as his own – and this is a sound choice because anything else would have many Beatles fans up in arms over this apocalyptic world where their idols never existed, and now have their legacy usurped. Instead, from the very beginning, we’re aware that Jack feels uneasy about passing the Beatles work off as his own. At the concert in Moscow, we see a large middle-aged man amongst the crowd who hears ‘Back in the USSR’ and this fan emotes his confusion on hearing the song. It’s a hint, a flicker of an omen that Jack’s comeuppance is in play – and any film goer will read this trope and predict what is to come.

This thread continues when Jack visits Liverpool to source the places we all know so well from the references in Beatles songs. Here is another subtle, yet loving homage to the greatness of the Beatles, when Jack, as a fan and a musician who sang many of their covers, struggles to remember so many songs. I’m a huge Beatles fan, and I couldn’t for the life of me remember who did what to who in Eleanor Rigby – and Yesterday gets a lot of mileage from this very fact. During Jacks visit to these iconic locales, we see a woman who recognises the now famous Jack, and she stares at him oddly. Again it’s not overplayed, but we all know what’s coming – and this is where Curtis subverts the trope and manages to deliver something memorable and worth more than a Disney-esque mystical genre film – at least to Beatles fans if to no-one else.

At a press conference before the concert to launch Jack’s ‘greatest double album the world has ever seen’, a concert where a desperate version of Help from Jack, highlights the show, we see the fan from Moscow and the woman from Liverpool waving a yellow submarine. Again it’s a warning that jack’s comeuppance is near, as Yellow Submarine is yet to exist in this new world.

After the concert, the two come to see Jack backstage, and the moment he sees their yellow submarine, he knows the jig – or in this case, the gig – is up. Jack tries to explain his plagiarism, only to be stopped and told by these fellow Beatles fans, who also retain a memory of the music, how thankful they are to Jack for saving the songs and letting the world hear them again. The two explain they aren’t musical, so they couldn’t do what Jack’s done, and they only came to say thank you. Jack finally has others who understand his moral dilemma, and the woman from Liverpool thrusts a note into Jack’s hand with only the cryptic clue, that she did a lot of digging to get the information and she feels it will help ease Jack’s guilt.

Sure enough, Jack heads to a picturesque seaside farm, where an old man with a crooked nose and round spectacles lives out the last years of his happy life in peace – it is John Lennon, played believably in old age by Robert Carlyle, and in this new, recalibrated universe, John is alive and well.

Yes, it’s saccharine sweet and throws up all sorts of parallel universe conundrums, but it re-enforces the film as one written with the highest respect for the Beatles and nothing but reverence towards the fab four.

Ed Sheeran is all too willing to indulge in some self-deprecating good humour as he shows a good dose of respect and humility towards any comparison between his talent and that of the Beatles – and the Long and Winding Road/battle of the songwriter’s scene is the best moment of the film.

The rest is mainly forgettable or even disappointing. That’s an unfair critique because the film is a well written, well directed, well-performed piece of escapism that is enjoyable to sit through and will no doubt play for years on smaller screens. Herein lies the danger of a great premise. The premise of Yesterday is so good that it ranks alongside the now legendary Hollywood pitch – “Danny Devito and Arnold Schwarzenegger are twins” – and from there, where do you go?

The only possibility is to let people’s expectations down. In this case, because of the skill, talent and awareness of the tropes and playing against them, those great creative minds have at least let us down gently.

Yesterday gets a 6.5 out of ten, or in Beatles terminology, it falls somewhere between Abbey Road and the White Album.

Thought for the day

2019-04-05T19:16:00.000-07:00

There should be a counsellor, trained for depression, standing in front of every sushi display in Seven Eleven stores.

There is no greater cry for help than buying Seven Eleven sushi.

A Review of Indie Author Book Promotion Sites.

2019-04-05T18:58:00.001-07:00

Somewhere late in 2016, I decided to be more proactive in selling my online books, as opposed to simply listing them and waiting for readers to come. I looked into paying for promotions of my self-published books that were listed/hosted on Smashwords. I quickly discovered that it was far easier to work with promotion sites if you had an Amazon listing, so I quickly jumped aboard.

Inner City

The Law of Happiness and Divorce

What I found is that self-promotion requires organisation and is expensive. Promotion sites boast hundreds of thousands of eager buyers, but having a database of followers and being able to mobilise those people to download are two very different things.

I started keeping lists and recording how many downloads I received and at what price. I thought it would be of interest to publish these results for the benefit of any other Indie-authors looking to find a way to promote their books.

I decided on book promotions that made my book free across the promotional period. This was usually 3-5 days. Amazon allows 5 days of discount promotions in any 3 month period. The most effective of the promotional sites generated continuing downloads beyond the promotion period, giving me paid downloads for some time. The better promotions also lifted me up to the front pages of Amazon in my book’s categories and this helped create a snowball effect where the promotion gathered momentum.

November 30 2017

Finally and most importantly – these stats and opinions are from my own experiences with these sites. I’m not saying the poorer performing promotional sites are less than others, on another day, with another book, they may be stellar, but for me, on these occasions, these were the results. I will list the ease and experience in contacting those running the promotions and of the results generated by the sites themselves, although with most promotions there was little more contact than booking and confirming dates.

I’m also going to list the sites that said no to me. Often, I have greater respect for sites who don’t blindly accept every promotion. These sites take care to evaluate a book before they put their name to the promotion of that book. In some ways, setting this standard gains them a reputation as a book-promoter that readers can trust. I will certainly be trying to lift my game with these sites with my next books and try again. I’m aware some of the sites that hosted my promotions evaluated my books, but I can’t say with any certainty which ones or how vigorous that vetting process. They helped promote my books and I’m pleased they accepted me.

December 29 2017

Indie publishing for me has revived my self-belief as a writer. My first novel was written in 1999 and sat in a drawer, after many rejections, for almost 10 years. In 2011 I put that first book online under my middle name – Scott Norton – I think on some sites you can still find this listing. I didn’t want anyone I knew to know it was my book. I wanted to avoid the platitudes of friends and family who have to say nice things. I wanted to know if all those rejections were warranted and genuine readers, who knew nothing of my story, would read and enjoy what I’d written, or turn me down. The book downloaded a few thousand times over an eighteen month period and then trailed off. I forgot about it for the next 2 years.

In 2013 I did a Google ego search and was shocked to find entries of reviews of my book.

I knew nothing of the Goodreads site at the time, and to my dismay and delight, I had over 20 ratings and reviews. Most said good things. A few complained about my style, spelling and grammar, (a lifetime battle of mine), but even those griping about presentation said largely nice things about the story. Some readers gushed – enough to help me regain my confidence and re-engage with a career that had always been a dream to pursue, and had, by 2013, run dry.

You will never hear me dissing an Author. I know how tough writing can be – let alone completing a full, coherent and entertaining novel. It’s even harder if you’re out there alone and doing it without any support; the editing, copyediting, cover design and promotion is time consuming, stressful and expensive. Hopefully, these lists and results will help others – and make sure you head to Goodreads and Amazon and at very least click on the star reviews of books you’ve read – you never know when you may be saving a writer from giving up on a dream.

I'm also very pleased to announce I've written two books over the past eighteen months. Both are on the send-out circuit at the moment, and if no one bites, they'll be joining my other books online sometime in 2019. Famously Lost is a Rom-com set in the Australian Outback, and Finding My Voice is a YA coming of age story inspired by a young teenage boy my former partner and I raised some years ago. The boy was my partner's cousin and had some serious education and addiction issues - but in this fictional telling, he overcomes all those issues when he finds love.

I'm very proud of both books and can't wait to release them out into the world. Stay tuned.

The following promotions are for Inner City from 2017 – January 2018.

*Promotional Site*	*Web Address*	*Cost*	*Downloads*
Freebooksy	Free Booksy	$290	1579
Many Books	manybooks.net/author-services	$29	355
Books Butterfly	https://www.booksbutterfly.com/	$80	Was unable to find any downloads for the date of the promotion, but the book listing on Amazon went from 3millionth to 8000^th (approx)
Shout My Book	https://shoutmybook.com/	$44.99	132. Consisted mainly of tweets. Online readers increased, but I found the multiple same tweets that lasted 2 weeks more embarrassing than helpful.
Bookzio	https://www.bookzio.com/	$74	22
Read Cheaply	http://readcheaply.com/partners/	$25	165
Book Doggy	https://bookdoggy.com/	$8	31
Choosey Bookworm	https://www.choosybookworm.com/	$149	491
Just Kindle Books	https://www.justkindlebooks.com/	$38	124
Free Kindle books & Tips	http://fkbt.com/	$33	109
Mega Book Deals	https://megabookdeals.com/	$5	33
Reading Deals		$29	168

Used bookmarketingtools.com - @ $25 – allowed application for 27 sites.

(Many sites were for free listing – usually 5-10 free listings from 300 submissions. But those sites offer upgrades to guaranteed listings at a price – tried two upgrades so far – Mega Book deals and Reading deals.)

Listings contacted through Bookmarketing tools lists free period as 20 Nov until 13 December.

Unable to determine downloads – nothing stood out on the Kindle reports page as significant increase.

Rejected.

Books bub – turned down.

Robin Reads – turned down

Personal Contact.

Jay from Choosey Bookworm took a little while to get back with details after payment, but when he did he explained how busy he is and was very pleasant to deal with.

The same goes with Michael Gallagher from Free Kindle Books and Tips.

List of Promotional sites taken from: https://www.indiesunlimited.com/book-promo-sites/

ReadingDeals.com

The Choosy Bookworm

ENT (E-Reader News Today)

Thrifty Thursday on Indies Unlimited

http://www.humanmade.net/submission-form

eBook Soda

Masquerade Crew

eBook Stage

Planet eBooks (US & UK)

http://newfreekindlebooks.com/authors

http://kindlemojo.com/

The Kindle Book Review

http://www.totallyfreestuff.com/

http://www.icravefreebies.com/contact/

Bargain eBook Hunter

http://blog.booksontheknob.org/about-this-blog-and-contact-info

Free Booksy

Book Gorilla

Kindle Boards

http://indiebookoftheday.com/authors/free-on-kindle-listing/

eBook Lister

X - http://manybooks.net/promote.php

http://kindlebookpromos.luckycinda.com/?page_id=283

The Digital Ink Spot

http://www.freebookshub.com/authors/

Frugal Freebies

http://www.ereaderiq.com/about/

Ask David

http://ebookshabit.com/about-us/

http://snickslist.com/books/place-ad/

Awesome Gang

Good Kindles

http://www.blackcaviar-bookclub.com/free-book-promotion.html#.UXFB27XYeOc

Digital Book Today

http://www.kornerkonnection.com/index.html?fb=ebookkornerkafe

Daily Cheap Reads

Book Goodies

http://indiebookoftheday.com

Book Barbarian – SciFi and Fantasy

https://www.facebook.com/pages/UK-Kindle-Book-Lovers/175617412524192 (Facebook Group)

https://www.facebook.com/kindle (Facebook Group)

https://www.facebook.com/weloveebooks (Facebook Group)

https://www.facebook.com/Bargain.eBook.Hunter (Facebook Group)

https://www.facebook.com/KindleNation (Facebook Group)

https://www.facebook.com/earthsbooknook (Facebook Group)

https://www.facebook.com/iauthor?sk=wall (Facebook Group)

https://www.facebook.com/kuforum (Facebook Group)

https://www.facebook.com/IndieBookLounge (Facebook Group)

https://www.facebook.com/groups/602196313230557/ – for Kindle Unlimited titles

https://www.facebook.com/groups/freekindlebookclub/ – Free Kindle Books

https://www.facebook.com/groups/Bookjunkiesfreebies/ – Book Junkies Freebies

http://uk.hundredzeros.com/ (UK site)

http://ebookdealoftheday.co.uk/submissions/ (UK site)

http://www.dailycheapreads.co.uk/ (UK site)

http://www.indie-book-bargains.co.uk (UK site)

http://pretty-hot.com/submit-your-book/ (erotica only)

http://wantonreads.com/tell-us-about-your-book/ (erotica only)

http://www.kornerkonnection.com/index.html?fbkornerkafex(erotica only)

http://www.xtme.de/submitting-a-free-e-book-to-xtmeenglishbooks/ (German site for English books)

CONVENIENT LISTS OF PROMOTIONAL SITES

http://authormarketingclub.com/members/submit-your-book/

http://authormarketingclub.com/members/amc-paid-promo-book-list/

http://www.ebookbooster.com/ (they have a list of sites on their home page)

Hannah Gadsby's Nanette on Netflix - A Timely Addition to the MeToo Movement.

2018-06-26T07:23:00.000-07:00

Hannah Gadsby’s Nanette is a comedic masterpiece.

As a one-woman show, it builds to be more than a piece of comedy, smashing through those narrow parameters to make a valuable contribution to the most prominent social discussions of our day.

Given an unassuming title, after a woman Hannah felt she could create a show from, only to discover that idea was more hope than substance, the hour special spins off into something that only Hannah Gadsby’s experience as a woman, and her history as a comedian, could deliver.

The show is like few others because, for Hannah Gadsby, timing is everything.

After ten years on the comedy circuit honing her craft, she is ready to deliver one of the most insightful, moving and emotionally disturbing contributions to the #metoo debate, and she does it in a most disarming manner until you can't help feeling unprepared for how deeply into your soul she manages to transfer her pain.

It’s heart-wrenching to see and hear this extraordinary woman bravely empty her mind on stage. She admits to being damaged from her life‘s experience and shows her courage in rebuilding herself from those low-points. As Hannah builds to her finale, it’s almost hard to take the next breath.

Hannah Gadsby‘s Nanette puts to rest any sense of shared experience by those not directly affected by the relentless micro aggressions faced by those seeking nothing more than equality, respect and safe passage.

If you’re a man publishing your opinion on a woman’s response to the #Metoo movement, you need to rethink what you're doing and listen to women, like Hannah, as she explains why we are in the midst of a social revolution that has waited too long.

I have listened in frustration to the many, loud, white male voices explain away every contentious issue in our society in recent years. I've heard these loud voices with their wide reach, declare racism non-existant; sexism a figment of the female mind, and that homophobia is so marginal it doesn't need to be addressed. The unifying belief of these men seems to be that their experience is universal.

It's important for debate to take place, but when a single demographic monopolise the debate, there is no debate, just a shared opinion by those unaffected by whatever inequality is under discussion.

Hannah Gadsby is another of the many thousands of women desperately trying to tell us how threatened women feel on an almost daily basis. It's easy for men to feel helpless, or protest the sentiments are exaggerated, but how much effort does it take to change our behaviour to ease another person's mind? Cross the street, drop back, or take any other precaution to make sure it's not you sending a chill through someone walking or jogging on their own at night or existing in an area hidden from view.

If this makes you think, "Why should I change my behaviour?" or even the more commonplace protest of - “Not all men,” then you're not listening to the voices shouting loud.

Not abusing women is the very least criteria of manhood. It's not something worthy of praise. Every one of us needs to do whatever we can, no matter how small, to improve the situation.

Hannah Gadsby made me empathise with what she’s been through, but it left me feeling that I can never fully understand her experience.

As a gay man who came out thirty years ago, I related to some of what Hannah had to say. I have been attacked for being gay, and I too feel shame over my sexuality. That’s something ingrained in me from years and years of relentless ridicule and abuse towards any gay person as I came of age. That small part of Hannah's story I share and understand, but it reinforces in me a belief that I can't possibly understand the full extent of another person's experience with an issue when I don't face that particular issue from within.

That's why listening should be the first response, not protest, or denial.

Hannah Gadsby’s Nanette is important because it comes from someone with first-hand experience into being abused for being a woman; for her sexual identity; even for her appearance.

Hannah doesn’t assume or comment on other people's experiences, she speaks only from her own.

If you haven’t watched Hannah Gadsby's Nanette - go to Netflix and prepare to be awed. Nanette will soon be viral, as it should be, and it should also be part of the ongoing debate.

Easter Bunny shot, and kids say enough!

2018-03-30T20:01:00.000-07:00

It’s Easter, and that means there are smiling men on television telling young children about Jesus. The story of Jesus is in newspapers, online, and even in movies that are shown every year – proving, in some small way, that Jesus is, indeed, immortal, if only in reruns.

This year it makes an interesting juxtaposition against the backdrop of the Stoneman Douglas Highschool students who are changing the world by demanding action.

They refuse to settle for thoughts and prayers of past generations to quell their grief and shock at such an outrage. It has taken the naivety of children to scream long and loud that the emperor has no clothes because thoughts and prayers have failed to make any difference.

It also divides religious followers into those who rely on an interventionist God to actively remodel the world and those who think we have a right and responsibility to govern ourselves.

This second group still follows whatever teaching they wish, they can look to religion to guide their choices, their morals, to school them on behaviour – but they accept, without some effort, commitment and involvement from them to change the world, the world will not change. It’s time to put up or shut up, and no kid ever reacts well when told to shut up.

70% of Americans want gun control, and it seems the posse of kids who have finally said enough is enough are making a difference. These kids, led by Emma González, David Hogg, Jacyln Corin, Cameron Kasky and Alex Wind, can’t be silenced. The usual tactic of calling for respect for the victims by not discussing the atrocity is not working this time because these kids are the victims, and they’re the ones doing all the talking – and maybe that’s how it has to be. It’s hard to tell a child who faced a gun while at school that they're disrespectful for asking for such violence to stop, and finally, American parents and grandparents have stopped long enough to realise how crazy it is to have AR15’s in the suburbs.

I’ve rarely been more inspired than by these kids standing up and speaking their experiences. I had chills when I heard Naomi Wadler, during the March for Our Lives say, “I am here today to acknowledge and represent the African American girls whose stories don’t make the front page of every national newspaper, whose stories don’t lead the evening news.”

Suddenly the Stoneman Douglas kids have opened a can of worms in America. The violence from guns that has touched so many is ironically the issue too big to ignore, and that fact may bring the country together. Gun violence knows no race, no age, no privilege and no political party.

In Australia, a ban on assault weapons has stood since 1998. That same year, the government bought back one million guns and brought in new regulations for every gun owner to require a licence and to have guns registered. There was an immediate reduction of gun deaths by 47%.

This causal effect is repeated all over the world.

I’m an Americaphile. It’s hard not to be these days with so many growing up on American media, celebrities, and the influence of their computer industry.

Finally, after so many tragedies, there is a genuine hope that the one giant anachronism of American culture, the acceptance of gun violence in amongst so much world-leading science and social culture, may finally be addressed.

This great leap forward may well occur under Trump’s presidency – who would have thunk it?

Happy Easter.

Inner City - Free until 31st

2017-12-29T03:21:00.001-08:00

Inner City is free until December 31st!

Get it here for the US!

Here for Oz.

Here for UK.

Inner City - Free Ebook

2017-09-09T16:48:00.000-07:00

I'm really trying to push my first book, Inner City. It's featured at the moment on Many Books - Manybooks.net

I'm trying various promotional sites. Many Books cost me $29 to list it to their mailing list for a week. On the first day, September 9, I had 20 downloads. It doesn't sound like a lot, but getting anyone to download a book these days is hard work. I also like my Author listing on their site - I hate photos of myself, but a cute puppy on your lap always helps.

Many Books

Books Butterfly was my previous promotion and they charged $80 for a guaranteed 1000 downloads. During their promotion and now some weeks later, I had 2 downloads, although one I am pretty sure came before their promotional period.

The people at Books Butterfly were very nice and responded to emails promptly, they said many free books have a long lag when recording books and claimed KOBO was notoriously bad in reporting their downloads of free e-books. I can imagine updating free book downloads isn't high on their priorities, but it feels like an excuse.

Inner City has downloaded 4200 times since I listed it - although this latest draft is a year's work to improve and proof the manuscript as best as I can.

The other really clear issue is the book is listed and published at Smashwords and not Kindle. Almost all the promotional sites work with Kindle and it's hard to find those who list Smashwords links. Inner City is listed at Kindle, but at the price of 89 cents - in Australia $1.03 - I think. This is because Kindle doesn't seem to allow a free book. It allows you to promote a book for free across a promotional period - and this only if you are enrolled in the KDP select program that makes it Kindle exclusive.

I am still debating whether to do this or not, as both Smashwords and Kindle are easy to use and publish, but there are reports of the exclusivity of Kindle drastically reducing any author percentage and once you sign, you sign to be exclusive, so I want to exhaust my experiment with Smashwords first.

The plan is to keep Inner City free until October 31st. The Kindle or Smashwords conundrum will be answered by how many downloads it gets once it's at a price.

Of course, you can also download the book at:
Barnes & Noble Nooks Books
Kobo
iTunes Books

Here are the links to reviews so far:
Goodreads
Barnes and Noble
Amazon

Australia's Same Sex Marriage Plebiscite - The Straw Man Cometh

2017-08-13T19:41:00.000-07:00

Australia is about to have a postal plebiscite to vote on same sex marriage. Woo-hoo! With opinion polls continually returning approval of the change in the 70% range - it sounds like it's going to be a huge gay party. (Everyone knows they're the best type.)

But not so fast. The plebiscite will cost over one hundred million dollars - money the government could save by simply passing a law. The vote would be nonbinding, not compulsory and would allow the conservative government to vote it down even if the vote from the plebiscite overwhelmingly supported changing the marriage act.

The opposition to the vote warns such a vote gives conservative groups the opportunity to legitimise, promote and publicise damaging, hateful and erroneous views towards the LGBTQ community in the name of campaigning for a no vote.

And this fear is now being realised.

It's ironic that those who are clearly no friend of Dorothy, rely on all her friends to argue against things they don't like or understand.

They clearly don't have a heart, given they want to stop people in love from declaring their relationship in a formal way, equal to all others.

They don't have a brain, given they keep confusing marriage between a loving couple with polygamy, bestiality and the ability to have and raise children.

And they don't have the courage to stand up and declare they have an issue with anyone under the LGBTQ banner having equal rights, and those reasons are, largely, that they don't like, understand or consider them equal.

We should all become more aware of the straw man arguments continually rolled out for debate on emotive issues and call these arguments out for what they are. Cut the debate short by declaring an argument is not on topic.

The definition of the straw man argument is to give the impression of refuting an opponent's argument while refuting an argument that was not presented by that opponent.

For instance - Gay marriage has nothing to do with having or raising children. They are two separate issues. Gay people can already have children in Australia. This is a legal right and can be achieved by many different means. Whether they are married or not has no bearing.

The reason gay parenting has been raised by the pro same sex marriage advocates is that these kids shouldn't be told by the anti lobby groups their parents are less able to raise children, or less worthy or that the children themselves are at a disadvantage.

The Australian Christian Lobby argues this case hard - but never once wraps that argument around the millions of single parents who are in the same exact situation as not having both a male and female parent present. Again, be honest if you are going to argue a case. This argument, by the inclusion of single parents, is quickly reduced to a nasty, emotive, manipulative straw man argument that is not on the topic of should same sex marriage be legalised.

If it wasn't a straw man argument and therefore null and void, you could argue that marriage between a gay couple provides the child or children with a better level of stability, security and legal surety, making it harder for a parent to leave the relationship. You could - but that would also be an adjunct to a straw man argument - so I won't.

Similarly, arguments like the wonderful, inclusive, loving Christian Arch Bishop who is up in arms because a change to the law may force him to teach same sex marriage in schools or other religious based organisations. Straw man argument - go away. This is a curriculum issue. If you want to teach your students about a world that doesn't exist, go ahead. The hard right conservatives are always looking for new members and the bright kids will see what's going on through things called windows. Christian schools do have windows, right?

Similarly, as I've argued in a blog post before, Here, if you feel your religious freedoms are being usurped by people next door doing things you don't like, don't include them/us. Just make sure you have the courage of your convictions and make this known. I would suggest a door sign that reads: "We do not support or welcome GLBTQ marriage in this church congregation."

I'd be far more assured about religion if all religious based programs were happy to lead by example instead of asking people to follow their words and not their deeds. Just like a plebiscite - the people of this ever changing, and I'm optimistic enough to believe, forward thinking nation, will vote with their feet on knowing your views.

Tradition is another good argument. Except that traditionally women weren't seen as equal, and are, as a result, still catching up in terms of representation at executive levels, equal pay and in Parliament. Also, Aboriginals were classed as part of Australia's flora and fauna until 1967 - so who isn't proud of tradition? Why should we ever change anything?

Come on - it's a pro gay blog - it must include a musical!

Tony Abbott, Australia's former Prime Minister and Alt-Right poster boy, has raised the idea that a 'No' vote is a vote against political correctness. That argument certainly is.

This is another classic straw man argument wheeled out by a man who is very smart, (A Rhodes Scholar no less), but not at all clever. This is a Trump supporter's view of the world. Abbott is one of the down trodden, privileged white citizens being oppressed by the world forcing him to accept others as equal. Equality for others is not oppression. Equality for others often does mean the privileged get less of the pie - but not less than an equal share. It's hard to argue in any way against equality. Those who do don't seem to understand what the word means.

It lessens the sanctity of marriage is another argument. Maybe some people do feel this. That's so sad. That you would love your wife or husband less because Tony and Guy from next door got married. Or you feel your marriage is less binding because Penny and Jude tied the knot. That feels a little like an excuse to get out of your own marriage to me - maybe you and your significant other should talk and not try to argue that your marriage is suddenly less binding because of what's going on with your neighbours.

Gay marriage is a form of gay privilege, is another argument getting a good work out. Ricky? Any thoughts?

As the arguments flow they get increasingly more desperate and disparate. More straw man and not the type of straw man who was a friend of Dorothy, a man looking to change and better himself.

This vote - if it turns out to be a legitimate vote - is about letting all couples in love marry. Period. (Thank you for that Spicey)

Let's call out the emotional rhetoric, the straw man arguments and any other arguments that are not based solely on that single question.

And once again I call out homophobia for what it is. It's fine not to like us - and I get not to like what you don't understand. It's hard to empathise with something that you have no connection to or understanding of. I genuinely don't have an issue with that or with you for feeling that way. What I do have an issue with is you dressing your lack of empathy and understanding up in different clothes and arguing on a range of emotive issues, designed to shield you from being honest about how you feel towards the GLBTQ community. If you don't like us and don't see us as equals - own it.

Don't use straw man arguments to hide your true motives - to stop people you don't consider equal from gaining equality.

Vote for Moonman

2017-07-24T16:24:00.000-07:00

Moonman is now live as part of the @Australian Academy of Cinema and Television Arts (AACTA)’s #SocialShorts competition!

The Comedy category is only live for one week, so head to www.socialshorts.com.au http://www.socialshorts.com.au/ to view and vote for Moonman.

Voting enters you into the draw to win tickets to the 7th AACTA Awards presented by Foxtel!

The Light

2017-05-03T18:14:00.000-07:00

He celebrated youth, his eyes bright, holding a lifetime of possibilities. He stood on the doorstep of the old building, his hand hovering at his future - to knock or walk away.

Summoning his courage, managing to keep his excitement in check, he knocked on the door. It must have felt like jumping off a cliff as adrenaline pulsed through him, the opportunity to back out vanishing.

I opened the door, greeting him, the same adrenaline finding me. He was the first person I’d dated since the call I’d taken, abruptly ending my thirteen-year relationship. Greeting this boy was one more step out of a funk that began with a mantra of self-abuse for letting someone I loved slip away. The young man’s age meant I was expecting this to go only one way. That’s what I was looking for; something exciting, something liberating; something disposable. He didn’t care I was older. At nineteen he was half my age. We shared enough in our backgrounds to make the age gap less ridiculous, but I wasn’t kidding myself about what this was.

His name was Alexander, but he called himself Sasha. It was the familiar name given to him by his family and friends. He was charming, well spoken even in his second language and from a wealthy, privileged world of expectations and demands that I knew only too well. He was heading to the train station, en route to Berlin, to study engineering. His parents were paying for the course and covering his living expenses. Nothing was too much for their beloved first son; except their time.

I knew this part of his story. In a privileged world time is a rare commodity. I understood how debilitating that lack of interest could be. The benefit was freedom and independence; the disadvantage - a stranded self-confidence. It took a force of pent-up sexual desire to overcome and bring this young man to my door. It was why he’d shown up, or at least part of it. The other piece of the jigsaw was selecting a foreigner with no possible connection to anyone in his world. That meant no possibility of being outed before he was ready.

The freedom he enjoyed from his parent’s lack of supervision allowed him to alter his travel plans by a weekend and find the perfect accomplice. I was lucky enough to be the person he chose. A nineteen-year-old, arriving at my door like room service, with plans to spend the weekend, before heading to a university, a thousand miles away. He had no plans to return before my contract would end and by then, I’d be half a world away. It was the perfect formula for a one night stand.

My apartment was old and ornate. It sat within the forgotten ghetto that cast a shadow over the city. The small portion of preserved ghetto wall, with it’s even smaller memorial plaque, along with the bagel sellers on every street corner, screamed the ghosts of a dark past discreetly ignored by most. It was a city that prided itself on looking forward, not back. That made it the perfect place for Sasha to vanish for a weekend.

He arrived with his provisions for his new life, worn on his back in a pack that towered over him and made each step unsteady. He unclipped and leveraged the heavy backpack to the floor in my front hall. We sat in the small galley kitchen trading small talk.

I didn’t know the etiquette of the online hook-up back then. It was early in the millennium, the diplomacy of the left swipe was still years away. In time I would learn, on welcoming strangers for sex, small talk was entirely unnecessary, but here and now, it seemed the least we should do before taking things further.

We did take it further. We began in the bedroom before visiting almost every room in the house over the next three days. Sasha transformed from a shy timid young man to one who thought nothing of walking around the house naked, as if he belonged. He stayed like that, on display, for almost all of his time with me, enjoying his new found freedom. He only dressed when we went out; the first time being when we ran out of alcohol. The two of us wandered down to the nearby market, through the late October snow that transformed the city and made any trip outside an extraordinary adventure. Sasha found my awe at the squeaking snow amusing. We swapped stories about childhood that brought us closer.

We bought a chicken, beer and some rather sad looking vegetables from a shop-assistant who assured us they would taste better than they looked. It wasn’t the season for healthy eating, and this wasn’t a city offering spring vegetables out of season in any but the wealthiest suburbs. My suburb seemed lost in time, lurching to catch up to a modern world, but not quite able.

Back home I roasted the chicken with potatoes and carrots. We drank and ate and slept together until we wanted nothing but sleep. We continued like this for two more days, without any real care for anyone or anything happening outside the apartment.

On the third day, Sasha told me he wanted to take me somewhere special, to share something of the local customs. I was curious and let him lead.

We jumped in a taxi and arrived at a cemetery, crowded with people, sombre as they passed between the stones and mausoleums. They placed lit candles on the graves of family members, friends, or on stones of the great names of the city, now all resting together as equals.

It was All Saints Eve. It seemed the whole city had come to pay their respects. The brightest graves were the soldiers and citizens who fell during the uprising against the Nazis and were now forever honoured in this place on this night.

The whole cemetery flickered and shone brightly from a sea of candles. Even long forgotten names received a good share of flames, the passers-by unwilling to leave any soul in darkness.

We walked in silence, part of the orderly progression, filing by gravestones, reading the names and dates. It was particularly moving, considering I was a stranger, but there is something universal in the dead being respectfully honoured. It’s a tip of the hat through time to those who delivered us and gave us what we have, and never more poignant than in this city, in this cemetery.

That night was to be my last with Sasha. With fresh supplies of alcohol and a feeling of goodwill from our All Saints evening, we filled up the large bath, lit our candles and balanced the ledger for our earlier religious respect.

In the morning we shared a cooked breakfast, then a hug and Sasha, with his heavy pack, still balanced precariously on his shoulders, headed out my front door and away, towards the train station and a life filled with a thousand challenges.

I came back inside and felt quite contented. As far as random hook-ups go it was a great success; a no-strings, fleeting but enjoyable weekend with a young man I would always remember.

The next weeks rolled by without being noticed. I was working for a large company who brought me in to guide a large job. I forgot about Sasha and the time we’d spent together, as the days and weeks brought me new people and places to fill my time.

At Christmas, I had a few days off. With no family around and a flight home offering more time in the air than on the ground, I was looking forward to being a hermit and binge watching whatever I could find to watch.

There was a knock at the door. I was surprised. I didn’t know anyone, so I assumed it was a neighbour or a salesperson. I opened the door to Sasha who threw his arms around my neck and hugged me close. He had the same backpack strapped to him, although this time it was hardly holding anything, and a plastic bag clutched tight in hand. He smiled wide on seeing me and kissed me passionately.

“Surprise!”

As he enjoyed my astonished look, he explained he’d told his parents he wanted to stay over Christmas in his university dorm room to study. He’d then jumped a train to come and see me and not them. He failed to notice my concern and sauntered in to take over the house with the casual ease of belonging that he’d adopted when we were last together.

He handed me the plastic bag he’d been clutching so tightly. It was a present. I opened the bag and found a stunning desk lamp. It was hand crafted in steel and chrome, with a light that looked like a car headlight from the 1920’s, held in place by railroad tracks of dual metal straps on either side, which gently sloped in an art-deco design to metal plates that formed a layered shield effect as a base. It was heavy and looked extraordinarily expensive. Sasha beamed a smile. He knew I was a writer and he wanted something to remind me of him, while I was sitting at my desk working. I thanked him as my stomach pounded a panicked beat, searching to send an alert to my conscience. This kid was in love, and I wasn’t.

My conscience heard the distant drums and ignored them as we hit the bed and picked up where we’d left off. The next morning, after more sex, I become a little more distant. Sasha didn’t notice. I tried to encourage him to go home and visit his parents – he didn’t want to leave my house. I tried to suggest he should go back to Berlin early, as I had so much work to get done. He paraded naked and suggested we re-visit the lounge chair with the wide and sturdy armrests. My work, and attempts to drive him away, could wait.

Another day and Sasha noticed my mood becoming icy. He wanted to talk. I could tell he was upset. I told him it was a mistake for him to come without telling me. It crushed him. He looked like a lost puppy. I felt awful, but I told myself it was the right thing to do. I wasn’t the first person he’d been with, but I suspect I may have been the first person he’d been with he could identify.

Coming out is an extraordinary journey, littered with a huge number of men hiding from everyone, including themselves, and seeking totally anonymous sex with other men. It’s a sad world of shadows and secrets, and when you finally find someone who stands out in the open, it’s so easy to project every hope you’ve ever had onto them. For me, Sasha’s infatuation was flattering. I felt younger than I had in years and it would have been so easy to go with it, leading him on, knowing full well we had no future.

He was a good looking nineteen-year-old at the very beginning of his university experience. Only a complete arsehole would have him miss any of that on a false promise, driven by middle-aged vanity.

It took three days to wear him down. He kept finding excuses for my attitude, hoping it would change. At one stage he begged me to cut his hair with my hair trimmer, and I’m sure it was only to have my attention focused on him for a moment more. The hair cut was lousy, but he smiled, thanked me and said he loved it.

He left my house earlier than planned. He’d finally accepted my harsh, cold message. The All Saints weekend was a moment in time he couldn’t get back. I wasn’t to be the love of his life and whatever he’d projected onto those few days had been too much too soon.

I watched him dejectedly trudge down the snow cleared footpaths on his way to the taxi rank that would deliver him back to the station. A few weeks later I moved to a modern apartment on the very edge of the reclaimed ghetto border. I never heard from Sasha again. I hope he didn’t turn up to that old apartment looking for me, but I will never know.

I stayed in that remarkable city for another year, until my contract ended. When it came time to leave I gave the few personal possessions I’d added to my apartment to a close friend: my desk and chair, my bike and Sasha’s light. That beautiful, expensive, perfect lamp, that sat on my desk for my time there. Some nights I would stare at it and hate myself a little for what it reminded me of, of how I’d treated Sasha. Some nights I’d let it serve a fond recollection of that first, perfect long weekend we’d spent together.

I told my friend to take it, that it was too heavy for me to travel with, and in a way, it was. It could never serve as a light for me to work; it was the light of a broken heart.

Sometimes, even now, I think of Sasha, of where he might be, of what he’s done with his life? Did he find someone he could trust and fall in love? I’m sure he did, and maybe, just maybe he’s travelled far enough from that All Souls Eve to understand why two visits could be so very different – and why I still see the light from that lamp.

Free Children's Book

2017-05-02T16:51:00.001-07:00

I wrote and illustrated this for my Nephew, Charlie, who is five and a half.

If you have an early reader in your life, feel free to share this with them.

Read, discuss and enjoy.

😃😃😃😃😃😃😃😃😃😃😃😃

The Rhyming Alphabet.

An A to Z of silly rhymes.

Aa Bb Cc Dd Ee Ff

Gg Hh Ii Jj Kk Ll

Mm Nn Oo Pp

Qq Rr Ss Tt

Uu Vv Ww

Xx Yy

This incredibly silly set of rhymes is dedicated, with love, to Charlie Taylor, from his Uncle Scott – who wrote the rhymes and pleads guilty to all of the very bad illustrations.

18^th May 2017

An angry Ant allowed an Ape to open all his mail.

“A late account,” the Ape announced and angry Ant exhaled.

Always angry Ant had been to class to calm his mood,

But let an Ape keep your accounts – you’re likely to be sued.

By a babbling brook, a Beaver blocked the flow with beams.

Before too long a bottleneck had joined up all the streams.

Because he had a sailboat, Mr Beaver climbed aboard.

Could he have swum? Of course, he could, but sailing he adored.

Cats are cute and cuddly clean; they lick themselves all day,

Could they taste of cup-cakes, their coat a sweet entrée?

Can a cat crave control and cease his licky-lick?

Does the spittle on its fur help flees and flies to stick?

Darren was a Doberman, a dour and distant dog,

Defeated by a Dingo in a race across a bog.

Darren didn’t let defeat deter his dashing dream,

Entering Olympics he won bronze on the high-beam.

Every event that Evan endured left him feeling blue,

Even experiences exciting him couldn’t end his flu.

Evan embraced his doctor’s advice to go and have a shot.

Fear gripped him as he walked on in, ‘cause the shot was in his bot.

Felix was a forest fox who foraged for a feast.

Ferreting out a ferret was fantastic fun to say the least.

Forgetting the farmer and foxhound would chase him for a hunt,

Getting away was a frivolous lark and a funny YouTube stunt.

Georgie got a great big hole in her Granny’s garden gloves.

Gaby cut the fingers off to grip the bike she loves.

Good guys give their garments away, granting them new again,

Have them stitched and mended up, or swap them now and then.

Horace had a horrible hat his Nanna knit for him,

His first harsh howl on seeing it was, “Throw it in the bin”.

Having his Nanna on holiday, he knew would make her frown,

In order to spare her feelings, he burnt his whole house down.

Instead of a house, where there’s infinite snow, they invented an igloo of ice.

Inside, I imagine, they installed lots of fur, and insulation would be very nice.

Imagine if, with the snow all around, you lost your own front door.

Just like that, you’d be homeless again - an ice house would be quite a chore.

Justin Jones jumped just enough to jerk his friend Jack’s jacket

Jack, from Japan, was not impressed and jagged Justin’s ear to whack it.

Jimmy jumped between the pair to plead for calm and justice,

Kapow they went, Justin and Jack, saying Jim’s a fool to trust us.

Karyn couldn’t understand how K and C were sounded,

Keep K hard, but C’s the same unless it’s soft and rounded.

K is for kite and kick and kilt, but C’s the same for Cupid.

Let’s all agree; it’s not that clear, in fact, it’s sometimes stupid.

Murtle the mosquito just loves the taste of blood.

Moonlit nights she makes the scene with her bizzy-bizz, buzz-buzz.

My what a nose, much like a hose, to milk blood from your vein.

Now here’s the trick - slap her – quick - and flick her down the drain.

Norton the Newt was nearly mute as he nosed around in nature,

Never afraid, nor a nervous trait, he was bold and brave in stature.

Night time would near, and he’d nest in his nook, the moonlight brightly beaming,

Others may think he’d be bored to the brink, but with Wi-Fi Norton’s been streaming.

Outrageous Otto the Orangutan opted to dye his hair blue.

Overcome with surprise, his parents cried, what on earth did you go and do?

Otto just smiled, as he stroked his blue hair, and combed some styling gel through.

Perhaps, he surmised, if I don’t blink my eyes, they won’t notice my brand new tattoo.

Plop, plink, plug, and some sounds like sludge, are words where the spelling is freer.

Particularly gross, P words are the most – can you say onomatopoeia?

Peculiar words that cannot be unheard, they sound like the thing they’re describing.

Quack from a duck, or Vroom from a truck, or A-choo when you’re perfectly hiding.

Quiggly little Quoll had a boat with outboard motor,

Quickly he would tear down river for a ride.

Quiet wasn’t what he knew; he revved beyond his quota.

Regretfully he now rides upon the tide.

Rueben Renshaw was a rat with rare good taste to spare.

Renowned at retro galleries, he dressed with regal flare.

Refusing rates of any kind, he was a trust fund child,

Some say that’s why he disappeared and why the fat cat smiled.

Sissy Snake succumbed through seasons to slither slow to see,

Someone stole her glasses and snuck them up a tree.

Suspects many said “No, no, I did not steal from snake,”

Today she sees with flick of tongue and a wiggly little shake.

Two tonne Tony tears the trees to tiny little pieces.

Twenty men once tooled those trestles, until they lost their leases.

Tony never takes a break or tours the staff canteen,

Unless he needs some maintenance - for Tony’s a machine.

Under an Umbrella is unreal on rainy days,

Unless you get unusually gusty wind.

Uncontrollable is what becomes of umbrellas bent wrong ways,

Very wet you’ll be until your brolly’s binned.

Virtual Virgil lived online in a world that was virtually real.

Vitally, Virgil didn’t know he was virtual; he thought his name full of appeal.

Viewing his world as totally real, Virgil asked questions the same,

When the power failed, and he disappeared, he discovered he lived in a game.

Wesley was a Walker who walked the whole day through,

Wanting an Olympic gold, he wore out each new shoe.

When he wanted some new wares he’d walk a mile to buy,

X-Ray goggles you would need, to see his quick feet fly.

X marks the spot for pirate Xav, which didn’t help him at all,

Xeriffs were buried, Xav didn’t know where, for the clues on his map were too small.

Xavier the Pirate was in a tight spot, until he decoded a sonnet,

“Yippee,” he cried, as the words made more sense, revealing a spot with X on it.

Yes is about the world’s very best word, it means you get your new thing;

Your treat; your ride; your present ticked, your tricked out mega bling.

Yet other words come that you’ll also hear, like no, not yet or never,

Zero chance is another, it means ten times no; no hope, I’m sorry - not ever.

Zak and Zara were both quite sad because their names came last,

Zeal for alphabetic lists they lost, as everyone zipped past.

Zebras also share this fate and Z words never trend,

Zo Zak and Zara started to cheat and make up Z words – Ze End.

More of the Best and Worst Camouflage Ever Seen.

2017-04-24T20:14:00.000-07:00

President Trump presents, The Greatest Show On Earth!

2017-04-17T19:36:00.000-07:00

Remember The Donald, before he was The President Trump?

Remember how he held a press conference and all the journalists and networks were waiting for hours, cutting into their programming and holding off shows as they waited with bated breath?

And they waited and waited and waited some more.

Then The Donald arrived and made his big announcement. It was little more than an infomercial promoting Trump products and Trump Hotels. Remember that? I always thought it was Donald J just testing how far he had hooked his suckers.

The angry journalists waved their angry little fists and flapped their angry little gums in the middle of their angry little faces and decried, "He played us! There was no big announcement. He promised us a big announcement, and he didn't deliver!. He used us to gouge a little more of the billion dollars in free media coverage we're giving him! What a complete rogue!"

Then the media went back to giving him their undivided attention and promoting fake news they'd sourced from facebook, twitter or by quoting someone else who'd sourced the idea from facebook or twitter.

It's journalism 21st-century style... where unvetted information is raced to air in a bid to be first and Dulcie from Bachas Marsh has just tweeted, 95% of all foreigners are assassins according to a man wearing a white coat and holding a clipboard. Fascinating, Dulcie.

So jump forward a year and President The Donald is under some heavy scrutiny. First, there were claims he was part of a conspiracy with the Russians. There were claims those pesky Russlanders had infiltrated social media to the extent that they had posted unbelievable crap on facebook and Americans had failed to spot that Hillary wasn't in fact possessed and controlled by Honey-Boo-Boo and had adjusted their vote as a result. Those Russians! How did they ever come up with such an ingenious plan? Zuckerberg - Arghhh! The name of an Eastern European sleeper agent if ever I heard one.



If you submerge yourself in the exabytes of metadata the government is now legally allowed to keep on all of us, you'll find The President, The Donald's head of security was shown to have been discussing things with Russia before the election. Gadzooks!



What had they been discussing? Fake news? Fake science? Fake reality show drama? We may never know because they removed Mike Flynn as the National Security Advisor. It's time to go - Mike Flynn - and don't answer any questions on your way out unless you get immunity, granted by The Donald's people. Tick, tick, tick - won't be a moment with that immunity - just take a seat.

Then Jeff Sessions, The Trump - The Donald - The President's appointment as Attorney General, suddenly came under even greater scrutiny as the next Babushka doll in the Russian election scandal.

 
That's the moment P.T Barnum - The Donald - The President Trump tweeted that Obama had Wiretapped the Trump offices leading up to the election. It was finally a scandal that could have used the suffix. "Gate," because it was an accusation of spying on your opponent during the lead up to an election. It would have made sense to add "Gate" to the end of it, but the media had finally worn "Gate" out.

NIPPLEGATE

Hardly a word has been heard about the controversy surrounding Jeff Sessions or any implications surrounding his connections with the Russian scandal since that bombshell was tweeted by The Leader in Tweet.

The Donald, The J, The Trump, The Tweeter in Chief, The President created a bigger news story. With the skill of a world-class showman orchestrating a misdirect, he caused all the investigative journalists to run off, following the sign he planted reading, "This way to the egress."

Jeff Sessions was in the clear. This left him as the Attorney General, with his first job being to put in place and oversee a thorough investigation into the Russian influence scandal - and I am predicting, and I know it will shock many, that the verdict he returns will be that he, Jeff Sessions, did not done it.

But the pesky journalists were like a dog with a bone and they just kept digging into the story. Russia would not go away.

Kaboom! A US airstrike took out a Syrian airbase. And not just any Syrian airbase. This was the one that launched O-Zone's Dragonstea Din Tei or Numa Numa on a poor, defenceless, unsuspecting world.

I'm sorry, I'm just being told that was Moldova, not Syria, but in Trump's world, a world of fake news - it's close enough.

Then the angry Russians waved their angry little fists and flapped their angry little gums in the middle of their angry little faces and decried, "He played us! He should have asked us first! He doesn't know the first thing about bombing ettiquete. Now we don't like him at all."

That's why relations between Russia and The Donald's USA are at an all time low - low - low! But wait! They can go even lower - if they need to.

Trump was quick to agree. Things with Russia are bad. Biggly bad, which is the very worst type of bad and let's all hope they don't become bigglier badder.



Within a month, The Donald's love fest with Putie dived into a hatefest. And coincidently, it was the very same month when the investigations into Putin giving The Donald a reach-around, election wise, was building up steam. 

But now, the bigglier baddest relations between the two ever proves how wrong those suspicions were. THIS WAY TO THE EGRESS PEOPLE!

To summarise, Russian and American relations are at an all time low. Anyone thinking there was a collaboration between Russian oligarchs and extremely wealthy American business interests, to gain a sweetheart deal with billion dollar oil pipelines or other environmentally questionable, but extremely profitable infrastructure, is simply wrong.

Even though those very profitable projects that stalled or were impeded by global politics, ostensibly blocked through lobbying by the Obama administration and the Democrats, are now мертвый. There is no communication between the two countries at all. If people thought those billion dollar projects were more likely to go through now that Trump and his Droogs are in office - Подумайте еще раз - it's just not going to happen.

So, that's the state of affairs in Trump's American administration. Mike out, Jeff in, look over there, me and Putin aren't friends, and mind your own business or I'm going to call you a name.

There will be no civility or agreement reached anytime soon between Donald.J.Trumperica and Vlad the Terrible's Rossia. And certainly not complicated contractual business agreements between Russian and American superbusinesses to make lots and lots of money flow. That's just not on the cards - because relations have never been so biggly bad.

You rogue, Donald.J, you rogue - now, can you point me towards the egress?