The Landscape is Changing?

Or

My Take on the Rise of UKIP

On Thursday 22nd of May 2014 an historic election was held in in the United Kingdom. Of course there was a possibility of it being historical anyway, whatever the outcome, because it may yet prove to be the final election to be held in the UK in its present form.  But the outcome was, as it turns out, an electoral "earthquake". For the first time since 1857 an election was won in Great Britain by a party that was not Labour, or Conservative or Liberal.  The winners, instead were the motley bunch of "fruitcakes, loonies and closet racists" that call themselves the United Kingdom Independence Party. As a result Labour are long of face, the Tories are terrified, and the Liberal Democrats are decimated. And all the major parties ask themselves "what will this mean in 2015?"

There has been (and will be) much analysis over why UKIP were successful, but here's some of my thoughts on the subject.

The Financial Crisis of the Late Naughties

This is the most often blamed cause of the rise of extremism that we are witnessing, and not without good reason.

We see from history that economic hardship encourages such social and political upheaval. Moderate governments are helpless to prevent poverty and hardship while the scapegoating offered by "extremists" suddenly takes on an appeal for people who are looking for someone to blame for the loss of their livelihoods.

Corruption

Tony Blair's government was going to be "whiter than white". David Cameron's government was going to be even whiter than that. How did that turn out?

Above all this we have the eternal image of the "Gravy train" that emanates from Brussels, with unelected bureaucrats, their faces eternally in the trough of public finance that funds their celebrity lifestyles. Was it they that handed out lessons in feathering your nest which were gratefully absorbed by British MP's as they filled out their expense forms?

The politics of Consensus

Margaret Thatcher's Conservative government pulled Britain, some would say irrevocably, to the right wing of politics, ending the nationalisation of industry and services and destroying union power. In response, Tony Blair's "New Labour" was nothing more than a watered down version of the 18 years of Conservative government that preceded it and left its indelible print upon Britain.

However "New Labour" themselves became so successful that in response to them, David Cameron moved the Tories to the left, and sang a song of hugging hoodies from his new headquarters in the North Pole, where he was determined to tell us how bad Global Warming was getting don't you know. And so we looked from blue to red, and from red to blue, and it was difficult to tell which was which any more.

The Liberal Democrats, who you would have thought might have been squeezed out of existence by this seeming amalgamation of Labour and Conservative, actually continued to profit from it until they had their first taste of real power, broke key promises and suddenly they were being beaten with the same stick they had used to beat the other parties.

With the main parties now indistinguishable, many of their policies will begin to look similar.  And so we ask ourselves, is there a consensus about certain aims of the parties? Are there things that we will be subjected to, whichever way we vote? What about something like mass immigration?  What about further integration with the EU?

And so as a reaction to this consensus UKIP emerges.

"The Political Classes"

The Conservative Party have always been open to the accusation of being upper class and elitist (though ironically their greatest icon, Margaret Thatcher, was famously a shop keeper's daughter), but since New Labour, and the dawn of 24 hour media coverage, politicians are more savvy, more patronising and less naturally sincere than ever before.  It's interesting how the internet has bought politicians both closer to us ("Twitter makes tw*ts of us all") and at the same time made more keenly felt our separation from them.

UKIP are attracting a vote from people who feel this party are speaking for "them" against this political elite. Again, ironic for a party that is lead by a former stockbroker.

Finally there are the votes from those people to whom UKIP represent a "change".

Is there a lesson to be learned from this? What do the people want?

1. They want trustworthy, transparent politics

2. They want politicians with character, and individuality

3. They want boldness perhaps?  Some more radical ideas?

4. They want somebody who not only claims to represent them, but somebody who is ONE of them.

5. They want a change

And perhaps another lesson is that we need parties that cater for a full spectrum of opinion, from right to left. When all of the parties are scrabbling towards the same patch of centre ground is this not the inevitable result? The emergence of a party like UKIP? The question that follows on from that is, if UKIP are now catering for those who lean more to the right, who will provide balance from the left?

The Green Party?

... And Finally...

So, in conclusion, will the landscape change?  I think it can, but only if more people become engaged in politics.  And maybe UKIP could help here - because to the people who support them, they are a breath of fresh air.  And if you want to stop them, there's only one thing you can do - you've got to get involved.

Some people would say "but the very existence of UKIP is dangerous".

To this I say good.

Because we need something with a little danger.  Because politics without danger is politics that lacks interest, and becomes the kind of politics that gives us interchangeable parties, an electorate that don't care, and a political elite that thinks it can do what it likes, with or without our consent.

I've Got the Poison, I've Got the Remedy

A shock scientific research paper was published yesterday that could change the way we eat forever. Following the revelations of research published last year that found that everything we previously believed was wrong, it has been revealed that everything we subsequently believed, even after adjusting for agreeing that we were wrong, was even even wronger than that.

Don't even think about it

And scientists have found that if you are eating anything vaguely nice, or foods that are not utterly boring, you will die a terrible, terrible death.  "I don't know what the hell people are thinking when they even look at a cake," declared Dr Hans Gruber, director of the institute of meddling and browbeating people with the so called facts in Switzerland, "they might as well be throwing themselves in an incinerator when they do that."

"Is it really that bad?" we wondered.

"No, I am afraid it is worse," Dr Gruber told us. "Cake, pizza, bread, sweet tasting fruit like pomegranate or even those little frozen peas - all these are as good as deadly poison. Instead people should be preparing themselves a meal of gruel with raw vegetables. And be doing that many times a day.  Then they should be using cod liver oil suppositories while chewing live grubs very slowly."

You’re wrong so eat it

How many times a day should they be doing that?

"Think of a number," answered professor Gruber. "have you thought of it?  Well, it's not enough. Now double that number, and it's still not enough. Increase it much more. Have you done that? Well, it's still wrong and it's still not enough. Whatever answer you come up with it's wrong, and if you give up and don't try that's wrong too. Whatever you do or don't do it's bad and wrong."

A Bell Curve yesterday

But the awful news is that things are going to get even worse than that. "Yes, things are worse than that," confirmed Dr Gruber. "Because of genetics and things of that nature, projected bell curves, scatter diagrams and statistical mean averages" he warned. "Think of how bad things can be," he explained, "well you're wrong, it's worse, so multiply the badness by ten.  Then you're still wrong, because it's worse than that. And it'll continue to get worse, because of climate change and then still worse, and after that it will get worse and worse and worse. But, no, you're wrong, because it's still worse than you guessed."

Shitting on you from a great height

Is there anything people can do?

"Well, first you must admit you are wrong and we're right," replied Professor Gruber, "but then we'll confirm soon that you're even more wrong than you thought and we're even more right, but I'm afraid after that, when you've changed round everything and tried to adapt we're going to tell you that's bad and wrong because we've changed everything again to show that we are yet more right and you yet more wrong. There is no escape. And if you try to escape the consequences will be catastrophic and if you don't try to escape they will be even more disastrous. We're currently working on a future escalation model of horribleness that you can't even imagine, and don't be foolish enough to try to imagine and prepare and don't even think of not trying."

Professor Gruber left us to continue his research. He lives in a rarefied environment with lots of other painfully clever people and his hobbies include being smug and ruining your day.

This Corrosion

Bitterness

This corrosion

Eats away

It waits inside

Sometimes seething

Sometimes sleeping

Always there

Waiting patient

Unknowing

This potential

Lying dormant

Then erupting

Blood infusing

Anger Rising

Now transormed

Finds expression

Articulated

This tirade

Wounded pride

Bursting forth

Brutal logic

Selfish viewpoint

Scattered careless

Venom vented

Mortified

This wreckage

Empty vengeance

Things said cannot

Be unsaid

Pyrrhic triumph

Guilt takes hold

Regret overwhelms

Festering

This resentment

Now retreating

Falling silent

Again it waits

Acid interior

In constant vigil  

Monkey riding

Beseech for healing

Would I Lie to You

Or

Truth & The Internet

Or

Why it is Essential, Absolutely Essential to Believe in Nothing

Two flashpoints, one a revolution, the other a civil war, are currently being endured by two nations in the glare of the world's media, and commentators, and bloggers, and alternative media. I speak of Syria and Ukraine.

I think one thing can be said with confidence nowadays: for anyone who takes more than a passing interest in news and current events, the authoritative voice of the so called "Main Stream Media" (MSM), whether that voice be coming from the BBC, CNN, Al Jazeera, RT or whichever MSM channel you may follow or watch, has been eroded until the reports from each of these channels are merely part of the general clamour that envelopes the unfortunate subjects of their attention like some kind of miasma of clashing opinion and claim and counter claim. 

Two particular incidents sum up how elusive the truth seems in modern times, and how difficult it is to discern the true nature of the course of events that are unfolding before us.  The first was the chemical attack that took place in August 2013 in Syria.  Who was it who bombed the civilian population of Syria and left men, women and children so horribly scarred?

Was it the government forces under Bashar Al-Assad? Was it the opposition to the government including but not limited to the Free Syrian Army?  Or was it an outside force with an agenda one way or the other?  The Americans, the Israelis, the Iranians?  Depending on which theory, perspective or account you read, you will get a different answer.

The second incident took place in February 2014 in the Ukraine, when civilian protesters were cut down by snipers during the demonstrations and riots that brought down Ukrainian president Viktor Yanukovych.  Who was responsible for the murders?  Or was it government forces as they tried to clamp down on the rioters?  Was it the rioters themselves, deliberately targeting the most vulnerable members of the population in order to frame government forces and thus facilitate their insurrection?  Again, according to the source you choose, the answer will be different.

It was once said that "The first casualty of war is the truth", but now, in this internet age, when everyone is given a voice, we can have as much truth as we like - or are we simply getting more perspectives than any one of us can handle?

Revolution - Then and Now

Another thing I wonder is - now we have so many perspectives on world events - was there ever a self-contained revolution within a country, not influenced by outside forces, who were fooling the people of that country into believing that they were improving their lot while all the while plotting to betray their hopes and leave them in an even worse position?

Was it anything like this in the old days?  Like, for instance in the French Revolution?

"Revolution is brewing but it is all the fault of the Deist Americans, who wish to bring Europe under the thrall of their Godless regime. I read it in this British Broadcasting Parchment."

"Nonsense!  The revolutionaries are controlled by the British Empire, who together with the Germans, wish to control the French through anarchy and chaos, I read it in the News of the Fox."

"Gentlemen!  Let us put aside our cynicism and drink to the will of the people! Here's to the victory of liberty and hope!"

"Perhaps you're right.  Anybody would think, listening to us that France was heading towards terror and then dictatorship!"

"Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Cheers!"

Talk to the People?

I did have a thought that speaking to the people of an affected country might solve the problem.  Surely no one could have a more authentic voice than, say, a Syrian, or a Ukrainian? And that is true - but only to an extent. That's because people are complex creatures. Often they don't know what they want. Or if they do know what they want, they might not want the same thing as the next person. And even if they do want the same thing, they might not agree on the best way to get it. I heard it said recently, ask any two Ukrainians how they feel about the current crisis, and you'll get about eleven different answers.

And ultimately countries don't fall into a state of revolution and civil war because their situation is straightforward.

You Couldn't Handle the Truth

The other problem is the multi-faceted nature of the truth. One man works in the Sun and says he was hot. Another man works next to him in the shade and says he was cold. Who is telling the truth? Both of them are.  Just as one person may say to you, "Putin is being aggressive, territorial, and risking war", while another person may say to you "Putin is defending his country," and both of them are telling the truth as well.

So, in the end, where are we? Nearer the truth, or more confused than ever?

Well, as regards mainstream media, my advice would be, listen to what they say, but assume that what they are telling you is the beginning of the story, and very far from the be all and end all.  Also, what they don't tell you can be just as significant as what they do.

Look to alternative news sources then, but remember that they can be just as driven by an agenda as the MSM.  But they can also fill gaps in the "official" story, and they can give you a perspective that the mainstream have either accidentally or deliberately ignored.

And indeed listen to what the people at the sharp end are telling you, but remember - just as my portrait of Britain, as a member of the Green Party, will be different from the portrait described by Joe Bloggs of the UK Independence Party - so you may not get a full picture from one voice;  or two, or three or even four.

And then choose what you want to believe.

Or not believe.

 

The Art of Dying In Your Sleep

The Country scene was as peaceful as it was empty.  It bled tranquility from the edges of the painting.  The sky was an infinite, featureless blue.  To the foreground of the painting, a hedgerow marched, right to left, into the distance; its stark, leafless thicket broken sporadically by a tall, naked tree.  Beyond the hedge there lay a scene of natural beauty that stretched to the horizon:  Rolling fields demarcated by greener hedgerows that were dotted with individual trees or small groups clustered into small woods; and in the distance, a shimmering river that wended its way to become lost in the valleys that separated the sleepy hillsides.

It would all have been perfect – a paean to the stillness and the serenity of the countryside – were it not for the devouring void that burned through the centre of the picture.   A sinkhole in the painting’s reality had opened up – a perfectly circular whirlpool of entropy that sent ripples outwards from its black heart.  The impact of the void was heightened by a Trompe-l'œil effect, which made the black hole appear at once living and vital, but also bereft of life. 

The void was consuming everything.

“A masterpiece,” commented the observer, a man named Richard Calthorpe.  He was viewing the painting from a hospital bed, the kind of bed one would lie in when being transported to an operating theatre. His black hair contrasted with his pale skin and his malnourished frame, and he was hooked up to a plasma bag and other apparatus which assisted his bodily functions.  Both patient and painting were situated in a spacious, pristine, airy room that was lit with beams of light that poured through the gaps in large, half covered windows.

“And this one is also called ‘Dying in Your Sleep’?” asked Calthorpe to the smartly dressed man who stood beside his bed.

“Indeed,” confirmed the man, whose name was Edward Borman, “as are all of the paintings in this collection.” Borman was slim of frame and sported a thin and greying head of hair, but his eyes blazed and his demeanour was commanding.

Calthorpe considered for a moment and then asked another question. “Who was the artist? What were his circumstances?”

Borman glanced down at Calthorpe before answering in an unwavering voice: “The artist was a young woman called Hope Shawcross, who was tortured to death over a number of days as this painting was created.  She died of her injuries, in her sleep, just after I decided that this painting was complete.”

Borman looked at Calthorpe again, his expression harsh.  “I take it those details don’t make you squeamish,” he said pointedly, “You are playing your full part in this project, and I assure you that Ms Shawcross was a willing party to her fate.  I commissioned her painting, and she agreed the circumstance under which she would create the Magnum Opus of her existence on Earth.

“She died for her art, in order for her life to have meaning.”

In response, Calthorpe croaked a few inaudible words before coughing and clearing his throat. “Yes… yes I understand,” he intoned, “but still the details are somewhat shocking…”

“Perhaps,” conceded Borman, “but as a volunteer for this experiment yourself, it is probable that your fate will be considered no less shocking.  Speaking of which…”

Borman made a small ‘come hither’ gesture towards the doorway of the immaculately maintained room, and Hope Shawcross’s painting was swiftly removed upon its easel by two assistants, while two more placed a new work of art in the same space as the previous one had occupied.

For a few moments the two men contemplated the brush stroked scene that was now before them.

It was a view, from above, of a man that stood upon the edge of a steep cliff.  The man was of sleek frame, was naked from the waist upwards, and his skin seemed to glow against a pitch dark background.  He was leaning forward, his heals lifting and his arms spread wide as he launched himself from the grey rocks at the edge of a cliff; he was diving into emptiness.

The cliff from which the man departed extended downwards forever.  And the blackness that pressed upon it - and into which the man was diving - was similarly infinite.  As with Hope’s painting it was the void that appeared the stronger part of the image, making the other elements fragile, transitory and ephemeral.

“And this one is also called ‘Dying in Your Sleep’,” stated Borman as he studied the painting, “but this one is your vision.”

“Yes,” said Calthorpe with a slight nod, “This is what I have seen, in the dreams you have induced.”

“Hmm,” Borman mused, “the drugs have done their job well.  This is a powerful and disturbing piece.”

At this the smartly dressed business man turned away from the painting, and he gazed at the partly covered windows, temporarily lost to the world. “But is it the vision that I will see…” he whispered to himself.  Borman raised a skeletal, callous covered hand and studied it with a look of fascination and disgust before inhaling sharply.

You have surpassed yourself Calthorpe,” he told the bed ridden artist, “this will be the finest work you will ever produce. 

“And now it is time for your medication. ”

Calthorpe’s inhalation was long, and his lip trembled slightly.  “And when I sleep this time,” he asked, “will I awaken?”

“Only if it is decided there is work still to be done upon your painting,” Borman answered, “and that decision is mine.”

Calthorpe grimaced, and opened his mouth to speak, but then the two assistants reappeared.  This time their task was to remove him.  The artist regarded his commissioner for one last time, his expression one of someone who had missed his chance to say a last goodbye, before the door was shut.  And Borman was left to consider another Magnum Opus of which he had sponsored the creation.

As Borman scrutinized the fatalistic image, a shaft of sunlight pierced the partially open curtains and temporarily illuminated the figure that was about to plunge into oblivion.

Was this a sign? Did this show that the artist’s work was done? If so Borman would give the appropriate instructions for the artist’s next dose.  And then it would be time for Calthorpe to discover the authenticity of his drug induced vision.

Borman glanced back into the sunlight, and then turned again towards the painting.

After a moment’s further deliberation, he made his decision. 

Who Made Me This Way?

The offices of Cambrian Explosion Incorporated were modern, spacious and feng shui compliant. There was a relaxed atmosphere about the place, but this didn’t mean it wasn’t busy.  Because day by day within C.E. Incorporated’s environs, multiple and myriad designs were being drawn up and poured over and tested under a countless variety of conditions.  Concurrent meetings upon meetings followed up by further meetings were held concerning projections – always projections, being proposed, considered and refined - and holographic simulations of the Earth and sometimes the solar system that it was a part of were displayed in glorious micro and macro representations.  In these meetings strategies and estimates were debated, with attendant discussions upon climate, physiology, meteorology, geology and astronomy.

            And then there were the animals.

            Animals comprised the staff of C.E. Inc., and the flora and fauna of Earth were the subject of the company’s business.  So it was that on any given day you could find Elephants discussing the appearance of fish; insects drawing up diagrams of farm animals; frogs concerning themselves with appearance of an aardvark’s snout, or the scent of a rose, and further, even more incongruous combinations.

            The reason they did all this was because of the business of the corporation they worked for – and that business was evolution. 

For a time immemorial, Cambrian Explosion Inc. had worked unseen upon the Earth. It had worked to guide the physical and mental development of terrestrial organisms in a vast and hazardous universe.  And it had been working, in fact, since the Cambrian Explosion - and that was roughly five hundred and fifty million years ago.  Under the auspices of this venerable corporation, across thousands of generations, sheep had become whales, dinosaurs had become birds and apes had become human beings.  “Our selections are all natural and designed intelligently”: that was their motto.

But not all of the subjects of C.E. Inc.’s evolutionary tinkering were happy with the bodies they were allocated.  And on that morning a small creature was waiting impatiently in a reception that was bedecked with pastel coloured comfy seats and tasteful, uniquely decorated plantation.  A coffee cup was steaming in front of it, untouched.

At length a gazelle ambled into the waiting room and looked over at the diminutive visitor.  “Mr Trump will see you now,” the gazelle informed the visitor.

“Mr Trump?” replied the visitor in a startled voice. “Not Donald Trump?”

The gazelle chuckled.  “No, it’s not that Mr Trump,” it reassured the little reptile.  “Everyone makes that mistake - this Mr Trump is in fact an octopig.”

“An octo what?!” exclaimed the little creature in confusion.

The gazelle laughed again, “You’ll see what I mean,” it assured visitor.  “And how about you Mr Ross?” it went on cheerfully, “You’re a tile turtle!”

Mr Ross gave a heartfelt sigh.  “Yes, I am a tile turtle,” he agreed, “for my sins.”

The gazelle considered the tile turtle’s response briefly.  “You don’t like being a tile turtle,” it concluded.

The tile turtle jerked its head back to where a piece of elaborately designed ceramic with sharp edges was sat upon its back.  “Would you like to be a tile turtle if you had to put up with that all of your life?” it asked the gazelle sullenly.

The gazelle inclined its head to one side as it took in the tile turtle’s tile.  “I quite like it actually…” said the nimble footed herbivore, “Interesting pattern.  Kind of psychedelic…”

The turtle snorted loudly.

“Anyway, please come this way,” the gazelle said briskly.  “Mr Trump is waiting…”

Mr Trump’s office was large and immaculately furnished with white cushions, and softly lit by tastefully arranged rectangular glass fittings that lined the white walls.  At the head of the room was a large, wide mahogany desk that was covered with executive paraphernalia, such as a slick computer with a transparent glass keyboard, a silver effect classic design office telephone, a gigantic flatscreen multi-purpose liquid crystal display and one of those executive toys with the little balls that knock into each other.  

Above the desk there squatted huge creature with a black, bulbous, rounded body and eight long, hairy legs segmented at the middle.  Around the beast were the fruits of its labour – sheets of webbing that covered the ceiling and hung down like a curtain from it, adding an additional decoration and almost partitioning the office.

            “This is Mr Trump, head of the department for arachnids and small reptiles,” announced the gazelle in a cordial tone - it turned towards the turtle - “Mr Trump, this is Mr Ross; he’s a tile turtle.”

            “Hello!” said the room’s occupant jovially.  “How are you today?”

            Mr Ross gazed at Mr Trump with his mouth open.  “You’re a giant spider?” he speculated uncertainly.

            “Octopig,” Trump corrected him quickly and firmly, “I’m an octopig.  Like a spider but not the same.  Think of alligators and crocodiles.”

            “Oh, right,” said Mr Ross, his reptilian features forming the approximation of a frown. 

            The gazelle receptionist wished them both a good morning and left the room.

            “So, Mr Ross,” said Mr Trump brightly.  “I hear you want to complain about something?”

            Ross got straight to the point.  “I have a bathroom tile on my back,” he said.

            “Indeed you have!” proclaimed Mr Trump in agreement, “Ah, evolution, are you not wonderful?” he went on in an indulgent tone, “Here we have a product of the symbiotic relationship between two species, as across thousands of years, the tile turtle adapted to life in a human bathroom...”

            But the unusually decorated turtle had no time for such musings.  "Oh cut the David Attenborough crap will you?” he said with contempt.  “Look, I don't want to have a bathroom tile on my back okay? I want to have a normal looking turtle shell, like a normal turtle.”

            “But you,” replied the octopig, unperturbed, “are not what you would call ‘a normal turtle’.  You want a ‘shell’ you say?  Well, I'd like to have wings like a bird! But we can't have everything can we?  You have to deal with cards you're given, as the saying goes.”

            “But I'm dealing with the cards you gave me!” protested the turtle.

            “Now you're just nit picking-”

"No I'm not, it's your stupid corporation that doomed me to carry a wall decoration around on my back and I'm not having it!  I mean who made me this way?  Who's responsible?”

Trump sighed, but his tone remained only mildly exasperated.  “That's not the kind of information I can just provide to you,” he told his visitor.  “I mean, do you know how big this corporation is?  It is large beyond comprehension, that’s how big it is. And do you know how many species on earth are changing and mutating all the time?” his voice rose slightly as he answered his own question – “All of them are!  That's how many species! 

“And now you want to come in here, and change the design that was made for you across countless millennia of natural selection?  Well, I'm sorry it's not going to happen and you cannot make that choice, any more than I or any other living creature can.  You can't just go back and unmake yourself.  That's not the way things work.”

But Ross was not to be deterred.  “I want to speak to someone in charge!” he demanded.

“You are speaking to someone in charge,” answered Trump, “I’m in charge of the department of -”

“Not of the head of spiders or whatever this particular department is called,” snarled the turtle, “I mean I want to speak to the top dog - the guy who leads the whole company!”

Trump fell silent.  Ross bristled and continued to regard the department head with a truculent expression.

When the octopig resumed the exchange, his voice was heavy with irony.  “So, you want to take your complaint to the head of operations for the evolution of Life on Earth, do you?” he asked the turtle, his tone funereal.  “You wish to reprimand the being who has supervised this entire corporation for hundreds of millions of years. You want to give our boss a piece of your mind.”

Ross swallowed before replying.  “Yes…” he began hesitantly, and lowered his head.  But then after a moment’s consideration he looked up again at the octopig, and his voice gained more boldness.

“Yes,” he decided, “yes I do.  Well why shouldn’t I?  The design I’ve been given is as important as any other plant or animal isn’t it?  I mean, I might only be a tile turtle, but I'm all I've got!  Why shouldn't I be able to complain to anyone I want to?” 

“Well, if you insist,” Said Trump, his voice now resigned.

By now Ross’s voice had gained a shrill edge as he became more convinced of his own rightness.  “It is my life, you know,” he declared.  “You shouldn’t forget tha – what did you say?”

“I said alright,” Trump replied irritably. 

“Alright what?”

“Alright, you can speak to the boss.”

Ross swallowed again.  Then he temporarily found himself impersonating a fish and his mouth opened and closed several times, though no words were forthcoming.  Eventually he managed to say “Seriously?!” in a choked voice.

“Yes, seriously,” said Trump, in a tone of gentle self condemnation.  “I suppose you do have a point.  After all, if we can’t respond to the worries of one of our customers, then what can we do…?”  One of the octopig’s legs pressed an intercom button.  “Ms Tessmarker?” he asked.

Ross recognised the reply as coming from the gazelle that had shown him in earlier.  “What can I do you for?” she asked cheerfully.

“Can you ask Mr God to come in, please?” requested the octopig.

Ross broke into a coughing fit at this, and he almost flipped backwards onto the tile that thrust upwards from his back.  Two of Trump’s eyes glanced up in concern to witness his visitor’s episode.  “Mr Ross, are you alright?” enquired the giant arachnid.

“Mr… God…” was all Ross managed to croak in reply.

“Aah, the name, I see what you’re saying now”, said Trump with an amused shake of his bulbous cranium.  “No, no - it’s not that God, it’s another one!” the arachnid chuckled.  “We do have some fun with names in this company you know.  For instance my name’s Trump, but obviously I’m not the famous entrepreneur and magnate.  And then there’s Mr God.  Crazy stuff! 

“‘You don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps’ - that’s our motto!”  Trump declared, and laughed.  “Oh, we are silly sausages round here,” he mused when he recovered his breath, “We need to check ourselves before we wreck ourselves!”

There was a knock at the door.

“Ah, that will be God!” announced Trump in a satisfied manner.  “Mister God that is!” he corrected himself.  He made a sound similar to a human clearing his throat and addressed the closed door.

“Please, come in…”

The door opened, Mr. God made his entrance.

He was a duck billed platypus.

Ross’s resolve crumbled into abject misery.

“Are you alright, Mr Ross?” enquired Mr God by way of an introduction.  “If I didn’t know better I would have said you were disappointed.  Can I ask your first name by the way?”

            “Leonard,” replied a sullen turtle as he regarded the duck billed platypus unhappily.  “And yes, I am.”

            “Well, if you’re disappointed about what I think you’re disappointed about, you shouldn’t be, Leonard, if I can call you that,” Mr God stated confidently, “Because I think you’re incredible; incredible - and indeed indelible.  Just think of your place in the scheme of things.  Even in the rich tapestry that is natural history that place is unique: a species that has developed a symbiotic interface with the decorative artificial construct of another species.”

            “I didn’t understand a word of that,” sighed Ross.

            “Your tiles are cool, that’s what I was saying,” explained Mr God.

            “Right,” the crestfallen turtle acknowledged. Leonard bowed his head, not in the least bit comforted by Mr God’s speech.  All anger his anger was spent, all his hope evaporated.  “Well, it hardly matters anyway,” he muttered, “I mean, look at you…”

“Look at me?”

A taken aback Mr God looked himself up and down, his beak swinging backwards to look over his shoulder down to his tail. 

“What’s wrong with me?”

“Well,” said Ross, seemingly more dejected by the minute, “you’re a duck billed platypus aren’t you?  I would have thought that if any other species would be complaining to evolution it would be you.  But here you are, running the place!”

“What?!” exclaimed Mr God, and he burst out laughing. This served to make Ross’s grimace etch itself more firmly into his reptilian features.  He had come here to complain, not to provide the entertainment.  Eventually Mr God was ready to reply. 

“But I have no reason to complain, just the opposite, I thank my lucky stars!” He boomed.

“You do?”  stammered Lenny, taken aback.

“Sure I do!” replied the duck billed platypus.  “I mean, look at me – I have the beak of a duck, the tail of a beaver, the fur of a bear and webbed feet like the Man from Atlantis!  Why would I complain about that?  I’m awesome!”

            Mr God lifted one of his aforementioned webbed feet and patted Trump on the head with it.  “Lenny Lenny Lenny…” he intoned, “You’ve got this all wrong you know.”

“I have?” whimpered Lenny, feeling more confused by the minute.

“Oh yes, without a doubt.  Glass half empty syndrome, that’s your problem.  I mean, you’re feeling so miserable about the body you were born with, when instead you should be celebrating your uniqueness!”

“I should?”

“Of course you should!”  Declaimed Mr God, “Lenny, your species is a trailblazer!  Possibly even the basis of a new genus, like the primates or the cetaceans!   You, my little friend, with your shiny ceramic plate, are pushing back the frontiers of life as we know it!”

“I am?”

“You are.  And Lenny, why do you think you look ridiculous anyway?  And what are you comparing yourself to?  Put it this way, have you even seen a star faced mole?  They have chins with tentacles on them, Lenny, and their tiny little faces are barely a tenth of a size a size of their spade like hands.  But do you hear them complaining?  No you don’t.

“And what about dung beetles Lenny?  Surely if anyone should be at the front of the complaint queue it should be them!  Yet they’re as happy as pigs in… well, you know the end of that saying.”

“Not octopigs though,” pointed out Mr Trump, “we don’t go in for that sort of thing.”

The head of evolution ignored Trump’s comment.  “Do you see what I’m trying to say?” he asked Ross.

The turtle considered Mr God’s question; his scaly lips were pursed and his eyes downcast.  As Ross considered the counter argument that had been put to him, Trump idly played with his executive toy, and the ticking of the clash of silver balls could be heard.

The turtle inclined his head towards God.  “Supposing you’ve got a point,” he admitted eventually, “And supposing I take all these positives you mention as true...”

“Well I think you should, Lenny,” the duck billed platypus advised him.

It’s just…”

“Just what?”

Ross glanced back at the ornament that rode upon his back.  “It’s just why did I have to be the turtle with the stupid psychedelic pattern on his tile?” he lamented bitterly, “It’s like some horrible mishmash of gaudy colours and it hurts your eyes to look at.”

Mr God gasped at this.  “Stupid, Lenny?  Stupid?” he said in an almost accusatory tone.  “I’ve got to say I’m somewhat disappointed at your attitude.  You’re a turtle with a range of embossed blue mountains with groovy curly patterns bordered by bendy dancing fur trees beneath a rising sun that sends beams shooting out through pink fluffy clouds and blends into a kaleidoscopic 3D affect star field with planets and stuff on his back and you think that’s stupid?  What are you, crazy or something?”

“Oh, stupid am I?  Crazy am I?” Ross shot back, “Well that’s easy for you to say, you’re not the one who has to carry this thing around all of your life.”

“Lenny,” Said Mr God, his voice now soothing.  He again raised his paw and rested it on the Ross’s head, even as the small reptile glowered at him.  God fixed the turtle with a meaningful gaze and said “you haven’t mixed with many lady tile turtles have you?”

Ross hadn’t expected a question like this.  “Well, no, but…” he began and stopped. 

His expression betrayed the thoughts that occurred to him as he struggled to grasp the implications of Mr God’s question.  “You mean…” his voice tailed off again.  He glanced back at his iridescent bathroom decoration with a confused expression.  “They’d go for that?” he spluttered.

Mr God nodded.  “Lenny.  Dude.  I assure you, with those tiles, you’re a babe tile turtle magnet!

“You need to get out there son,” he told the incredulous turtle.  “You’ll be fighting them off!” 

“B-but I only know my bathroom,” Lenny stammered, his voice full of panic and excitement, “the bathroom where I grew up with my brothers and sisters; it’s all I’ve ever known.”

“No problem,” Mr God answered him casually, “just go to the bathroom department of your local D.I.Y. superstore.  You’ll find plenty of tile turtles to hang out with there.  B&Q would be ideal.”

“You can do it if you B&Q it,” Mr Trump added helpfully.

Lenny blinked a few times and glanced back down to the floor, still struggling with the sudden shift in perspective that had been presented to him with such certainty by the head of evolution.  “Well.  You’ve given me something to think about,” he conceded.

“Don’t think too long, Lenny,” said Mr God with a twinkle in his eye.  “Time and tide wait for no man!”

“No indeed,” Lenny agreed solemnly, “He gave a little bow to the duck billed platypus and to the octopig in turn and then made for the door. 

At the exit Mr Ross paused and looked back.  “Thanks for everything,” he said.  With that he left.

“Another satisfied customer,” commented Mr Trump.

“There’s one born every minute,” said Mr God with a nod.

On his way out of Cambrian Explosion Inc, Ross passed through the reception area where he had waited to be seen earlier.  He saw a monkey with a long face that regarded him solemnly.  “Are you waiting to go in?” asked Lenny.

            “Yes,” replied the monkey.

            “Here to complain?”

            “Sure am.”

            “So what’s your beef?” the turtle enquired.

            In response the monkey turned round and showed Ross its nether regions, exposing a swollen rear end that glared angrily at the small reptile.  “Have you ever seen an arse this big?” it asked.  “It’s bloody ridiculous.”

            Ross nodded.  “That is a huge backside,” he agreed, “well, good luck with that.”

            “Thanks,” said the monkey.

And with that the tile turtle made his way, his mind now filled with thoughts of romance.

Hooray, Hooray, It's a Holi Holiday - Blog

Random Recollections from my trip to Kas on the Lycian Way in Turkey

Animal Magic

The cockeral in the picture above is Duke.  He lived with some other cockerals and hens opposite the hotel where we stayed in Kas.  There were also two dogs.  In the hotel itself there were four or five cats, usually wondering round and taking an interest in anything you happened to be eating.

And the area around the hotel wasn't the only place where the animals roamed free.  And the night time was when they were at their liveliest, and I've never heard a noisier place after the sun had set, with a constant background of barking, screeching, yowling, howling, clucking and crowing, from the moment you went to bed until it was time to get up.  And that was apart from the call to prayer through loudspeakers that could happen anytime between 4.30 and 6.30 AM.  All of this would have been quite impressive and maybe even amusing if you didn't have to be up to go sea kayaking, canyoning or mountain biking the next day, which I usually did (yeah, I know, just call me action man).  As it was, my annoyance was mitigated when I reminded myself that I was on holiday, so I just admired the din.

Dogs are like cats in Kas.  What I mean by that is they are not constrained by backyards or leads (I saw a dog on a lead once while I was there and it made for a strange sight in that context), they just go where they will.  For someone who is nervous of dogs this could represent a problem, and I heard a few complaints along these lines, but to me it added to the relaxed ambiance of a Mediterranean town.  Indeed, most of the dogs I saw during the daytime were doing this:

Resting before their evening's festivities no doubt.  For the most part, the dogs, cats and chickens of Kas were indifferent towards me, which I didn't mind at all.  The exception was this chap:

This is one of the hotel cats that I accidentally trod on during the first evening I was there and seemed to take it as a sign that I needed adopting. Or maybe he thought I'd feed him more because of the guilt. Either way I managed to gain an occasional companion for my stay due to my clumsiness.

Turkish Delights

Speaking of feeding, let's have a look at some of the food!  Some people get annoyed at the habit some people have of photographing their dinner but I'm not one of them.  A well presented plate of food is like art, for me, with the added bonus of whetting your appetite.  Some of the lovely meals I sampled were:

Calamari stuffed with prawns and spinach

A proper Turkish kebab - much healthier than the post pub grub you get in the UK

Buffet food with grilled sea bass that we ate during our evening on a boat

No good desert shots, sorry about that.  However, speaking of the boat meal...

A Moment of Happiness

In a previous blog I discussed the pursuit of Happiness.  This thought came to mind one evening during the holiday, when the group I was with took a sunset boat trip...

 ... out to a sheltered bay off Meis island. 

When we reached the bay, darkness had fallen, and I lay back on the foredeck of our little boat with a glass of wine in my hand. The general conversation melted away into the background. 

To my left I could see Venus, the Evening star, setting behind the hills of the island.  To my right the lights of Kas twinkled into the night.

Above me the mast of the boat rocked gently back and forth.  And beyond the mast shone the numberless stars.  For the first time in my life (to my knowledge) I saw the band of the Milky Way arcing across the sky.  It was very beautiful.

And for a minute I forgot everything and lived in the moment.

Then we got called for dinner, so that was alright!

Overall, it was an enjoyable and memorable holiday.  Thank you to everyone who shared in it and made it the experience it was.

I will leave you with a typical weather forecast for Kas.