One of the reasons I don’t “do” politics here usually is that it’s such a complex subject and as I get older I’m wary of the semantic straw men we use in place of thought, it also doesn’t get the laughs. I’m also leaning towards the opinion that any discussion deals mainly with the psychology of the participants and the shared pretence that “facts” are involved is moral cowardice. Surely the one thing the internet has shown us is that there is so much knowledge swilling around that anyone trumpeting their grasp of a situation is, er, a self deluded liar.

One other reason I have is that few people seem that interested and almost nobody is interested in solutions beyond bashing each other with their ignorant “pick and mix” tribal beliefs.

Fast becoming a core belief with me is the concept of “always being wrong”. I am. I have changed my mind over thing so many time throughout my life I am amazed that people can keep the same views for more than a few years, and they do. Why?

Then I realised, there are two reason to gain knowledge, 1: find out something new, 2: validate a held view.

This brings us back to all conversation being about personal psychology. The first reason requires confidence the second is an admission of fear.

I know which I prefer, and you?

One of these is a politician, clue: it’s not the one with a pocket watch.

My loathing of Jazz, though more drama queen than principle, is well known. A jazz concert seems to consist of solo, clap, solo, clap, ad nauseam. It has the visual consistency of seals being thrown fish for tricks. At the Jazz Hastings concerts held at the Hastings Angling Club this is only made bearable for me by the presence of Mrs Donaldson & the Former Future Mrs Hardy, both of which I adore and fear; the FFMH reminding me last night of the UK stalking laws…

Anyway, this time was different (though the seals were still there), the main artist, Gilad Atzmon was fun and made, for me, this formulaic form of music engaging and playful. The drummer was awesome, normally there is only one drummer; Keith Moon (in his Quadraphenia period). This guy has the same effect. The bassist redeemed the genre by sporting a Bruce Springsteen tee-shirt and the pianist tinkled away. Actually the pianist was probably great as well but pianos do nothing for me outside of classical music and Bat Out Of Hell!

So there we have it, the music was enjoyable, the women struck fear in my heart and reality was banished by cider; what a great evening.

Potential member of the E-Street Band.

Yesterday started at a funeral for an old school friend and ended with me having enjoyed a jazz concert. Both of these things I never hoped to see. In reality the day ended at around quarter to eleven with your hero, having thoroughly defeated sobriety, laying on his back on the West Hill photographing the moon through clouds; a clue here for all you photographers, a drunk taking 13^th second exposures requires the deepest of beer goggles to look even vaguely interesting.

Jocks funeral again brought home to roost some old chickens, as I think funerals often do. Its been dawning on me of late how badly I’ve treated people in my life; for me guilt has always just been a dictionary word and as an emotion up there with the best fairy tales. And with two more pieces of the jigsaw; a capacity to leave, anything, and never look back and a wonderful skill at justifying absolutely everything to myself, the creation of a glorious wake of casual cruelty was inevitable.

Up there with Ansel Adams I think you’ll agree!

Half way home up a rainy west hill, trailing a snake of 2 pints and half a carafe of wine, is where wisdom strikes, and the worst thing is is the realisation that by the time you reach your front door you will have forgotten every thing. Tonight I vaguely remember it was something to do with Patrick not being right with his “if women didn’t have ****** we’d throw stones at them” philosophy. I remember thinking that the only people men can talk to about emotional stuff is women and how wonderful that was. The thought then floundered on the realisation that as women could talk to other women about these things they really didn’t need us and it was a bit of an exploitative concept. The reality is that is men didn’t have ******* they’d just ignore us. Thank God, here I am at my door and I will forget this all in a few minutes…

Yesterday I said of the new Bob Dylan album “I would admit that the latest album is not, for someone of my generation, Highway 61”. I lied, last track disc two, up there with “Desolation Row”. I’ve listened to it ten times or more already trying to get the words (a BD trademark since the beginning) and I haven’t done that with music for a decade or so. A couple of times had to reach for the hankys and that doesn’t happen either, oh, okay, only in “girly films”.

As with all the best Dylan stuff you’ve not a clue what he’s trying to say but it reaches inside your head and triggers a thousand thoughts of your own, mainly, unfortunately, “what have I done with my life”, with the answer easily apparent, “f**k all”, oh well, can’t win every time…

With my commercial hat on today I did a bit of writing for a client, the usual stuff; “gawk in awe at the quality of our product and slickness of service” and so forth.

In my early twenties I suffered from the disease of “schoolboy poetry” (alarmingly I’ve recently been made aware that some of this material still exists in the vaults of an ex-girlfriend) and for a brief instant thought I would be the new Bob Dylan. It must be said that I was not alone in this as, at the time, the art schools were full of ner-do-wells such as myself fuelled on idleness, Pink Floyd, alcohol and librium.

The real Bob Dylan is still around and producing material that beggars belief.

Now, the rule is that as you get older and more comfortable the creative urge retreats, especially, I would content, as that the roots of the best creative material are nourished by pain. Has anybody mentioned this to Bob? I would admit that the latest album is not, for someone of my generation, “Highway 61” but it’s still way better than most things around. It must be depressing for all the talents that burn out after a year or ten to see an old guy producing songs that are better than most penned in their long forgotten brief burst of creative light.

I wonder how Bob is when waxing on about the pleasures of a clients all to familiar product?

I was never a good listener, too “me, me” for that, then a few years ago I found “listening as a weapon” was a great way to win arguments so I learnt to listen, not well, but enough for my purpose. As I get older I find I’m starting to develop a genuine interest in listening. This you think would be great, but no. What I’m interested in is what goes on in peoples heads; dreams, fears, failures, successes, motivations, this is all the stuff I like. It’s what makes people so special. This is dangerous territory. Today I met someone and just a few interested enquiries about their life led to tears. This was a real shock. I proffered a slightly embarrassed kind word and things moved back to small talk, which, it must be said, I’m crap at.

Every picture tells a story

One thing that must be said for being a clown attracted to the unobtainable is that it’s safe for everyone especially me. Talking and listening to women can be one of life’s most rewarding experiences but dealing with a real relationship, whoa, terror territory. I suppose my reality is that I like angels but scared stiff of real women. Give me intellectual “stand up” before the the nightmare of emotional nakedness any time. Oh, of course, then there’s the appalling low libido!

Today I took 175 photos, the current “future Mrs Hardy” and her, grr, exceptionally nice husband were the only ones blurred, what are the odds…

Just when I thought every cyclist was sociopath with the personality of Tony Hancock along comes a ray of sunshine. This is Dave looking pretty cool on his new recumbent bike. Friendly, smiling, willing to give you the time of day. Doesn’t he realize that he’ll be drummed out of the society of frowning cyclists? What’s wrong with the man?

Life doesn’t get better than this!

When you’re growing up, especially in your late fifties, everything is new and revelations are a frequent events. One such revelation was that single orphan socks were not a natural product of the universe and that they could be kept as pairs, no, really! Now I know I’m ahead of the curve on this one and I did need some training (thanks to Mrs Smith & Ms Rider) but it’s very much worth the effort. The real secret is to attach socks together straight after washing (after they’ve dried of course). I did think of patenting this new concept but felt not doing so would be by gift to the world.

Waiting on death row.