Airto Moriera

Last week I was on my own, feeling rather depressed and tired. Having no enthusiasm for anything I resorted to channel surfing on the telly. Not being in the mood for comedy, drama or light entertainment, I found a Dizzy Gillespie concert on Mainstreet TV. I’m not a great jazz fan, but it was a case of nothing better to watch so I settled down to take in at least a few minutes. It was a concert recorded at the Royal Festival Hall, I would guess in the 1990s.

The very next number featured Flora Purim, “The Queen” as she was introduced. Things were looking up! Half way through this piece there was a drum solo. Watching the drummer, I started thinking that I wished I could play drums. The mood I was in, I just wanted to lose myself in something; and to lose yourself in creating rhythm by smacking the hell out a drum kit must be a really therapeutic experience. After a couple of minutes, the drummer handed over the solo to the percussionist, and this bit blew my mind. Thinking about losing myself in a rhythm, I was faced with a man who was doing exactly that. He got more and more wild and passionate until I thought he would explode.

At the end of the concert when the credits came up I found that this man was non other than Airto Moriera. I don’t know much about Airto, but back in the 1980s a girlfriend gave me a tape of Flora Purim and Airto which had greatly impressed me. I played it all the time for a while, but for some reason I never looked up the two performers any further. (This was before the internet I suppose.) I did once stumble into Ronnie Scott’s, absolutely plastered one evening in the 1990s to find Flora Purim on stage. Unfortunately I was so drunk that it was all I could do to recognise the voice – I remember nothing else about the concert. I have also managed to buy a CD by each of them at some time, but I’ve never got round to listening to either of them much. I’m putting that straight right now - as I write this I’m listening to “Seeds on the Ground” by Airto.

I tried to record the concert (mainstreet always show things several times), but my VHS recorder is a bit temperamental, and I didn’t get a copy. Unfortunately they don’t seem to be repeating this concert; but of course interesting musical pieces always pop up on youtube, and this one is no exception. So here is that drum solo – feast your eyes and ears (and toes) on this – Airto takes over just about 2 minutes into the video.

Needle Phobic Gives Blood

This week I gave blood. A fairly mundane activity for most people, but for me it’s always a great joy to do. Up until a few years ago I suffered from needle-phobia and could rarely get through a donation session. I successfully gave blood the first time I tried, at the age of 18, but after that occasion it became an ordeal which was rarely fruitful.
The first time I had a problem was when I was in my first term at university. I was standing in a queue to sign my name, and all of a sudden I started to feel light-headed and then experienced tunnel vision. I had to sit down and put my head between my knees. After that, whenever I went along to a donor session, I would suffer from all manner of problems:

• Light-headedness
• Nausea
• Palpitations
• Cod sweats
• Shortness of breath
• Tunnel vision
• Shaking (so much I couldn’t sign my name)
• Inability to remember my address (I once gave one I hadn’t lived at for 20 years)

That all made the process of blood donation a bit of an ordeal, and since this mainly happened before I’d even had the finger prick, there was little point me attending. (One time I did give successfully was on the day I my (former) wife crashed the car with our two children in. They didn’t need any blood as it happened, but it made me so thankful for the health service that I just went along to my nearest donor session and had no problems at all.)
The turning point was a few years ago when I did a training course in NLP. The trainer described how some people react to the ordeal of standing up and speaking in public; and it sounded to me very similar to my needle-phobia. The technique they proposed was called the Circle of Excellence, and over lunch I asked if they could take me through it in detail. So we set up my circle that I could step into to keep myself calm and relaxed and off I went to a donor session a the local church hall the very next day to see if it would work. And it did work. I was able to wait 20 minutes for my name to be called, sign my consent, give my correct address, have a prick test, and then lie down and make a full donation with no adverse effects. Since then I’ve given twice a year, and only once had to lie down afterwards. The ordeal is all in the past now.
The fascinating thing is that my symptoms seemed so physical, it was difficult to believe that this was all caused by my thinking. Clearly it was, since there had rarely been any needles involved, except in my head. But the result of some unconscious interaction between my mind and my body was completely debilitating.
So here’s the moral at the end – don’t ever believe that you “could never do that”, whatever that may be. It’s all in the mind, no matter how much it feels like a medical condition. It’s your mind and your body. You just have to learn the techniques to get them to work for you and not against you.

Recycle it?

I got a leaflet through my door today from Boots. I didn't ask for it and I didn't want it, but it came all the same, using my address and lying on my doormat. On the bottom of the leaflet it says "Recycle. When you have finished with this leaflet, please recycle it."
What's that all about then? Why is it my responsibility to recycle this leaflet? If they have a concern about the state of our landfills then they should bloody well make sure that they only send leaflets to people who want them, and not force them down our throats. Conversely, if they care more about their marketing campaigns than about the state of our landfills, they should leave it to me to decide how to deal with the problem they've created for me.
(It's a side issue, but recycling is the most inefficient way of dealing with most waste known to man. If anyone is really concerned about landfill space then they should be campaigning to have incinerators built to deal with it.)

Ignorance and Want

“Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask,” said Scrooge, looking intently at the Spirit's robe, “but I see something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding from your skirts. Is it a foot or a claw!”
“It might be a claw, for the flesh there is upon it,” was the Spirit's sorrowful reply. “Look here.”
From the foldings of its robe, it brought two children; wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They knelt down at its feet, and clung upon the outside of its garment.
“Oh, Man! look here. Look, look, down here!” exclaimed the Ghost.
They were a boy and girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. Where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shrivelled hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing. No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread.
Scrooge started back, appalled. Having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they were fine children, but the words choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie of such enormous magnitude.
“Spirit! are they yours?” Scrooge could say no more.
“They are Man's,” said the Spirit, looking down upon them. “And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it!” cried the Spirit, stretching out its hand towards the city. “Slander those who tell it ye! Admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse! And bide the end!”
“Have they no refuge or resource?” cried Scrooge.
“Are there no prisons?” said the Spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. “Are there no workhouses?”
The bell struck twelve.

From A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens

Smoking Ban, 6 months on.

This week marks 6 months since the ban on smoking in public places in England. And who would want to go back? I’m instinctively a libertarian and dislike rules and regulations (at least that’s how I like to think of myself), but in the case of smoking, something went seriously wrong with human communication and consideration. Smokers used to ask “do you mind if I smoke?” with no intention of taking “yes I bloody well do” for an answer. Why did anyone ever expect it would be OK to fill the air of a room with foul smelling smoke just because they were addicted to a drug? Why have we put up with this for so long?
I don’t work in a bar, so I can’t speak for those who do, but I don’t think this was ever a health issue for anyone. It’s always been the case that non-smokers would return from an evening out with their clothes and hair stinking of stale smoke. It was disgusting. I’m glad it’s over, not because of the threat to my health or anyone else’s. Simply because inhabiting an indoor public space is now so much more relaxing. I was lucky over the last 10 years to travel from Liverpool Street Station, where smoking has been banned on “safety” grounds. Whenever I had to travel out of other mainline stations in the rush hour, I used to find it foul. Standing in a tightly packed crowd of people waiting for the train’s platform to be announced, and having to breathe other people’s smoke.
The only shame is that the current ban doesn’t cover the street. Walking down the road behind a smoker is just as unpleasant as it ever was. Outside a pub is now the least pleasant place to be on a summer afternoon, as it doubles for a smoking room. So next time someone comes and stands next to you and fills the air with acrid smoke, the correct and polite response is to say to them:
“Excuse me, do you mind, but I was breathing that air!”


I have no wish to see a ban on the consumption of tobacco for those who wish to continue to use it. But I don't think it unreasonable to ask people to keep it to their own private residence, and not inflict it on the rest of us.

Christmas Rituals

If you still believe in Father Christmas and you don't want to know the score; look away now.

I returned from midnight mass on Christmas morning at 01:00, and was faced with what has now become an anual ritual - the impersonation of Father Christmas. We follow the tradition of leaving out a drink and a snack for the big man and his reindeer, and it is my duty on returning from church to consume the said items before proceeding to the filling of the stockings. The particular delicacies that Father Christmas enjoys at our house are a glass of port and a mince pie. In the morning the believers in the household (there are 2 true believers and one who knows the truth but perfers the fantasy) will have a little more evidence to support their belief in the magical man who brings them presents each year.

This year it occured to me that I take part in two rituals in the small hours of Christmas day - each involving the consumption of a round piece of food and a drink made from grape juice. First of all I take communion - a circular wafer of what passes for "bread" in the Church of England and a sip of what passes for "wine". I then come home and consume a mince pie and a glass of port. Each of these actions is a ritual which has no real purpose apart from it's meaning. And though the rituals may look very similar, the meanings are quite different.

Communion is the taking of the body and blood of Jesus Christ himself into my own body, so that the one God who created the universe, the world and all that exists is not just a spiritual idea or thought, but is actually, physically experienced.

The second ritual is a game we play for the children. It entertains them and we are delighted by their delight. Some cynics often call it a lie or a deception, but I think that it is no more than a game. They will know the truth about Father Christmas one day, and I doubt they will be sorry that we played this game with them.

Bah! Humbug!

"A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!'' cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge's nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach.
"Bah!'' said Scrooge, "Humbug!''
He had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, this nephew of Scrooge's, that he was all in a glow; his face was ruddy and handsome; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked again.
"Christmas a humbug, uncle!'' said Scrooge's nephew. "You don't mean that, I am sure.''
"I do,'' said Scrooge. "Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? what reason have you to be merry? You're poor enough.''
"Come, then,'' returned the nephew gaily. "What right have you to be dismal? what reason have you to be morose? You're rich enough.''
Scrooge having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said, "Bah!'' again; and followed it up with Humbug.''
"Don't be cross, uncle,'' said the nephew.
"What else can I be,'' returned the uncle, "when I live in such a world of fools as this Merry Christmas! Out upon merry Christmas. What's Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books and having every item in 'em through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? If I could work my will,'' said Scrooge indignantly, "every idiot who goes about with "Merry Christmas'' on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!''
"Uncle!'' pleaded the nephew.
"Nephew!'' returned the uncle, sternly, "keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine.''
"Keep it!'' repeated Scrooge's nephew. "But you don't keep it.''
"Let me leave it alone, then,'' said Scrooge. "Much good may it do you! Much good it has ever done you!''
"There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say,'' returned the nephew: "Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round -- apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that -- as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!''

From A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens