Ambition - You can be Anything you WANT!

How many times have you heard someone saying "You can be anything you want to be!" in that syrupy-positive way meant to bring out the best in people?  Does it make you think, "Hell Yeah!" or does it make you cringe?  Well, up until a little while ago I was a Hell Yeaher, but now I'm not so sure.

I think such broad statements are not only a big fat lie, but could be quite damaging too.

When I was a kid at school, we had a careers adviser ask each of us what we wanted to do when we left school.
CA: "Colin, what do you want to do when you leave school?  What do you want to be?"
Me: "A secret agent."
CA: "No, seriously.  What job do you want?"
Me: "I want to be a spy!"
CA: "Er... Let's say you can't be a spy.  What do you want to be instead?"
Me: "An astronaut."
CA: "Who's next?"

I couldn't be a concert pianist or world famous violinist - I don't have any musical aptitude.  When I look at music, I don't understand a word of it.  It might as well be written in Chinese - in fact, it makes about as much sense to me.  I don't have the... what's the word?  The Knack.  Some people look at sheet music and can hear the melody in their heads.  They have the knack.

I couldn't be an Olympic gold medalist - there is nothing I can do that would rank me first in the world.  There will always be someone younger and fitter than me, more determined.  I'm too polite.  "No, after you!  I insist!)

Now I know there are some people out there that'll be thinking "you're giving up on yourself!" or "If you truly believe..."  But I'm just being realistic.  I understand I have limitations, and I'm willing to work with them.  I could be a spy, but I'd be rubbish at it.  They could invite me over for coffee and within 10 minutes of sitting on their beautifully white couch stroking their fluffy white cat, I'd've told them all about myself, my organisation, and where we keep the chocolate digestives.

Instead, I know that I'm pretty good at communicating.  I can make people laugh. I'm honest and reliable, helpful and kind.  I work hard.  My customer care skills are awesome!  I know what I'm good at - Communication and Customer Care - and so I've built my career around those two specific areas and have made a success of it.

I don't think there's much call for customer care on the International Space Station.

Thank you for reading this!  You might like:
http://collywobs.blogspot.co.uk/2015/05/am-i-geek-nerd-or-just-having-mid-life_27.html

Humour

What is humour?  What makes a joke funny?  Why is something funny to one person and not to another?

I don’t know.  I was hoping you’d tell me!

Now some people would have laughed at that.   And some people would have laughed at that too!

I went to see Eddy Izzard live at Shaftesbury Theatre a good few years ago now, and he used a similar technique to get a laugh which relied on a form of self-belittling, self-deprecation, admission of ignorance.  On this occasion the joke was a little off-beat, a little too “out there”, and so he followed it with an observation: “Note to self, remove unfunny comment”, and of course, the audience laughed, so he followed it with. “Note to self, maybe not.” And he got another laugh.

One comedian took this to a higher level by saying he could probably kill someone by timing his jokes in such a way that the audience wouldn’t have time to breathe in in-between laughs.  The audience laughed, and just as the laughter began to taper off, he said “Like this!”, and they started laughing again.  He waited, one finger raised, in silence, until the laughter started to wane.  His facial expression perked up, he raised his finger higher, and said “And this”, and the laughter started all over again. 

This proved to me that humour doesn’t have to be rude or threatening, racist or sexist.  Gone are the days of Mother-in-Law jokes or Irishman, Englishman, Scotsman jokes.  We’ve been told during the 80’s and 90’s that these subjects are taboo – the Political Correctness ideal has made laughing at someone’s gender or religious leanings a no-no, and those that do laugh either feel guilty about it, or revel in their prejudices. 

To me, the funniest humour is that Eddy Izzard/ Billy Connolly type self-observation, anecdotal, slightly humble delivery.  I can relate to it, I understand exactly how they felt.  Any uncomfortableness I feel is sympathetic, empathic – and so I can see the funny side of their experience because they’re laughing about it too.  I don’t poke fun at other people, I poke fun at myself.

For example:  In response to my question about whether a friend had anything planned for the weekend…

Julie : 10:00
Long weekend Monday off with Neil, Pub lunch 

You?

Colin: 10:01

No thanks, I'd just get in the way

Julie : 10:02

Ha that’s funny

And that brings me on to the art of the one liner, or the quick-thinking quip.

I was working in London many years ago, and was enjoying a cigarette break when a colleague stops by my table and asked if he could have a light.  I’ve not smoked for 17 years now, so I’m not sure if they’re still available now, but back then I had a thing for those little, brightly coloured Bic ones, so I passed it over to him.  “Oh, I have a jumper at home this colour!  Or is this a little lighter?”

I think I snorted coffee down my nose.  It also received several groans – which I think is an acknowledgement of funny in some cultures.  (At least I hope so, because most of my best jokes get that response).

Humour seems to be about being in the right place at the right time, and saying the right thing in the right context .  I can’t count how many times I’ve come back from a gig or the Comedy Club and faithfully replayed a set, and all I get back is a blank stare, or a half-hearted chuckle where it should have been 15 minutes of uncontrollable belly laughs.  Humour is objective and subjective, a complex weave of storytelling, dramaticism, timing and expression.  Change a single aspect of it and it’s no longer funny.

Jasper Carrot sums it up nicely with this anecdote.  “What do you put on your passport under occupation when you’re in the stand-up business?  Comedian?  I was stopped at the Security Line at Heathrow, the Customs Officer inspected my  passport, looked at me suspiciously  and said “Tell us a joke then!” “

It was much funnier when he told it.

Snapshot

This was a short story idea I had a decade or so ago, but never got around to writing it.
I think there have been other similar concepts since though - I promise I've not copied anyone's idea as far as I know.

Snapshot

A short story about the diversity of life.

It was during the winter on 1993 that I felt at my worst.  The chemotherapy was making me sick, and the morphine was only just doing it's job.  I was hanging in there, but only just.  Everyone said I was doing just fine, that I was a fighter, that I was going to beat this.  Some days I just couldn't bring myself to believe it. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst - isn't that what they say?

So on a particularly dark day I decided to shake the demons. Under my bed is a shoebox.  I don't know why I keep it, it's filled with stuff I don't want to keep. By the time I pulled it from the clutches of the lost socks and dust bunnies I was exhausted, close to tears, knowing the pain I was feeling now wasn't a patch on what I was going to feel once that lid came off.

Inside the box are the trophies of a happy, healthy past. Cinema ticket - first date. Place card - wedding day.  Boarding card - honeymoon. It's a 13cm by 9cm by 10cm memory prison. These inmates are hard - maximum security, very dangerous, no chance of parole.  Visiting privileges long since revoked.  Keep Out!  Unsafe Structure!

There's one faded photograph I go back to time and time again. Piccadilly Circus, May 1987.

She's sat beneath Eros with our daughter in her arms, both smiling at me in the late Spring sunshine as I stand by the Tube entrance with my camera held to my eye. Whenever I look at that picture all I see is those smiles, those eyes looking at me full of love, and I feel that familiar tearing sensation inside my chest again. It feels like something thick and black is desperate to get out but I'm afraid if it does rip itself free, the avalanche of emotional upheaval will leave me hollow forever more.

This time it's different.

The glossy paper feels heavier, thicker.  The image has more depth.  And for the first time ever I notice other details.  There's a guy on a bicycle with a satchel swerving around a taxi.  A happy couple holding hands as they start to cross the road in the background.  A child with an ice cream skipping into frame - all frozen in time as I pour all my attention into my two girls sat beneath that iconic statue of love.

Something about that ice cream girl draws me in.  I don't remember seeing her on that May day, and yet there she is, immortalised in my photograph for all time.  She looks about 6, so that would make her... what? 12 now?  Did she live in London, or was she a tourist? Was she there with her mum and dad, having a fun day out like we were?  Or was the ice cream a distraction?  Take her attention away from the memory of her mum hooked up to all those machines in the ICU?

I glance away, unable to continue that train of thought, and catch sight of the cyclist.  It's not a satchel, it's a courier bag.  Where's he going in such a hurry? What documents is he carrying in there?   Some vital evidence needed at a high profile court case perhaps?  Legal documents that decide whether someone gains or loses custody? The image has a deep sense of urgency about it.  I hope he got there in time.

The taxi driver's gesticulating out of his window, waving his anger at something unseen, his mouth frozen open mid obscenity. He doesn't look angry though. He looks concerned.  Maybe he's shouting a warning?  I can't quite make out what he's looking at.

The happy couple are holding hands.  She has a wedding ring on her finger, but I don't see one on his.  Are they married, or is this an affair?  Are they heading to an hotel or from one? The smiles are real, but her expression looks a little strained.  Is it guilt?  Fear of being seen in such a public display of affection?  Her free hand is resting on her stomach.  Was she smoothing her dress, soothing an ache, or is the outcome of her liaison already germinating in there?

As I lay the photograph back in the box with more care than I've ever shown it before, I realise that I am not isolated from the world, I am an integral part of it. I am not an individual, detached from everything else, I am a leaf on a tree - connected to all the other leaves by the planet that I live on.

I look one more time at the taxi driver.  I think he was looking at me.

 

Terrorism, Diplomacy and the Importance of Communication.

Before I start writing about this, I do not profess to be an expert on any of this, nor do I claim to be right about these things – I’m just throwing some ideas out there.  I’m hoping it might encourage people to think of different methods to get their point across.  I’m not implying that an act of terrorism or brutality is the same as a child throwing a tantrum – it’s just an analogy.

What is terrorism?  It’s an act, or series of acts, designed to instil terror or fear.

What is the point of terrorism?  To use fear to gain something – but what?  With the IRA attacks it was to bring about opposing British rule in Ireland.

(https://www.thoughtco.com/guide-to-the-irish-republican-army-3209135)

Eventually though, it was negotiation, diplomacy and communication that brought about an end to hostilities and the removal of British troops from Northern Ireland.  A change in the way a government thinks, a compromise, a bit of give and take.

Next up, Brexit – we hear daily about “negotiations” with the EU about what the UK wants as part of its exit deal.  There seems to be an awful lot of demanding and not much agreeing going on. 

Finally, there’s the terrorist attacks by ISIS.  We are suffering these atrocities – but in the name of what?  What do they want to gain by it?  As far as I can tell, no one has actually said what they want to gain.  So, is it terrorism just for the hell of it, or is there something they want?  If the latter, then maybe someone needs to ask the question – “What do you want?” And actually open a discussion with the people organising all this.  Few negotiations are clean – they often involve disagreements, compromises, and base-lines that one side or the other refuses to budge on.  But until we start communicating, nothing is really being achieved – other than senseless killing of innocent people.

When my daughter decided to throw a tantrum in the middle of the supermarket over something she wanted there and then, I didn’t cave into her demands (fear of embarrassment, desire for a quiet life, escape from accusing/disapproving stares) and I didn’t respond with aggression (shouting, smacking, threats of “just wait ‘til I get you home!”  No.  What I did was kneel down in front of her and I said “Let’s pop  outside for a minute” and I took her, kicking and screaming, outside.

There, once the audience was gone, she calmed down a bit.  I quietly explained that I wasn’t going to give in to her tantrums – we could either go back into the store and finish our shopping, or we could go home without anything nice for tea.  We finished our shopping in peace.  When we got home, I praised her for her new behaviour, and said that if she wanted something another time, to ask for it – but if I didn’t think she should have it, I would give her a reason why.  We never had another tantrum.

I don’t believe violence and aggression is a valid way to get what you want.  It’s bullying – something we are all against (unless we’re the bully of course!)  Violence does not build trust and respect.  It doesn’t make people want to listen to your reasons or believe your beliefs – it does the opposite. 

Peaceful negotiation, simple discussion, being open and honest about your needs and wants – being prepared to give some ground here to gain some there – accept compromise where possible and be firm, but polite, on the things you cannot yield.

But what if terrorism is just for the hell of it?  Like the school bully that hurts you just because they like to see you cry? Because it makes them feel in control? I can’t answer that I’m afraid.  When I was bullied, I just put up with it until one day something sparked inside the bully’s head – he looked at me as the tears roll down my cheeks and asked me why I was crying.  I told him that repeatedly thumping me in the arm hurt.  A lot.  And for some reason, this made him stop – just like that.  No more bullying from him again.  Do we just put up with the bombings and driving vehicles into crowds of people, hoping one day that the organisers of these acts see that it’s achieving nothing real in the big scheme of things? 

Will it just, one day, stop?
I hope so – I hope that day is today.  But never once did I think hitting that bully back would do anything other than make him hit me harder and more often.