Rest In Ceefax.

Seventeen years ago, the Internet never existed. Well, this is not entirely accurate, as the tool was a pretty common item amongst the minority; my brother himself owned a Personal Computer (PC), with a 56k modem internet dial-up, through the now defunct CompuServe. It was the kind of line which disconnected whenever the home phone was lifted off its resting place, and would take three hours to download a five second audio clip, waiting in vain to see if it was not a fake.

Nonetheless, 1995 was an age severely limited to curious computer nerds who - like my brother, grew up around a father who knew his onions when it came to technology. Even to them - much less the billions who remained ignorant to the oncoming biggest game changer since the Industrial Revolution, the super-fast world of global communication; where events of the world arrived in the blink of an eye from the moment they occurred, and everyone under the age of twenty-five takes as a given standard, was a mere pipe-dream.

Everywhere in life, information was out of date by the time they were presented to humanity; newspapers explained the events of yesterday, and news services carried specific minimal time slots on terrestrial television. A breaking news event in 1995 was a serious situation which grabbed your attention by sheer surprise; unlike now, where events as small as David Cameron farting in the Houses Of Parliament, seems to be one of a hundred daily 'breaking news' stories on 24 hour commercial news networks. Back then, if we wanted to know what was going on across Earth, we had to wait - perhaps learning a passive patience, lost on the copy and paste generation of modern society.

However, there was one exception, a service which provided rudimentary but instant information, at the touch of a television remote control button. It was known as Ceefax (Or Teletext; the lesser, somewhat crappy imitator of ITV - with stupid averts in-between pages, trying to sell football phone lines or sex chat.) And today - with the national switch-off of terrestrial television - as Britain converts to a digital life, it has finally been laid to the resting ground it once arrived from; joining the Spectrum ZX81 and the C5, in the land of silicone heaven.

Whenever I was in need of a burst of entertainment, a quick read, or some wacky story of the world, Ceefax never failed to enliven me. There was the quick fire question series of Bamboozle - which were always too pissing hard in my view. The comedy of Turner the Worm, page 303 for the football scores - hoping a number one would suddenly appear next to Barnet - which it hardly ever did. 102 for news, 160 for regional, 600 for the TV Guide, 500 for weather, 200 for the holidays which I could never afford to go on, and a whole army of a world pre-World-Wide-Web. It was, in essence, the forerunner to the internet. Kids today would naturally scoff at such a rudimentary tool, but I always appreciated Ceefax and Teletext. I was never spoiled with music, games, or the world at my fingers - but it taught me that all you need are the basics of a story, then you can figure out the rest yourself; a skill perhaps all lost in the age of an overload of presenting the world to humanity like we are all overgrown, slow learning infants.

So cheap, bog-standard, interactive set-up with the crappy night time music service, which ran as a test-card replacement on BBC One and BBC Two, and used to scare the living shit out of me, I wish you a fond farewell, and thank you for all the entertainment you have provided throughout the immature period of my young life. Truth is, like a lost childhood friend, I haven't bothered to visit you in about ten years, and while I loved you very much, your time has come, and sadly, gone... I never did complete a game of Bamboozle!

Goodbye Ceefax, Rest In Peace.

Lee.

The Hidden Palace.

She constructs walls around herself - built with the sparingly collected bricks of other people, as they fell around the jaded soles of her feet. The cement which binds them together is mixed from moulds of emotional refrain and philosophical contradiction. The woodwork arrives as planks of experience, and its roofing from rustic remnants of attempted attrition. It is a haphazard kind of residence, but the house created from these elements is solid, peaceful, keeps her warm on cold winters nights, and while the outside appears stoic and uninviting, the décor is an enriching shade of light brown - awash in a liberal, easy going glow.

And yet, in spite of the beauty of her home, she allows very few visitors to abound in its rich glory; afraid of a destruction she doesn’t fully understand. Every day, wandering souls from all walks of the world knock upon her door; carrying a naïve hope they may be the one she opens up to - for even the smallest of glimpses of what mystery lies beyond. But the echoes of tapped wood simply reverberate into empty air. On occasion, an eye peers from the shady curtains of a high window, along with a half-smile - If they seem welcoming. But the majority of each attempt, there is silence; beautiful, painful, endless, silence.

It wasn’t always this way. She once resided in a much different house; built by the sunshine and positive reinforcement, only a child can appreciate to its full capacity. She would allow every last stranger inside; to laugh, drink, and share the world together for the indefinite future. But when she invited every element of humanity inside, she not only received the wonderful, but also entertained the hateful, the bitter, and those who could only curse under their breath as others shined – due to their own failure of desire, and protective delusion to keep their own houses upright.

And this is what happened; call them Negatrons, Dementours, or just pillars of hate, their dominant darkness invaded her glowing sunshine. The energies slowly corrupted her innocence, distorted her empathy, and drained the colours of her heart – neither knowing nor caring how the effect would tarnish the purity of her spirit for an eternity, perhaps lost in forever. She never fully gave in, but every time she handed her spare key to that one special person she felt could share this wonderful place, they used it to their advantage – her faith failing both her design of security, and nature's design of humanity. Innocence proved to be her enemy, as the Negatron's teachings of disdain were more insidious then the eye could recognise – and had convinced her that hate was a form of love; when it has only ever been a natural enemy of positive reinforcement.

Her house still stands - proudly for all to see, and stronger than the majority around. But her home hides deep beneath the view of the naked eye. For those who have basked in its glory, and every non-human member of the animal kingdom she embraces with every beat of her heart, the hidden palace remains a place of wondrous beauty. For everyone else, it remains a decadent, exotic mystery; profoundly warm and caring, yet perpetually misunderstood. All she needs to do is open the guard of her doors for those who will shine as she can - for this is the risk we must all take; live in the protective shell of comfort, or stay inside, safe, but hiding an item of genuine value from humanity. And whether we admit it or not... all diamonds are meant to shine!

Lee.

Naked Old Men At The Gym.

I guess I define my place in society as somewhere along those fine margins - the place where fitting in with humanity is more of an act of design, than natural character. But this is cool with me, because I figured out many moons ago, that deep inside, no human being views themselves as exactly the same as anybody else; a commonality we all share, ironically. Therefore it is a strange sort of reality, that virtually all humanity are in fact internally living along the same edges of what we consider obtuse expression - whilst promoting the exact opposite on the outside. It is by no means an all encompassing truth, but I have never met anyone yet, who did not omit even the smallest speck of a true individual spirit; desperately trying to escape through the glass barriers of a quite natural, biologically deep-rooted fear of social rejection.

A couple of days ago I was in the Uxbridge Fitness First changing rooms, after a typical Monday morning workout. Invigorated from the surge of endorphins, a sight burned before my eyes which I never wanted to see, but am kind of glad I did; a skinny white male, at least 65 years of age, and happy as Larry on a particularity peachy day, was whistling to himself as he cleaned his wrinkled old body, using nothing but a gym hair-dryer. He was thorough in his work... and yes, this means exactly what your twisted mind imagines as you read.

Watching him, I wasn't disgusted, or sickened - well, maybe a little. But the overriding emotion I felt was an odd form of admiration. This is the same guy who strolls around the gym floor in all manner of tacky sloganed t-shirts, while wearing shorts so tight, they would make men at the fictional Blue Oyster club blush. As I studied this guy (mentally, I didn't spent ages watching him), I realised he has probably experienced such an abundance of what this life has to offer, he has reached the point of simply not giving a shit any more about pretending to adhere to the social norms, and merely embraces his own; reality is, in essence - his own, as he moves with the beat of his own drum.

My respect of common decency is well developed, but my passionate faith in open, true individuality and self-expression is a hell of a lot stronger. I live within social norms to a degree because it is in many ways a mask of acceptance, as much as an act of respect to others. But I don't know, it gets harder and harder to fake it. I have no wish to harm or hurt anybody; thankfully I find myself to be a compassionate, empathetic person, but I just want to live this life as more of a celebration than a boring, monotone ritual - even though I love the comfort of routine. And to do this, the margins of rejecting conformity need to swing a little more in my favour - I guess it all comes from the internal security of both maturity, and accepting life for simply being whatever we see it as.

So if I wish to munch on Tuna fish from a can in a changing room, I will. If I wish to discuss my love of Pro-Wrestling to anyone who wishes to listen, I will. If I want to run when all else walk, speak when there is silence, dance when there is serenity, sometimes I may do. But I still don't have it in me to clean my naked, exposed bollocks with a hair-dryer, whilst whistling the theme tune to The Littlest Hobo. I guess I am not as openly close to the margins as I once imagined. Oh well, plenty of time to go...

Lee.

Read My Mind.

The human mind is a fortress of personal privacy. Within its impenetrable confines, we are able to create and consider all forms of limitless potential ideas; a power unparalleled beyond this organ of simple complexities. In the world of thought, there are no suppressive social boundaries to limit us, and a total lack of pressure to twist the designs with which we retain inside. In our minds we are free; somewhat ironic, when it is only in the external physical world - where man regularly constructs cells of confinement, that we naively search for most forms of freedom.

Many of these walls - such as moral laws of avoiding harm to others, or ethical notions based around the structure of live and let live, I completely agree with. The rest – the religion we follow, the cultures we cling to, the inanimate shit we embrace, and even the associates we are told remain acceptable, are really a load of bollocks. Think about it, what exactly gives another human being any right to tell another living soul – born in exactly the same manner, which path of life to walk along? Besides the manipulated perception it is unacceptable to question anything decreed as ‘authority’.

A strange daily occurrence happens between me and my girlfriend. One of us will construct a rapid, silent thought; ranging from the timing of a cup of Tea, to the next step in our respective careers. Within a flash, the other openly suggests the idea – as if the thought was their own. This event is - on every instance, unconscious; any attempt to read each other’s minds with frontal lobe consideration, resulting in one-hundred percent failure; the taste of Um-Bungo juice drinks, Bungle from Rainbow still being a virgin, how many homosexuals it takes to complete a full bumming circle – my guesses fly way off the mark, even if they do expose my slightly warped sense of humour.

Telepathy is the art of deciphering the thoughts of another - without the direct aid of language or signals. It is a theoretical concept, and belongs to the annals of science fiction; a gift commonplace amongst the superhero elite. I don’t personally believe my partner and I experience telepathic evolution, as opposed to knowing each other so well, our thought patterns merge from these energies. But I do believe it a possibility of future humanity, where we shall attain the ability to read the minds of each other. And this thought (if you excuse the pun), is kind of scary to me. 

Imaging sitting on a busy train, a packed Starbucks, place of work, running a charity race - any vicinity where two or more strangers converge; every thought you create readable by everyone else. While it opens up truths of human nature, it also eradicates every element of the fun in guessing, and render us too skilled for a need to evolve. On top of this, there would also be the invasion of subliminal advertising, a mass growth in the planting of influential seeds of thought, and a whole host of abusing a fresh systematic mode of living; in essence, the human race would lose its last one true bastion of freedom. On the flip-side, sexual intercourse becomes a zillion times greater than it already is, and we potential could easily be separated in a heartbeat; but again, where is the fun in knowing all the answers, when the journey lies within the questions?

The human mind is a fortress of personal privacy, and I hope it stays this way. Truth is, they are all riddled with doubts, fears, and insecurities which make us the bare souls we all are, as much as the wonder, wisdoms, and beautifully original ideas so many allow to remain stifled by the ‘rules’ of the world they live in. It is where we all live – even if we don’t realise it, and is the only true place on Earth we can call our own - if we allow ourselves this God given right. Personally, I wouldn't want to read your mind; I just want to be given a few pieces here and there - then try to figure out the rest...

Lee.