Moonlight Thinking.

Throughout my life, I’ve always felt like someone on the edges of society. Kinda like the square peg which only slightly fits into that circular hole it is meant to adapt into. Too street wise for the intellectuals, too intellectual for the street wise. Too determined to be a failure, too lazy to secure success. You can pick your cliché here from all manner of tired statements. But my point is, I have spent most of my life feeling an odd sense of isolation from humanity, while conversely connecting with it, in ways which appear genuine to most people I meet; born from those wonderful acting skills, we all learn in the nature of protection, in the more dangerous side of this game of life.

This, however, is nothing exclusive to me as a person. It is essentially the life of a thinker. People who think a lot, often find themselves spending more time consciously wondering about shit, then actually doing stuff - while concurrently balancing these extremes. It is like taking the pleasures of life and trying to understand them all, instead of just allowing ourselves to enjoy them. It is also why thinkers need avenues of brainless activity, to both allow themselves a mental break, as well as tune back in to physical reality. I go to the gym, watch Wrestling, and in general search for entertainment in the stupidest of life's aspects, to help avoid falling into the abyss of an over-analysis which serves no purpose, in the grand scheme of having fun; in a life far too short to forget how to enjoy.

But it is difficult for the thinker. For while physical activities are easy to share with others; as they can be seen and understood. Thoughts and ideas are much more complicated to hand to one another - as our own processes are different, and the mechanics operate with greater convolution. In other words, it is much easier to play bat and ball, then to group together and design a puzzle.

Who knows. It is late, and a lot of this sounds like pretentious bollocks, when I read it back. And I am writing more of a personal, self-gratifying, random log here, than a well thought out blog article. Those of you who read this may well wonder what I am talking about. This is not a clever, thought provoking series of words, it is just a bunch of jumbles before I go to bed. Blog writing is hard work, and most are read by a few number of people. But I keep going, because I love to write, and love words. The beauty of this blog however, is I didn't allow it any thought. At least I don't think I did. The edge's are not always clear...

Lee.

Bon Jovi In Birmingham.

"Caddy Set"

The music of Bon Jovi may never stand in high regard amongst the ‘experts’ of Rock Music folklore. Lyrics too generic for Springsteen. Guitar work too formulaic in relation to Slash or Satriani. Songs too poppy for lovers of Led Zeppelin. Shit, even the singing is never compared to Freddie Mercury. Essentially, it is – as a friend of mine once put so bluntly, easy to compare the music of Bon Jovi to dry toast; warm, tasty, and full of energy – but lacking that something to ever consider ‘exceptional’.

It is a bright, sunny day. I stand in the middle of what is the football pitch of Villa Park, in the town of Aston, Birmingham. This is a view people such as Frank Lampard and Steven Gerrard, will have seen many times over; I wonder how wonderful it must feel, to do something you love in front of thousands who love you back for doing it? I am with my girlfriend waiting to see Bon Jovi. For me this is the first time, for her, something she has done many times over. I ask why she keeps seeing them so often? “Because they are amazing live!” she says. Surely dry toast cannot be that good?

The stage before me resembles the front of a Cadillac, and the first thing I notice are the variation of ages, styles, and sizes of the fans around me; as well as the amount of Bon Jovi tattoos they carry. There is a loyalty about these fans; the kind 95% of Justin Beiber or One Direction followers will never know. Most have been with the group since their first breakthrough in 1983, while many others have joined along the way and never left. There are even a fair few Bon Jovi lookalikes floating around; my favourite, the skinny fella, who I thought resembled Pat Sharp more than the lead singer. Must be weird living your life as somebody else. Not my thing, but it keeps others happy – and probably ramps up his pulling power.

Between the four hours wait, support arrives in the form of beer, Kings Of Captains, a local band, and to my shock and delight, Coventry’s finest. The Enemy. An odd group to support Bon Jovi, but one who nailed their set with an intense, passionate, professional display or raw melodic brilliance; they will only get bigger, trust me. Come 7:30pm, we were given the “30 minutes countdown,” just to build tension, I guess. It worked. Even though personally, at this point I still wasn’t that into it as the hardened surrounding Jovi-ites. (Do they have a name?)

Come 8pm on the money, the main event started. As soon as the seasoned middle-aged rockers hit that stage, the crowd cheered in a defining roar which never once let up, and I was fortunate to witness pure rock royalty, make three hours seem like thirty minutes. The group went through all the classics, a few lesser known numbers for the hardcore fans, a couple of covers (Status Quo, how good is that!) And they played throughout, like it was their last night on Earth. By the time the second encore had finished, and feeling as if I had witnessed one of the truly special gigs of history, most fans carried a general tone of, “This level is about normal for them.” The toast was more of a cooked croissant, and part of a larger meal, really.

As far as Bon Jovi himself is concerned. He comes across as a man, who has crafted his trade down to a science. Yet has the ability to work as an artist in its frame - from the singing and energy of his performance; seriously, the guy is 51 and never stopped to pause for a second. Clearly influenced by Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, and Bruce Springsteen - and living in an age where musicians seem more concerned with selling trainers, and Twitter photos, there is a feeling Bon Jovi is one of the last true Rock Stars of our time. Not another classic drug riddled waste of history, but a true professional showman… someone who simply loves to give back in performance, a little of the immense wonders life has given him already. A lot of acts treat their fans with contempt; these guys have a warm, long-term relationship with theirs – it shows on both sides, whenever they get together. It’s pretty healthy, and isn't going to change anytime soon.

And this is exactly what the ‘experts’ neglect to mention about Bon Jovi. While there is always someone else who does the separate things just a little better; and I use the word 'just', because the dude has a bloody strong voice, the guitar work is solid, and the songs deceptively emotive. When you total the sum of its parts altogether, there really is no finer band out there playing music to entertain, as a way to remind us to simply enjoy life. To consistently perform at the level they have and still do - for three decades. And to have each gig leave the entire crowd feel like it is both the greatest show they ever played, as well as belonging to one giant arse, private party - in which they are the evening’s hosts, is something remarkable. 

Their music isn’t designed to make you think, it is designed to make you dance, celebrate, and smile. They perform again at Hyde Park in a few weeks. My girlfriend is going, I am not. If I’m honest, should I get the chance to see them again? I will. And to convince someone who only really liked their music to do such a thing after one show? Put it this way; I have only eaten dry toast once... Croissants are with me for life.

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A Tale Of Two Buses.

“Born from two personal experiences.”

"A London Bus"

I wait for a bus on a chilly Friday evening, outside the O2 centre in London. I am alongside two friends waiting to travel home, after a showing of the opera Carmen... they offered me a spare ticket. The tube is down, and at this bus stop hoards of people stand rammed into a confined area, waiting to board the replacement bus service into Euston. They are the exact folk you would expect at a showing of Carmen; decked out in mink coats, Jimmy Choo shoes, watches costing more than the average car, and four figure dresses. They are bankers, lawyers, directors, executives, politicians, and I imagine the majority live in Knightsbridge. They look dignified, respectable, and very wealthy – at least in terms of money, anyway. A few minutes of waiting, and the bus arrives…

I am waiting for a bus outside Northolt Tube Station to Harrow, on a chilly late-afternoon; after a tiring day of jaunts and escapades I can scarcely recall. I am alone with hoards of many others, crammed in the small space, seeking the sanctity of home. This is an entirely different crowd, however. The people here do not travel via bus through choice, but poverty, situation, and a lack of other available options. They are manual workers, the unemployed, single mothers, immigrants, frail pensioners, and the like; a quintessential collection of those carved by the hard-natured stone of a brutal life. A few minutes of waiting, and the bus arrives…

On one of the buses, the crowd rush on like a pack of dirty animals; fighting to board a vehicle as if doing so will save them from a forthcoming apocalypse. Not a single person considers any other human around them as human; their main concern seems to involve shoving each other aside, in order to secure a prime seat. I am stuck in the middle of these vultures, and while able to bully my way on to a bus, where plenty of seats are available anyway, this is still one of the most hostile, aggressive, outwardly nasty crowds I can remember. I get onto the bus, and loudly discuss with a blunt humour to my friends, how these people are a bunch of disgraceful animals. Unsurprisingly, nobody picks up the courage to argue back - I was hoping they would.

With the other bus, however, everyone waits for the doors to open. They then quietly, slowly, and in a silent dignity, enter the packed bus, one by one. The weak are allowed in first, the elderly given space to make their way inside, and nobody fights, argues, or cause any affray. This bus is the polar opposite of the previous bus; where humanity was discarded for a comfy seat, this sees humanity considered by all and sundry. Once everyone manages to find a place on the bus – still jostling amongst each other inside so we are all comfortable, the door shuts, the engine starts, and the handbrake is released… this bus then makes it way to Harrow.

The moral of the story? Anyone who ever tells you the rich are dignified, and the poor are animals; have never travelled on a bus with either. And real animals, usually wear mink coats.

Lee.

The Paedophile Bomb.

Like many people, I suffer from a severe case of nausea, any time a story relating to rapists or child molesters passes by; it takes one extremely warped, cold hearted individual, to be able to commit either act, and I prefer to imagine they don’t exist. But exist they do.

Unlike many people, I do not believe they should face execution for their acts. The reason for this is two-fold. One, I feel death is a physical escape from the punishment of long periods in prison, they rightfully deserve. And two, I don’t believe a civilised society evolves through any forms of death by choice. Though I must admit, chopping off their weapons of pleasure is worth considering – if only just to stop them re-offending. All this being said, I do believe these sick fellas need to know just how awful it must feel, to the victims who suffer all manner of damage from their acts. So I have devised the idea of what I refer to as, “The Paedophile Bomb”. It works like this…

Each convicted criminal charged with either act, is placed in a padded cell, naked as the day they were born. A bomb (Much like the one pictured) is strapped tight around their bollocks, holding firm and covering their dignities – their physical dignity, any internal self-respect has long vanished. The overseeing warden explains the bomb strapped to them, is set to detonate at any random second within the next twenty-four hours; but the guilty man – much like the warden, will not know when, until when happens. 

All the guilty man can do is wait, alone in this padded cell. Every single second, waiting, in sheer fear, agony, and tortured by possibility and a ticking clock; knowing the bomb on his balls is going to explode any given moment – arriving in peace, leaving him in pieces. For the duration, he gets to experience the most intense, painful, shit scary fear he has ever felt – maybe, as a zillion thoughts run through his mind, even beginning to understand exactly what the life he fucked up may have felt like during his deed. This is a maybe, for he could be too dumb or deluded to realize; or even see himself as the victim, as these arseholes often do. 

After the twenty four hours have passed, he remains in one piece. The bomb hasn’t gone off… It was never intended to. It was designed to induce fear - real fear, the kind that makes you literally shit yourself. After this, said scumbag is placed in his prison cell, and left to serve due time at Her Majesty’s Pleasure (does the Queen actually sit at home, feeling happy one in every hundred thousand people are in prison?) He likely won’t ever change who he is, but a few urban myth seeds planted deep in the criminal underworld - about how the bomb explodes second time around, and he may think twice; next time he considers screwing up some poor innocent life.  

The unfortunate reality, is rapists and child molesters will always exist; hidden in plain sight as the bowels of society. However, many societies will act different to them, according to the accepted truths of each civilisation, and one day bombs like these may be created; only ones intended to work. The idea of prison doesn’t please everyone, but I really don’t know what else can be done, with a subsection of the world who are perhaps terminally incurable. Maybe chopping off the old gonads, wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all...

Lee.

Glory Days.

"Only two hundred miles left to see our home club"

I enter the doors of my workplace, wearing the current England international football shirt, it is red. It’s early afternoon, and a few hours previous, England had exited the world cup due to a mixture of Brazilian flair and Japanese humidity; the match took place in Asia, making it an early AM Kick-Off in blighty. On arrival, Stuart – a Brummie with a love of obscure metal; the music, not the material, asks a throwaway question I recall with clarity; “Why are you still wearing that shirt? They are out?” My slightly hostile response was simple “So? I’m still English!”

There is a young man at the gym who regularly trains in his Arsenal home shirt. It doesn’t matter if on the previous evening they have won 8 – 0 against Middlesbrough, or just been dumped out the Champions league by AC Milan, he still wears that shirt. For this kid, the philosophy for Arsenal is the same as my own for England; win, lose, or draw, l remain a fan. I also support Barnet, (The area I was born in) who were recently relegated back to the annals of non-league football. Does this mean I am suddenly ashamed of the Bees? Of course not. Just because they get demoted, doesn’t change the way I see them. What kind of man would leave their partner, if she lost her job? If anything, it is times like these the clubs needs their fans more than ever. 

Over the last few weeks, I have noticed replica shirts of the German National side, Bayern Munich, and Borussia Dortmund, sprouting out of the blue. In all my years, I have seen perhaps less than a handful of German football shirts in my life in London – which is pretty minimal, considering the cosmopolitan nature of a seven million strong city. The trouble is, German football has entered a purple patch, and at this moment in time, is THE glamorous league to support. On a definitely related note, all the Barcelona and Real Madrid shirts I used to see all over the place – especially in Harrow, seem to have mysteriously vanished? I have not seen a Ronaldo seven shirt in weeks!

What I believe is there are two different types of football fan. The first are those who support a club or country, purely for their love of that side. For them, all the success, defeats, ecstasies and agonies, are all part of the journey. Much like a solid relationship, you love them when they stand, and in many ways, it reminds you how much you love them ever more, the times when they fall. Barnet’s relegation was sad, but it doesn’t make me want to go visit the Northampton club shop anytime soon. Of course, these fans would love their club to always win, but life cannot work like this all the time – so the stick around. They don’t dump Arsenal for Chelsea, they wait, they hope, they believe… in many ways, they love. 

The other fans are the ones I find both hilarious and tragic. This is the classic ‘glory fan’. The thirty-something Liverpool ‘supporter’ not from Merseyside. The twenty-something Manchester United ‘fan’, from London. Or the teenagers today, torn between Chelsea and Manchester City. These are those whose Manchester United or Bayern Munich shirt they wear today, would have been a Manchester City or Barcelona shirt instead – had a result or two gone in a different direction. Those who leech of success with no real love for the club they support, or shirt they wear; who want to be able to say “Look at me, I am a part of something successful”, while making no effort to achieve that success. They saturate fans, and encourage a flimsy, lazy attitude, to the time when the feeling of winning finally comes to a clubs existence. 

England as a national side, are nowhere near the team they were five years ago. Neither are Arsenal. Barnet are even worse. But it doesn’t matter. Real fans could never support any other club. I don’t care how good Lionel Messi is. And even if he scores a goal from shooting fire out of his arse, I still won’t wear a Barcelona shirt. Glory hunters follow whatever is leading the race of the times. Real fans may suffer the slings and arrows of defeat, but will be the only ones who can appreciate the success when it finally, finally arrives… they will also stick around, once the shine wears off. I salute them as fans… I salute them as people.

Lee.