PECULIAR FLOYD
I’ve just been reading my fourth Pink Floyd book, entitled ‘The Rough Guide To Pink Floyd’ by Toby Manning, following on from Nicholas Schaffner’s ‘Saucerful Of Secrets’, Nick Mason’s ‘Inside Out’, and John Harris’s ‘Dark Side Of The Moon’. Gosh the enigmatic Floyd are hard work. The group’s Dark Side Of The Moon album occupied a place on the American charts for an earth-shattering total approaching eight hundred weeks. It is widely suggested that somebody somewhere in the world is playing this record at each minute of the day. Far from being one-hit wonders, Pink Floyd’s output included Meddle, Obscured By Clouds, The Final Cut, The Wall, and Wish You Were Here, and many other albums and even singles which collectively turned on to varying degrees numerous music listeners and even critics alike.
Yet for all their unquestioned global success, Pink Floyd remained a miserable, some might argue thoroughly unlikeable bunch. On the credit side, the Floyd refreshingly side-stepped the standard, tedious histrionics of most other rock groups that indulged in heavy drugs, instrument thrashing, hotel wrecking, and high jinks at high altitudes on aeroplanes. Though largely avoiding whatever groupies dared to cross their path, the Floyd were not one woman men, yet by contrast to most other annoying rock musicians, they were gentlemen by comparison. For some immature observers who buy into the sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll of rock Babylon, the aloof Pink Floyd were boring and a group that needed to let their long hair down.
What I find remarkable about the Floyd is how ungenerous they have been to one another. For two decades, the group were a relatively closed book that commendably gave a wide berth to chat show appearances and magazine interviews designed to ascertain their favourite food and their most embarrassing moments. Yet by the mid-Eighties when bassist and principal songwriter Roger Waters chose to dissolve the group in the firm belief that the others couldn’t assemble without him, all hell broke loose as his estranged musical partner David Gilmour proceeded to re-convene the band for the Momentary Lapse Of Reason project in 1986. As a consequence, the Floyd’s warring factions began washing their dirty linen in public in a media brawl that made the McLaren versus Rotten, Lennon versus McCartney, and Jagger versus Richards spats seem like a storm in a teacup.
For the best part of two decades, Waters on the one hand and Gilmour allied with drummer Nick Mason on the other traded insults or, put diplomatically, ‘unkind remarks’. Only their remarkable reformation for their Live 8 concert at Hyde Park in July 2005 appeared to bring the curtain down on one of rock music’s most notorious feuds. I have some sympathy with the hard to get along with Roger Waters who had visions in the 1970s which he was determined to musically implement. The trouble for Roger was that the others were less enthusiastic for Roger’s plans and they had to be dragged almost kicking and screaming sometimes to complete the ideas of Mr. Waters. What a real shame that a group which brought such pleasure or enlightenment to literally millions of people grew to despise one another. Rarely have the ‘fab four’ paid tribute to one another’s musical output or song-writing ability, preferring instead to devote themselves to character assassinations.
If ever there is an obvious commercial for how miserable and unfulfilled riches can render anybody, then the Floyd are the reference point. The Floyd were not so much Pink, personable, or pleasant, but peculiar is perhaps more appropriate.
SO HARD TO BEAT?
A twice-broadcast documentary on BBC1 Northern Ireland has been glorifying the apparent contribution of Ulster to the world of rock and pop. The programme has been mystifyingly entitled ‘So Hard To Beat’. However, the absence of any sizeable ethnic minority in Northern Ireland has ensured that the popular music that emanated from the north of the island has been almost exclusively performed by young white men for the benefit of white students and schoolboys. Groups such as Ash, Snow Patrol, The Undertones, and Stiff Little Fingers have just been standard-bearers of white boy music. With the slight exception of Stiff Little Fingers who ‘followed’ (a recurring theme in Northern Irish youth) their heroes The Clash in embracing reggae, there has been a notable absence in brass, strings, or keyboards, with the only instruments employed being the run-of-the-mill bass, drums, and guitars.
Northern Irish groups rarely think outside of the box and rely on formulaic indie sounds. How very original. How ‘so hard to beat’. Can you imagine something innovative like The Orb or The Chemical Brothers coming from Norn Iron? Could you imagine something progressive like Pink Floyd or avant-garde like Talking Heads originating from Ulster? Well, I certainly couldn’t. Tragically, Northern Ireland remains a cultural backwater where half of the population are still turned on to the sounds of the macho nonsense of loyalist bands who each compete to see who bangs their drums loudest. Half the population meanwhile dig the totally unfashionable, cringe-worthy Garth Brooks, Johnny Cash, and the Eagles, whilst sporting their Jack Sugden cheque shirts. Dear oh dear.
The youth scene remains mired in predictable indie sounds with no creativity, imagination, or original thinking – symbolic of Northern Ireland which culturally and historically follows trends instead of leading them. In terms of ‘yoof culture’, to suggest that the music or fashion of Ulster is ‘so hard to beat’ is plainly ludicrous.
DESERT ISLAND DISCS
Are celebrities really stupid or what? I mean, they are each allowed to take several records with them to a desert island, yet in their choice of luxury items, they don’t possess the good sense to take a record player with them. I mean, what is the point of opting for Radiohead’s ‘OK Computer’ if you subsequently fail to include an ipod or MP3 player amongst your luxury items?
As for me, if I was going to be stranded on an island in the desert, I would wish to have as a priority a flare gun so that I could fire distress signals. Mind you, in moments of distress my flare gun thus far doesn’t appear to have caught anybody’s attention. As a second choice of item, I would require a roll-on deodorant. It’s bound to be hot, sticky, and sweaty stuck in the middle of the desert. Unlike most celebrities, I feel the need for an item of personal hygiene because I’m hygiene conscious – conscious of the fact that I’m lacking in it.
As for discs, I would choose ‘Echoes’ by Pink Floyd, if only because it lasts almost twenty-five minutes. It would be tiresome to choose several three minute songs because ultimately they would be played repeatedly on a nauseatingly numerous scale. Mind you, in the absence of a record player, the disc that I would choose during my lone vigil in the desert would be ‘Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’, not because it is a great record, but because its cover artwork merits prolonged attention even if its hyped contents do not.
APPLICATION FORMS
Application forms are an absolute drag. It seems that in some instances they are deliberately devised to deter people from completing them. An extensive application form with a multitude of questions to be scrutinised over is quite necessary for certain lofty positions or for public office. Otherwise, one frustratingly finds application forms that demand a plethora of irrelevant responses for jobs which are not particularly remarkable. I certainly have no sympathy for employers who ask downright stupid questions. I recently ‘applied’ for a role as an assistant manager in a Belfast wine shop, or off-license. One category included ‘Current Employment’, and perched immediately beneath was space for me to write my ‘reason for leaving’. Sorry, but if you are in current employment, then there cannot be a reason for leaving. I stated this in the appropriate space. Funnily enough, I wasn’t short-listed for an interview.
What is even more irksome are the silly questions, such as demanding the actual grades one achieved at the age of sixteen. How vastly different is my potential in the workplace if I attained a B grade in a geography GCSE instead of a mere C. The bottom line is that most employers don’t give a stuff what grades one achieved in GCSE biology or Spanish. These columns and questions on an application form, like much of the rest of the contents, are designed purely as an exercise in nosiness that bear no semblance of reality to the job vacancy. Application forms that demand information on everything, short of possibly shoe size or favourite colour, are an invasion of privacy and a thinly-disguised attempt to know one’s life story rather than ascertain a candidate’s worthiness as a potential employee.
Furthermore, organisations such as financial institutions that request your telephone number or email address don’t use this contact information, and one finds a mortgage application delayed because the would-be lender sends a second-class posted letter when a query needs to be addressed, even though they have access to your email address or telephone number. It is my humble estimation that tedious application forms are intended for information and intelligence-gathering. It would be perhaps more preferable if people volunteered to have their qualifications and employment history stored on a national database, thus sparing them the tedium of having to complete such sections in application forms, and thus enabling prospective employers to access this information before supplying dreadful application forms. We need to see the nonsense questions and irrelevant sections of application forms drastically curtailed in order to make them user-friendly for the poor wretches who are required to complete them.
HORSES FOR COURSES
‘Horses for courses’ is one of my favourite phrases. I have occasion to recite it. For example, there have been periods in recent years when this loser was losing money, not to mention the will to live, and my well-intentioned family were suggesting all manner of occupations in a desperate attempt to rescue me from my slide into the abyss. However, although I actually respect each and every person who is able to perform jobs that I cannot, there simply are jobs that I refuse to entertain. No I don’t mean doing the washing up, or hoovering the carpet. Consequently, my family and I had a conflict of interests. They were interested in me working in any trade and I frankly was not.
I mean, could you imagine Tony Blair as a long-distance truck driver, David Cameron on a building site, Prince Charles as a milkman, or the Queen as a night-club disc jockey? Ultimately, we all have specific skills and few of us are a Jack of all trades, which brings me back to horses for courses. Again, can you imagine a twelve-year-old foxhunter competing in a five-furlong sprint or a two-year-old filly racing in a three mile steeplechase? Similarly, there are courses that this old horse isn’t fit for: namely working on a building site, or in a garage, or in an office, or in a bar, or in a warehouse, or in a shop, or in a bank – come to think of it: anywhere!
THE DEADLIEST JOKE IN THE WORLD
My favourite war story is of the killer German joke that resulted in the recipient reeling over in fits of laughter, before collapsing in a heap – in a heap of precisely what, I don’t know. I must strongly warn you that the joke that you are about to read has fatal consequences. I have seen its deadly effects for myself as I have sent several people to an early grave with it, and I am currently helping police with their enquiries. Anyhow here goes, so brace yourself for the joke that caused much loss of life in the Second World War: “Wenn ist das Nurnstuck git und slotermayer?” “Ja, es ist gespullt.” Whatever you do, don’t recite it to anyone – except perhaps your next door neighbour or your mother-in-law. Fortunately, as Eric Idol stated, “in 1945 peace broke out. It was the end of the joke.”
ANGELS
Do you believe in angels? My mother, God rest her soul (she’s still alive, but may God rest her soul nevertheless) recalls a story when on holiday in Switzerland with my terminally ill father, a man appeared from seemingly nowhere to help my Dad with one or two suitcases, and then this kind stranger just as quickly disappeared. Nobody is suggesting that this ‘angel’ vanished into thin air, but I too had an encouraging experience when, to paraphrase Blanche Dubois, I was able to ‘depend on the kindness of strangers’.
Foolish man that I am, I ran out of petrol about twenty miles from my destination of Belfast. However, I had no sooner parked my car by the side of the motorway than a passing motorist and his family offered me a lift to the nearest garage. By some peculiar fortune, we seemed to be as far away from a nearby petrol station as was humanly possible. I think that it took my helpers in the region of forty minutes to find a garage and return me with my petrol can to my car. Giving up a large chunk of their time at about nine on a Saturday evening was massive. If these residents of Carrickfergus who drove a silver Nissan are not angels, then who are?
IT’S A MIRACLE
Do you believe in miracles? Many times I have been in need of a miracle of some sort or another. I used to foolishly bemoan that miracles were only something that happened long, long ago in Capernaum or Jerusalem. However, if we look closer to home, in fact if we look in the mirror, we can see a miracle staring back at us. You see, humans are not machines that are purchased in a shop, complete with a box, to be brought out of the container and then plugged into the electricity mains. Nor are we battery-operated. We function by means of the most vastly intricate system of machinery contained within our bodies. Take such a vital organ as the heart. It keeps beating without fail, every second, minute and hour of the day, each day of every week of every month of every year for as many years as we dare to hope. Yes some hearts last longer than others, but have you ever stopped to consider that your heart could choose to stop at any moment. It’s almost a frightening thought, isn’t it?
Similarly there is something equally awesome about our consciousness. We go to bed, fall asleep and appear to be half-dead, and yet lo and behold several hours later we return to complete consciousness, ready yet again to confront the challenge of the day ahead. It’s remarkable how our mind can switch off and then on again. I could write a large volume about the complicated processes of the other vital organs. As for our legs, arms, fingers, feet, and mouth, isn’t it extraordinary how they are able to operate as we wish?
I have come to the awakening that my life (and yours too) is a miracle, not least in how we emerge from the womb and evolve from tiny little children into grown-up adults. So who or what is responsible for this phenomenal state of affairs? Well, I am more than ever satisfied that there is a God whose wonders are the very source of our existence. For all you God-deniers, what other possible explanation is there? Are you seriously telling me that a big bang has resulted in my body and yours functioning in the miraculous way that they do. No folks, there has to be a greater power providing the feat of engineering that has resulted in the creation and prolongation of the human race.
BEREAVEMENT
There is no manual or textbook that provides appropriate guidelines on how to cope with the enormous loss of a loved one. Responses after all vary from hysterics to morose behaviour, neither of which is good or bad, nor right or wrong. For everyone touched by the searing pain of bereavement, I would suggest the following two sources which in their own way act as an enormous comfort.
First of all, whatever misgivings many people may have about the Orange Order, the institution’s prayer for the bereaved is an excellent form of consolation. It runs something like this:
‘Grant O Lord to all who are bereaved the spirit and strength
That they might meet the days to come, not sorrowing as those without hope
But in thankful remembrance of Thy great goodness in past years
And in the sure expectation of a joyful reunion in the Heavenly places.’ Amen.
Secondly, I have always been struck by the reaction of King David to the loss of his wife Bathsheba. His entourage not unnaturally expected the king to be mired in the depths of anguish, and they were understandably anxious to avoid the king, lest they be subjected to any anticipated display of grief. Instead of which, David had a wash, put on his best clothes, emerged looking untouched by any personal tragedy and confidently explained to his startled onlookers that “she cannot come back to where I am. However, some day I will go to where she is.” Now that’s what I call faith!
BIBLE-BASHERS
I recently saw an episode of The Weakest Link where one particularly weak link expressed the hope that the person voted off in the next round would be the so-called “Bible-basher”. There is something nonsensical about the term ‘Bible-basher’, which just about sums up the anti-Christian bigots. They suggest that someone who has the cheek to quote from God’s written word is a ‘Bible-basher’. However, it is quite clear that any such well-intentioned soul is highlighting God’s word, and certainly not bashing it. After all, who bashes something that they respect? I mean, if someone liked to quote from the Communist Manifesto, would they qualify as a Marx-basher? Of course they wouldn’t. No it’s not people who dare to quote from God’s word who are bashing the Bible. It is instead those smart alecs who reject God’s word who are the real ‘Bible-bashers’.