CHAOS IN CONFECTIONARY KINGDOM AS MARS ATTACKS
The ongoing chocolate wars intensified this morning as Mars rebels unleashed a Cluster of Sour Bombs, strapped to a Double Decker, which were set off in the southern province of Bourneville just After Eight.
Early peace talks received a Boost as consul Willy Wonka met with rebel leaders to discuss a Time Out from the troubles, but these wishes soon began to Flake and now leaders are worried they could turn on a Dime. Thousands of homes were evacuated in the south, but some Drifters remain, continuing to roam the streets despite the danger. News cameras on location captured the emotionally charged scenes. In one video, insurgents Snicker as they take a Kinder egg by Surprise. Another shows tears flowing freely in the streets as a Fisherman's Friend is found dead. The southern residents react with anger as the rebels use their mobile phones to post graphic footage onto the internet as a Walnut is brutally Whipped.
World leaders have expressed their sadness at the latest Twist in the ongoing saga of unrest in the Confectionary Kingdom, as the unravelling situation becomes a hot Topic in international politics. Gordon Brown has described the rebel leaders as "smarties". When asked what could be done to resolve the situation, President Obama admitted "it will take Allsorts to solve this problem".
More as the story develops.
My name is Carl Wheatley. I am 26 years old, live in South Wales, and will be filling this blog with random miscellaneous thoughts, media, creative writing, essays, poetry, reviews and the like, as and when I can be arsed. Simple, no?
Thursday, 26 November 2009
Friday, 9 October 2009
Tuesday, 4 August 2009
Saturday, 1 August 2009
The "Special" Relationship
For a number of people in the United Kingdom, their first encounters with the Americans and their culture came during and following the Second World War, which ended in 1945. Britain’s growing relationship with the United States of America, cohesive throughout the War and the ensuing Berlin airlift crisis, led to an increased military presence of American soldiers in the UK and, as a result, an increased exposure to their way of life for residents of the UK who may have only seen and read about the Americans through televisions and newspapers. Inevitably, there were a myriad various reactions to the enigmatic presence of these ‘outsiders’. During this period in time, there were several main, contrasting perceptions of America and its global position of power and wealth, which arguably exist to this day to a degree. One stance was a negative position of jealousy and envy, the other is said to “delight in the liberational potential of American culture”.
It can be argued that the people of Britain were taking a progressively critical attitude towards the Americans as the 1940s came to an end. Although this could have been moulded by their own personal experiences with the Americans and the soldiers stationed in the UK during the war, it is likely that these opinions were, at least in part, formed by the persuasive media depictions of the USA which began to intensify as the 1950s brought a new wave of “Americanisation”; the pernicious influence of American popular culture inflicted by a society lacking the most basic cultural credibility on a Britain previously rich in traditional values. The media backlash against this American cultural invasion continued as it became clear that not only were American “traditions” beginning to appear in the UK, but that the British were actually embracing them.
The more educated and cultured British attempted to act as the moral guardians of the UK with those in a position to do so ensuring that the American influence was kept as controlled as possible. This disdain towards American media had long been prevalent in the United Kingdom, dating back to the days of the much-ridiculed ‘yellow press’ sensationalist newspapers at the end of the 19th century. Meanwhile, American films and television shows were garnering favourable responses from the less culturally demanding of British people, principally the youth element. Despite attempts to hold back new radical and revolutionary styles of music, the likes of Elvis Presley began to filter through the censorship, with much success, to the chagrin of believers in music with legitimate historical credibility. The British establishment were fighting a losing battle. “Americanisation” was an appealing and refreshing change to the reserved popular culture of Britain for those who felt a need for something a little more revolutionary than the carefully controlled British media.
It wasn’t only popular culture such as music and television shows that were imported from America. The whole concept of television as a forum of entertainment and mindless amusement was developed and aggressively expanded on in America during the 1940s and this led to an increased demand for a similar style of media throughout Europe during the 1950s. However, the television didn’t manage to eclipse the success of the cinema, despite posing a large threat. Cinema remained probably the most popular form of entertainment throughout the world, and the Americans dominated in virtually every aspect, a virtual monopoly which arguably remains to this day. Studies in the early 1990s depicted a Britain in which 90 per cent of all box office takings in the UK were for American films and, in 1994, nine out of the ten top grossing films of the year were American, despite the many and often severe cultural differences between the two countries. America is often viewed as a country with no real refinements, no finesse. A country with no historical culture and an alarming lack of scruples and behavioural protocol, with nothing to offer of a higher moral value than the likes of ‘trailer-park-trash’ shows such as “Jerry Springer”, a show in which Americans tend to reveal their outrageous and excessive exploits in front of a live audience. With shows tending to focus on sexual depravities, cheating lovers and various other “taboo” topics, it is clear where the impressions of America as a country with no moral boundaries emerged from. However, this is just a small aspect of a large and extremely diverse country. It is, nevertheless, often picked on as one of the “examples” of American culture and its potentially devastating effect on the preserved and time-honoured traditions in Britain.
It is this blinkered view of America that has been played on for decades by critics who argue that the very moral fibre of Britain is at risk as a result of an invasion by decadent American principles. An early example of this line of thinking would be the reaction of Britain’s most popular source of media at the time, the British Broadcasting Corporation. The BBC deliberately ignored American innovations such as rock ‘n’ roll music (often berated as one of the most negative influences by the likes of Richard Hoggart) and rhythm and blues. Research even indicates that the BBC laid down detailed guidelines as to how much American material should be presented and in what context. This was obviously an attempt to manipulate and control the tastes of the general viewing public, designed to off-put the “damaging effects” of Americanisation. It could be argued as to whether this policy protected the interests of the British public or simply the personal tastes of the upper BBC hierarchy, but it was vigorously employed throughout the 1950s.
The backlash against the Americanisation of Britain was not restricted to television. Newspapers and magazines also played an active role in the undermining of the worth of American cultures. One such newspaper was the Picture Post, in which writer Edward Hulton suggested the Americans were responsible for producing a generation of mindless, uninspired factory workers with no intellectual aspirations, who would rather read comic strips than a classical novel or anything of real substance, and moreover gave the impression of a crime-ridden Britain, caused by the US inflicted images of youth. Studies by Geoffrey Pearson in the 1980s seemed to corroborate these fears to a degree, looking in hindsight at the causes of lost morality in the United Kingdom. Pearson claims that “Popular entertainments of all kinds have been blamed for dragging down public morals in a gathering pattern of accusation… the first flickering danger signs from the silent movies… Hollywood picture palaces… and then television viewing… Each, in its own time, has been accused of encouraging a moral debauch”.
It is interesting that Geoffrey Pearson echoes what was being declared about the influence of America back in the 1950s, despite his research coming over three decades later. He suggests that declines in public morale and “imitative crime” can be traced back to the early days of cinema and TV, and their subsequent growth and impact through the second half of the twentieth century. This finding certainly adds some weight to the original fears of the affects American culture could perpetrate, although it is not definitive, as America is not the only country to have produced films from the 1940s onward and there is no evidence to suggest that British cinema and television had any less of an affect on the viewing public.
Whilst many critics of the time thought that the early signs of American culture becoming engrained in the British lifestyle were a negative and deplorable sign that high culture was dying a slow death in the hands of a generation too unrefined to appreciate the traditional and historical, there were also a number of critics who contrasted this view, welcoming the American qualities into the UK. However, the overwhelming fact remained that it was the ordinary people of Britain that were embracing many Americanisms and slowly these factors of US life became factors of British life too. American films, such as The Sound Of Music, became firm favourites in UK households. American stars of film, stage and music became as famous in Britain as in the USA. It could even be claimed that Britain has adopted so many “Americanisms” that as we stand in the early 21st century, Britain could almost be declared “honourary Americans”, or at least part-American, simply by definition of our cultural activities.
The United Kingdom is not alone however; during the last few decades, “Americanisation” has swept the world in a global phenomenon which has left US-based brand names such as McDonald’s, Budweiser, Nike, Disney and Coca-Cola and their corporate logos as the most recognised labels in the world. The British, once jealous and threatened by the “arrogant” Americans, now found the American translation of the English language become more globally recognised than the original language itself. As culture was “infected” by Americans, so too was the political and business side of the UK which became increasingly “Americanised” as the Brits took a more US-style approach to their jobs, inspired by films depicting the corporate side of America, such as Wall Street.
The early 21st century finds the global cultural influence of America seemingly on a slow downswing. This decline could be attributed to many factors, none of which could be definitively proven. Perhaps people are tiring of the influences of another country and want to reinvest in the rich histories and cultures of their own countries. Maybe there are simply no further developments to be made by embracing the American way of life; is Britain any less American than America itself these days? Another factor could simply be that America no longer represents the same image as it did when it began to influence the UK back in the 1950s. Its reputation severely damaged by political fiascos such as Bill Clinton’s sex scandals (which could have come directly from an episode of “Jerry Springer” in itself) and a declining ability to offer any assistance or influence to other countries could have led to a weakened perception of America as a whole, and therefore its culture.
Also, the USA has never quite managed to shake off its notorious reputation for sleaze and stupidity, despite the only evidence being hearsay and a small minority of US citizens. However, to suggest that US culture has but a small presence in the UK would be extremely misleading. Most towns and cities feature at least one McDonald’s restaurant, the most famous fashion brands are American based and some weeks there are more American television shows broadcast on British TV than home-made shows. Modern impressions of America are also quite different now. The younger generations were brought up on a diet of “America”, and unlike the older generations, there is nothing “alien” about the way of life. In conclusion, then, it is apparent that despite all attempts to censor and protect the British from American cultural influence, today’s Britain would be a startlingly different landscape from the “Americanised” Britain we live in today, a country whose mass media is largely owned and run by American-based companies, giving America more influence over the minds and opinions of the British public than ever.
It can be argued that the people of Britain were taking a progressively critical attitude towards the Americans as the 1940s came to an end. Although this could have been moulded by their own personal experiences with the Americans and the soldiers stationed in the UK during the war, it is likely that these opinions were, at least in part, formed by the persuasive media depictions of the USA which began to intensify as the 1950s brought a new wave of “Americanisation”; the pernicious influence of American popular culture inflicted by a society lacking the most basic cultural credibility on a Britain previously rich in traditional values. The media backlash against this American cultural invasion continued as it became clear that not only were American “traditions” beginning to appear in the UK, but that the British were actually embracing them.
The more educated and cultured British attempted to act as the moral guardians of the UK with those in a position to do so ensuring that the American influence was kept as controlled as possible. This disdain towards American media had long been prevalent in the United Kingdom, dating back to the days of the much-ridiculed ‘yellow press’ sensationalist newspapers at the end of the 19th century. Meanwhile, American films and television shows were garnering favourable responses from the less culturally demanding of British people, principally the youth element. Despite attempts to hold back new radical and revolutionary styles of music, the likes of Elvis Presley began to filter through the censorship, with much success, to the chagrin of believers in music with legitimate historical credibility. The British establishment were fighting a losing battle. “Americanisation” was an appealing and refreshing change to the reserved popular culture of Britain for those who felt a need for something a little more revolutionary than the carefully controlled British media.
It wasn’t only popular culture such as music and television shows that were imported from America. The whole concept of television as a forum of entertainment and mindless amusement was developed and aggressively expanded on in America during the 1940s and this led to an increased demand for a similar style of media throughout Europe during the 1950s. However, the television didn’t manage to eclipse the success of the cinema, despite posing a large threat. Cinema remained probably the most popular form of entertainment throughout the world, and the Americans dominated in virtually every aspect, a virtual monopoly which arguably remains to this day. Studies in the early 1990s depicted a Britain in which 90 per cent of all box office takings in the UK were for American films and, in 1994, nine out of the ten top grossing films of the year were American, despite the many and often severe cultural differences between the two countries. America is often viewed as a country with no real refinements, no finesse. A country with no historical culture and an alarming lack of scruples and behavioural protocol, with nothing to offer of a higher moral value than the likes of ‘trailer-park-trash’ shows such as “Jerry Springer”, a show in which Americans tend to reveal their outrageous and excessive exploits in front of a live audience. With shows tending to focus on sexual depravities, cheating lovers and various other “taboo” topics, it is clear where the impressions of America as a country with no moral boundaries emerged from. However, this is just a small aspect of a large and extremely diverse country. It is, nevertheless, often picked on as one of the “examples” of American culture and its potentially devastating effect on the preserved and time-honoured traditions in Britain.
It is this blinkered view of America that has been played on for decades by critics who argue that the very moral fibre of Britain is at risk as a result of an invasion by decadent American principles. An early example of this line of thinking would be the reaction of Britain’s most popular source of media at the time, the British Broadcasting Corporation. The BBC deliberately ignored American innovations such as rock ‘n’ roll music (often berated as one of the most negative influences by the likes of Richard Hoggart) and rhythm and blues. Research even indicates that the BBC laid down detailed guidelines as to how much American material should be presented and in what context. This was obviously an attempt to manipulate and control the tastes of the general viewing public, designed to off-put the “damaging effects” of Americanisation. It could be argued as to whether this policy protected the interests of the British public or simply the personal tastes of the upper BBC hierarchy, but it was vigorously employed throughout the 1950s.
The backlash against the Americanisation of Britain was not restricted to television. Newspapers and magazines also played an active role in the undermining of the worth of American cultures. One such newspaper was the Picture Post, in which writer Edward Hulton suggested the Americans were responsible for producing a generation of mindless, uninspired factory workers with no intellectual aspirations, who would rather read comic strips than a classical novel or anything of real substance, and moreover gave the impression of a crime-ridden Britain, caused by the US inflicted images of youth. Studies by Geoffrey Pearson in the 1980s seemed to corroborate these fears to a degree, looking in hindsight at the causes of lost morality in the United Kingdom. Pearson claims that “Popular entertainments of all kinds have been blamed for dragging down public morals in a gathering pattern of accusation… the first flickering danger signs from the silent movies… Hollywood picture palaces… and then television viewing… Each, in its own time, has been accused of encouraging a moral debauch”.
It is interesting that Geoffrey Pearson echoes what was being declared about the influence of America back in the 1950s, despite his research coming over three decades later. He suggests that declines in public morale and “imitative crime” can be traced back to the early days of cinema and TV, and their subsequent growth and impact through the second half of the twentieth century. This finding certainly adds some weight to the original fears of the affects American culture could perpetrate, although it is not definitive, as America is not the only country to have produced films from the 1940s onward and there is no evidence to suggest that British cinema and television had any less of an affect on the viewing public.
Whilst many critics of the time thought that the early signs of American culture becoming engrained in the British lifestyle were a negative and deplorable sign that high culture was dying a slow death in the hands of a generation too unrefined to appreciate the traditional and historical, there were also a number of critics who contrasted this view, welcoming the American qualities into the UK. However, the overwhelming fact remained that it was the ordinary people of Britain that were embracing many Americanisms and slowly these factors of US life became factors of British life too. American films, such as The Sound Of Music, became firm favourites in UK households. American stars of film, stage and music became as famous in Britain as in the USA. It could even be claimed that Britain has adopted so many “Americanisms” that as we stand in the early 21st century, Britain could almost be declared “honourary Americans”, or at least part-American, simply by definition of our cultural activities.
The United Kingdom is not alone however; during the last few decades, “Americanisation” has swept the world in a global phenomenon which has left US-based brand names such as McDonald’s, Budweiser, Nike, Disney and Coca-Cola and their corporate logos as the most recognised labels in the world. The British, once jealous and threatened by the “arrogant” Americans, now found the American translation of the English language become more globally recognised than the original language itself. As culture was “infected” by Americans, so too was the political and business side of the UK which became increasingly “Americanised” as the Brits took a more US-style approach to their jobs, inspired by films depicting the corporate side of America, such as Wall Street.
The early 21st century finds the global cultural influence of America seemingly on a slow downswing. This decline could be attributed to many factors, none of which could be definitively proven. Perhaps people are tiring of the influences of another country and want to reinvest in the rich histories and cultures of their own countries. Maybe there are simply no further developments to be made by embracing the American way of life; is Britain any less American than America itself these days? Another factor could simply be that America no longer represents the same image as it did when it began to influence the UK back in the 1950s. Its reputation severely damaged by political fiascos such as Bill Clinton’s sex scandals (which could have come directly from an episode of “Jerry Springer” in itself) and a declining ability to offer any assistance or influence to other countries could have led to a weakened perception of America as a whole, and therefore its culture.
Also, the USA has never quite managed to shake off its notorious reputation for sleaze and stupidity, despite the only evidence being hearsay and a small minority of US citizens. However, to suggest that US culture has but a small presence in the UK would be extremely misleading. Most towns and cities feature at least one McDonald’s restaurant, the most famous fashion brands are American based and some weeks there are more American television shows broadcast on British TV than home-made shows. Modern impressions of America are also quite different now. The younger generations were brought up on a diet of “America”, and unlike the older generations, there is nothing “alien” about the way of life. In conclusion, then, it is apparent that despite all attempts to censor and protect the British from American cultural influence, today’s Britain would be a startlingly different landscape from the “Americanised” Britain we live in today, a country whose mass media is largely owned and run by American-based companies, giving America more influence over the minds and opinions of the British public than ever.
My Withdrawal
My Family Gathering
It was really only by chance that I noticed him there. He was pretty much tucked away at the back, trying to look as inconspicuous as a total stranger possibly could at somebody else’s family occasion. Smartly dressed, I have to admit, in a suit he had probably only bought that week. I clearly remember - it’s funny how you do - that it was an Armani suit. Now, they’re not cheap. Thinking about it, he may well have rented it. Yes, that sounds about right: that’s just the sort of person he is. All sizzle and no steak. Barks all day but never bites. Anyway, I digress. I saw him there just sitting in the back row, looking as if he wanted the ground to open up and just devour him there and then. Not literally, of course. What I’m saying is, he didn’t seem particularly comfortable with his situation. Not that anybody else in the church was exactly having a whale of a time, I suppose. Religion and my family have never got along. Oh, we would always go to church for the “Big Four”; weddings, christenings, funerals and fêtes. I don’t think anyone in my family would pray, or go to church in their own time. I’m almost positive they didn’t. In fact, they probably needed directions to find it on that day, I’m sure. I remember as a child, my grandparents on my mother’s side - now they used to go to church daily. They came from an Irish background, devout Catholics, if they missed even a day, they’d go twice the next day. So maybe, by the time my mother was old enough to make her own decisions, she had already decided against pursuing a life of religious devotion. Headed, even, in the complete opposite direction.
My Wife
My wife, Sarah, and I were married in a Register Office. Personally, I would have been happy enough with a big church affair, but she wanted to keep it “low key”. Very low key, as it turned out, as she didn’t even invite any guests! That said, it was a magnificent day. It really was. My father had hired out a limousine, a wonderful stretched limousine; shiny black with leather interior and, I noticed at the time, it had huge wheels, much bigger than you might expect on a limousine to be honest, stretched or otherwise. On the way to the Register’s Office, sod’s law, we had a blow out. A flat tyre, would you believe it? We tried to find a spare but the nearest one of that size that we could find at that short notice was in Edinburgh. Five hours away. So I arrived at my wedding in a minicab. Sarah was waiting, of course, expecting the happiest day of her life. And when I arrived in the cab, well, I could see, even as we were pulling up, what I would describe as concern in her eyes. For my safety, I assumed, because of the blow out incident with the car. It was almost as if... as if, she was almost reluctant to go through with the wedding, because of the shock. Because of the shock of nearly losing me. I told her it really wasn’t that bad, but after that, she was a nervous wreck for the rest of the day, and it even spilled over to the honeymoon. She wouldn’t eat, she was barely speaking, she cried quite a bit as well. I mean, I was furious… well, I haven’t taken a cab since. How this is relevant to the church, I don’t know, because that wasn’t even held in a church. However, on the day I was previously referring to, seven years later, everybody I knew was packed into a church, which was a turn up for the books. You see, it was one of the aforementioned “Big Four”: it was my funeral.
My Power Cut
The week leading up to my funeral was rather a miserable time in my life. I suppose in hindsight, that was a good thing. It would be quite the anti-climax to have a progressively good week, only to then die at the end of it. Let me see; well, the funeral was on a Monday, so that means that I must have died on the… Thursday, I think. Yes, that sounds about right. Yes, because it was my birthday on the Monday prior. It was a great day, it really was. Bit disappointed, because Sarah couldn’t actually make it. She didn’t get home until long after I was in bed. I forget why. Despite this, the kids and I had a great time and we ate the cake that I had bought at Tesco the day before at a bargain price of £1.99! A fun time was had all round, by all accounts, and then the kids went to bed and Daddy had a couple of birthday drinkies and watched Newsnight. It was a shame Sarah missed it because she would have really enjoyed it. It was on the Tuesday afternoon actually that my week started to go downhill in rapid fashion. I had just woken up, and was about to hit the shower when all of a sudden, all of the lights went out. A power cut! And it’s an electric shower, so now that’s out of the question. Well, the other houses in the street were all working fine, lights on, televisions, so I tried to ring an electrician, and, would you believe, the phone was out of order too. It was a plug into the wall job, so no power, no signal, no phone. I was stuck. I remembered noticing a few weeks earlier that Sarah kept a spare mobile phone in a cardboard box inside a cupboard in the spare room. So, I decided to go and dig out this old, spare mobile phone to ring the electrician. Luckily I didn’t have to dig far, it was on top of the cardboard box, and it was turned on! My luck was in! It was then that I discovered the messages.
My Principles
I had heard the name "Rick" before, Sarah had mentioned him once or twice. Somebody she went to school with, she said. He had moved away for a promotion about seven years ago, and had returned just a few months back. I had never met him. I had just heard her mention him a couple of times over the phone, to her friends I suppose. I had picked up the phone and was just about to ring the electrician when a text message was delivered. The phone didn't make a sound. A little envelope popped up on the screen and the words “1 New Message from: Rick”. I felt as though I shouldn’t read it: after all, you have to respect peoples’ privacy. So I rung the electrician, I put the phone back where I found it, the electrician arrived and fixed my blown fuse and I had my shower. However, it was on my mind. Why was this “Rick” sending messages to a phone my wife keeps in a cardboard box in the spare room? What did he want? What did he say? What should I do? Apprehensively, ominously, I felt my foot reaching toward the staircase. Then I made the decision which would ultimately lead to my demise. I began to ascend.
My Funeral
You can imagine my surprise when I noticed this smartly dressed Armani man in the back row of the congregation at my funeral. Rick. He had tip-toed in about halfway through the service, and slinked into the nearest seat he could find. I couldn’t read his face. Did he feel guilt? Surely he must have felt some? After all, would I have done what I did if it wasn’t for him? Sarah shed a tear or two, but nothing too strenuous. My parents were what you might describe as “inconsolable”. I did not feel proud. My children were not there. I couldn’t help wondering where they were and who was looking after them, mainly because my wife’s sister was nowhere to be seen and she was notoriously lacking in child minding skills. I later found out that they were at Rick’s parents’ house. Can you believe that? My sister-in-law missed my funeral! I never liked her. She was the antithesis of Sarah. Sarah was loyal, loving, a wonderful mother. A wonderful wife. We had a lovely solid marriage, right up until her affair.
My Purgatory
She married Rick, not a year from the day of my funeral. My children grew up calling him “Dad”. He gave my daughter away at her wedding. They moved into a lovely four bedroom house, it has to be said, and had a son of their own. Rick died nearly a year ago now, just four days shy of his 77th birthday, which is a good age. Well, not for him obviously, but he was hardly snatched away in his prime. I wonder where he is now. If I had gone to church maybe I would have spent the last five decades in heaven, or wherever Rick has gone, instead of having to spend it here on Earth. Maybe this is hell? Watching the people you love from afar, and from the same room; watching their pain, watching their grief, watching moments of blissful happiness and infinite sadness unfold before your very eyes with no way of helping, no way of communicating with them. Sarah is alone now. The kids visited nearly every day when Rick first died, but now she might see them once a week. I sit with her most nights. I ask her if she loved me. Sometimes I get the feeling she knows someone is there, but she just thinks it’s Rick. Haven’t seen anything of Rick since the day he kicked the bucket. I’m the one who’s here for her, watching her, guarding her. But in death, just as in life, I guess I’m still second best.
It was really only by chance that I noticed him there. He was pretty much tucked away at the back, trying to look as inconspicuous as a total stranger possibly could at somebody else’s family occasion. Smartly dressed, I have to admit, in a suit he had probably only bought that week. I clearly remember - it’s funny how you do - that it was an Armani suit. Now, they’re not cheap. Thinking about it, he may well have rented it. Yes, that sounds about right: that’s just the sort of person he is. All sizzle and no steak. Barks all day but never bites. Anyway, I digress. I saw him there just sitting in the back row, looking as if he wanted the ground to open up and just devour him there and then. Not literally, of course. What I’m saying is, he didn’t seem particularly comfortable with his situation. Not that anybody else in the church was exactly having a whale of a time, I suppose. Religion and my family have never got along. Oh, we would always go to church for the “Big Four”; weddings, christenings, funerals and fêtes. I don’t think anyone in my family would pray, or go to church in their own time. I’m almost positive they didn’t. In fact, they probably needed directions to find it on that day, I’m sure. I remember as a child, my grandparents on my mother’s side - now they used to go to church daily. They came from an Irish background, devout Catholics, if they missed even a day, they’d go twice the next day. So maybe, by the time my mother was old enough to make her own decisions, she had already decided against pursuing a life of religious devotion. Headed, even, in the complete opposite direction.
My Wife
My wife, Sarah, and I were married in a Register Office. Personally, I would have been happy enough with a big church affair, but she wanted to keep it “low key”. Very low key, as it turned out, as she didn’t even invite any guests! That said, it was a magnificent day. It really was. My father had hired out a limousine, a wonderful stretched limousine; shiny black with leather interior and, I noticed at the time, it had huge wheels, much bigger than you might expect on a limousine to be honest, stretched or otherwise. On the way to the Register’s Office, sod’s law, we had a blow out. A flat tyre, would you believe it? We tried to find a spare but the nearest one of that size that we could find at that short notice was in Edinburgh. Five hours away. So I arrived at my wedding in a minicab. Sarah was waiting, of course, expecting the happiest day of her life. And when I arrived in the cab, well, I could see, even as we were pulling up, what I would describe as concern in her eyes. For my safety, I assumed, because of the blow out incident with the car. It was almost as if... as if, she was almost reluctant to go through with the wedding, because of the shock. Because of the shock of nearly losing me. I told her it really wasn’t that bad, but after that, she was a nervous wreck for the rest of the day, and it even spilled over to the honeymoon. She wouldn’t eat, she was barely speaking, she cried quite a bit as well. I mean, I was furious… well, I haven’t taken a cab since. How this is relevant to the church, I don’t know, because that wasn’t even held in a church. However, on the day I was previously referring to, seven years later, everybody I knew was packed into a church, which was a turn up for the books. You see, it was one of the aforementioned “Big Four”: it was my funeral.
My Power Cut
The week leading up to my funeral was rather a miserable time in my life. I suppose in hindsight, that was a good thing. It would be quite the anti-climax to have a progressively good week, only to then die at the end of it. Let me see; well, the funeral was on a Monday, so that means that I must have died on the… Thursday, I think. Yes, that sounds about right. Yes, because it was my birthday on the Monday prior. It was a great day, it really was. Bit disappointed, because Sarah couldn’t actually make it. She didn’t get home until long after I was in bed. I forget why. Despite this, the kids and I had a great time and we ate the cake that I had bought at Tesco the day before at a bargain price of £1.99! A fun time was had all round, by all accounts, and then the kids went to bed and Daddy had a couple of birthday drinkies and watched Newsnight. It was a shame Sarah missed it because she would have really enjoyed it. It was on the Tuesday afternoon actually that my week started to go downhill in rapid fashion. I had just woken up, and was about to hit the shower when all of a sudden, all of the lights went out. A power cut! And it’s an electric shower, so now that’s out of the question. Well, the other houses in the street were all working fine, lights on, televisions, so I tried to ring an electrician, and, would you believe, the phone was out of order too. It was a plug into the wall job, so no power, no signal, no phone. I was stuck. I remembered noticing a few weeks earlier that Sarah kept a spare mobile phone in a cardboard box inside a cupboard in the spare room. So, I decided to go and dig out this old, spare mobile phone to ring the electrician. Luckily I didn’t have to dig far, it was on top of the cardboard box, and it was turned on! My luck was in! It was then that I discovered the messages.
My Principles
I had heard the name "Rick" before, Sarah had mentioned him once or twice. Somebody she went to school with, she said. He had moved away for a promotion about seven years ago, and had returned just a few months back. I had never met him. I had just heard her mention him a couple of times over the phone, to her friends I suppose. I had picked up the phone and was just about to ring the electrician when a text message was delivered. The phone didn't make a sound. A little envelope popped up on the screen and the words “1 New Message from: Rick”. I felt as though I shouldn’t read it: after all, you have to respect peoples’ privacy. So I rung the electrician, I put the phone back where I found it, the electrician arrived and fixed my blown fuse and I had my shower. However, it was on my mind. Why was this “Rick” sending messages to a phone my wife keeps in a cardboard box in the spare room? What did he want? What did he say? What should I do? Apprehensively, ominously, I felt my foot reaching toward the staircase. Then I made the decision which would ultimately lead to my demise. I began to ascend.
My Funeral
You can imagine my surprise when I noticed this smartly dressed Armani man in the back row of the congregation at my funeral. Rick. He had tip-toed in about halfway through the service, and slinked into the nearest seat he could find. I couldn’t read his face. Did he feel guilt? Surely he must have felt some? After all, would I have done what I did if it wasn’t for him? Sarah shed a tear or two, but nothing too strenuous. My parents were what you might describe as “inconsolable”. I did not feel proud. My children were not there. I couldn’t help wondering where they were and who was looking after them, mainly because my wife’s sister was nowhere to be seen and she was notoriously lacking in child minding skills. I later found out that they were at Rick’s parents’ house. Can you believe that? My sister-in-law missed my funeral! I never liked her. She was the antithesis of Sarah. Sarah was loyal, loving, a wonderful mother. A wonderful wife. We had a lovely solid marriage, right up until her affair.
My Purgatory
She married Rick, not a year from the day of my funeral. My children grew up calling him “Dad”. He gave my daughter away at her wedding. They moved into a lovely four bedroom house, it has to be said, and had a son of their own. Rick died nearly a year ago now, just four days shy of his 77th birthday, which is a good age. Well, not for him obviously, but he was hardly snatched away in his prime. I wonder where he is now. If I had gone to church maybe I would have spent the last five decades in heaven, or wherever Rick has gone, instead of having to spend it here on Earth. Maybe this is hell? Watching the people you love from afar, and from the same room; watching their pain, watching their grief, watching moments of blissful happiness and infinite sadness unfold before your very eyes with no way of helping, no way of communicating with them. Sarah is alone now. The kids visited nearly every day when Rick first died, but now she might see them once a week. I sit with her most nights. I ask her if she loved me. Sometimes I get the feeling she knows someone is there, but she just thinks it’s Rick. Haven’t seen anything of Rick since the day he kicked the bucket. I’m the one who’s here for her, watching her, guarding her. But in death, just as in life, I guess I’m still second best.
Is Hamlet relevant to a modern day audience?
As people in the twenty-first century generally don't believe in ghosts and don't consider revenge a duty, why is a play like Hamlet still of interest to film and theatre audiences?
As William Shakespeare began writing Hamlet in 1598 - at the end of the 16th century - the play which would go on to become one of his most famous pieces of work was geared towards an audience of “churls”, “groundlings” and the less-educated members of theatre-going society, just as equally as the more educated and affluent audience members. Theatre being a relatively affordable and popular form of entertainment for the less wealthy individuals, Shakespeare would cater as much to their tastes as he would to the ‘higher society’ who would attend his plays. A fellow playwright, Ben Johnson, noted the diversity of the audiences in his verses to Fletcher's The Faithful Shepherdess, in which he refers to them as “the wise and many headed bench that sits upon the life and death of plays” and cites “gamester, captain, knight, knight's man, lady or pucelle, that wears mask or fan, velvet or taffeta cap, rank'd in the dark with the shop's foreman, or some such brave spark that may judge for his sixpence” as the various components of an audience.
Therefore it is not uncommon to find characters and situations in Shakespeare’s plays which may appeal more to the less-educated and “naïve” in attendance. Such undemanding elements could include clowns, lewd characters and, some may argue, ghosts. It is acceptable to believe that some of Hamlet’s audience, possibly even a majority, would have believed in the existence of ghosts to a degree. Fiercely religious, the audience’s fear of God and the supernatural would certainly lead them to accept that the more seemingly-absurd elements of Hamlet to us were deemed more than plausible when the play was originally performed in the early 17th century. However, as more contemporary productions of Hamlet are performed to today’s modern audiences, the question has to be raised as to what interest the audience can find in a tale fuelled by stories of ghosts and one man’s quest for revenge: themes which today’s spectators are unlikely to relate to. To simplify Hamlet as a tale of revenge and ghosts would be doing a great injustice to the play as a whole, and it can even be argued to some degree that “ghosts” and “revenge” in their traditional sense have no bearing on the tale of Hamlet at all, making the play as effective and engrossing today as it would have been to an audience during the early 17th century, even when applying today’s mentalities to the play.
One argument that can be applied to support claims that modern audiences cannot relate to a performance of Hamlet due to its outdated notions is the theme of “revenge” throughout the play. Hamlet is often seen as a “vengeful hero” or “revenger”, and the general feeling is that the concept of “revenge” as a duty is now not only outdated but antediluvian. However, Hamlet’s structure and story allow for different interpretations of Hamlet’s actions and his intentions, one of which arguably proves far more acceptable to any modern audience who require the need to be able to empathise with the tragic hero. It can be said that events simply conspire against Hamlet and that he is simply an opportunist in the action. This idea of Hamlet as responsive rather than initiating can be supported throughout the text. It is easy to derive from Hamlet’s demeanour and words in Act I Scene II (“A little more than kin, and less than kind”) that he is resentful and, therefore, vengeful towards his uncle, the King. This is further corroborated in Hamlet’s soliloquy, in which he contrasts the King with his father (“My father’s brother: but no more like my father, Than I to Hercules”) and describes how the King’s marriage to his mother breaks his heart.
However, as close attention is paid to the circumstances surrounding the events that follow, the line becomes quite blurred when deciding whether Hamlet acted maliciously out of blind vengeance or whether he was simply tempted up that path by coincidence and occurrence. When you consider that he was following the instructions of his father’s “ghost” it becomes even more blurred. It was the ghost which created the fire inside Hamlet, the desire for revenge but also the need for revenge as a duty, to his “murdered” father. The ghost, however, has been the subject of much debate amongst critics and readers of Hamlet, with the controversy surrounding whether the ghost is “real” as a physical element of the play, or whether it exists simply in the mind of Hamlet. The play opens with Horatio and various watchmen alarmed that they have seen a ghostly presence, although we don’t know for sure that they have actually seen the purported ghost of the former King. This could indicate that what they saw wasn’t actually a ghost, and further evidence to suggest this could be found in the scene in which Hamlet sees the ghost but Gertrude cannot see him (Act III, Scene IV).
Some critics, such as Jan Pick, argue that the appearance of the ghost as an actual element of the play is simply to encourage the audience to accept Hamlet as a rational human being rather than an insane character; the inclusion of the ghost as somebody the audience (if not the other characters) can see lends an air of authenticity to the ghost scenes, authenticity which can only exist to a modern audience in the assumption that Hamlet actually is insane, and imagining the ghost. Still, this scenario leads the viewer down a different but equally enthralling path which (again, assuming the ghost is a figment of Hamlet’s imagination) can be loosely accepted as a “realistic” plot element and therefore accepted by a modern audience.
The acceptance of the ghost therefore leads to an acceptance of the “revenge” theme in its traditional sense but also from a rational point of view. Whilst today’s viewer wouldn’t appreciate the concept of “revengeful duty”, we no longer believe Hamlet to be a rational man as a result of the ghost, and we therefore have an image of a man being ruled more by his personal, mental “demons” than by age-old tradition. He is also described by one critic as suffering from Freud’s Oedipus complex, in that Hamlet is “heavily aggravated by the absence of his father and excessive closeness of his mother, and this accounts for the refocusing of his patricidal wish onto Claudius, and shows how his need for revenge is internal.”
Hamlet's needs are deep and complex, his motives more unconscious than they appear. This lends a new theme to the play for a modern interpretation, which sees Hamlet as a man struggling with his own mind, rather than as a vengeful loyal son. This interpretation is ultimately open to each individual reader/viewer, but to spectators brought up on modern values and education, this element of the plot could prove of more interest than it’s original intention, if you delve deeper than a tale of ghosts and revenge and find a man struggling to maintain his sanity in the wake of his father’s apparent murder. It is only one interpretation, but Hamlet as a psychological play would leave more leeway for audience engagement and sympathy in the 21st century than Hamlet as a bloody and murderous tale of ghosts and vengeance. Other interpretations would declare Hamlet to be as sane as any of the other characters and simply consumed with hatred and revenge, so it is this open-to-interpretation nature of the play which makes it such a universally popular play to both study and watch.
Even for today’s modern audiences, Hamlet remains a shocking and graphic play. Of great historical importance (Hamlet is often cited as the most famous English play ever written) and with themes still considered controversial in the 21st century, there is no doubting that Hamlet is still of huge educational and cultural interest in this modern era. This is reflected in the successful transfers of the play onto modern stages, and into films and television. The fact that people still want to watch Shakespeare’s most famous play in the modern media is testament to the longevity of the play and its principle themes, and also to its lasting popularity. Bearing in mind that a lot of these adaptations stick quite closely to the recognised ‘official’ scripts, this shows that Hamlet transcends a play of fantastical scenarios and has entered the public consciousness as a piece of classic and enduring literature, fantasy or no fantasy. One of the most famous and successful film adaptations of Hamlet is that of Kenneth Branagh, whose portrayal of Hamlet shows “a naturally positive and sweet-natured fellow who feigns madness, rather than a tormented soul who is already half loony before he sees the ghost of his murdered father.” It can be said, then, that Branagh has managed to both capture the original premise of the tale, and the audience’s interest without compromising. So, does this prove that modern day audiences (Branagh’s movie was released in 1996) are more willing to accept the more outlandish ideas of Hamlet than previously believed, or simply that audiences are able to suspend their disbelief out of interest in other themes and aspects explored in Hamlet? The ghosts are depicted as real in Branagh’s film, as is the cold vengeful nature of Prince Hamlet, yet it was a huge critical success. One critical analysis of the play could explain why:
“This version of Hamlet has one thing that made me love it: originality. Well, the story may not be original but many of the elements are, including the visual style. Some say that Romeo + Juliet had visual style, and it did, but Hamlet has a much more appealing, and more appropriate look. One of the many gorgeous scenes takes place after the marriage of Claudius and Gertrude. The reception, taking place in the social hall, is amazingly colorful and energetic.”
Basically, in today’s “leisure landscape” anything is acceptable in the realms of entertainment, assuming that it is entertaining. An audience is as willing to accept a tale of apparitions and retribution now as it was in the days Hamlet was written, only with a different outlook to the play. The more ‘informed’ modern audience may take the stories of the ghost as another mindless yet entertaining aspect of a “show”, whereas Shakespeare’s audience would most likely have accepted the ghost sightings as a very real element of the plot, without really questioning the likelihood of such an occurrence. Similarly, their own instilled beliefs of pride and dignity would lead them to accept the revenge aspect, whereas their more level-headed theatre-going counterparts of the modern age would not expect this sort of thing in their everyday life.
From my perspective, however, Hamlet remains of interest to modern theatre and film viewers simply because it represents entertainment, which is limitless in an age of science fiction shows and space travel movies. Hamlet, in fact, could be one of the more believable stories to be found in Hollywood movies and on the stage, in the 21st century. Not forgetting that there are probably a number of potential viewers who do steadfastly believe in ghosts and the supernatural. There is also, of course, the historical and educational aspect of the play. There is still a demand for Hamlet, despite its antiquated devices, simply because of its legacy and reputation as one of the greatest and best-known plays ever written.
In exploring the many possible reasons for a modern-day, 21st century audience to take interest in William Shakespeare’s Hamlet, I come to the conclusion that there are many ways to approach a modern-day viewing of the classic play and that the result is dependant on the individual watching. There will be some who cannot find any positive aspect of watching a performance of the play in the 21st century, feeling that they cannot possibly relate to such fantastical plots as ghosts and over-the-top pledges of revenge. However, it is my personal opinion that watching a performance of Hamlet is like watching a piece of history repeated before your eyes, if you look at it from the perspective of a “groundling” or anybody who would have been present at the Globe theatre or an early performance of the play. Sitting at home in your 21st century living room, it would be very hard to empathise with the characters and their situations. However, had you been present at the time, it would have tapped into your social conscience due to the conceptions of the time, and it is important to remember this, and to merit Hamlet for its contextual importance as well as from a modern outlook. In conclusion, then, I find it hard to believe that a modern day audience could not find some interest in watching a performance of Hamlet, be it from an historical or entertainment point of view.
As William Shakespeare began writing Hamlet in 1598 - at the end of the 16th century - the play which would go on to become one of his most famous pieces of work was geared towards an audience of “churls”, “groundlings” and the less-educated members of theatre-going society, just as equally as the more educated and affluent audience members. Theatre being a relatively affordable and popular form of entertainment for the less wealthy individuals, Shakespeare would cater as much to their tastes as he would to the ‘higher society’ who would attend his plays. A fellow playwright, Ben Johnson, noted the diversity of the audiences in his verses to Fletcher's The Faithful Shepherdess, in which he refers to them as “the wise and many headed bench that sits upon the life and death of plays” and cites “gamester, captain, knight, knight's man, lady or pucelle, that wears mask or fan, velvet or taffeta cap, rank'd in the dark with the shop's foreman, or some such brave spark that may judge for his sixpence” as the various components of an audience.
Therefore it is not uncommon to find characters and situations in Shakespeare’s plays which may appeal more to the less-educated and “naïve” in attendance. Such undemanding elements could include clowns, lewd characters and, some may argue, ghosts. It is acceptable to believe that some of Hamlet’s audience, possibly even a majority, would have believed in the existence of ghosts to a degree. Fiercely religious, the audience’s fear of God and the supernatural would certainly lead them to accept that the more seemingly-absurd elements of Hamlet to us were deemed more than plausible when the play was originally performed in the early 17th century. However, as more contemporary productions of Hamlet are performed to today’s modern audiences, the question has to be raised as to what interest the audience can find in a tale fuelled by stories of ghosts and one man’s quest for revenge: themes which today’s spectators are unlikely to relate to. To simplify Hamlet as a tale of revenge and ghosts would be doing a great injustice to the play as a whole, and it can even be argued to some degree that “ghosts” and “revenge” in their traditional sense have no bearing on the tale of Hamlet at all, making the play as effective and engrossing today as it would have been to an audience during the early 17th century, even when applying today’s mentalities to the play.
One argument that can be applied to support claims that modern audiences cannot relate to a performance of Hamlet due to its outdated notions is the theme of “revenge” throughout the play. Hamlet is often seen as a “vengeful hero” or “revenger”, and the general feeling is that the concept of “revenge” as a duty is now not only outdated but antediluvian. However, Hamlet’s structure and story allow for different interpretations of Hamlet’s actions and his intentions, one of which arguably proves far more acceptable to any modern audience who require the need to be able to empathise with the tragic hero. It can be said that events simply conspire against Hamlet and that he is simply an opportunist in the action. This idea of Hamlet as responsive rather than initiating can be supported throughout the text. It is easy to derive from Hamlet’s demeanour and words in Act I Scene II (“A little more than kin, and less than kind”) that he is resentful and, therefore, vengeful towards his uncle, the King. This is further corroborated in Hamlet’s soliloquy, in which he contrasts the King with his father (“My father’s brother: but no more like my father, Than I to Hercules”) and describes how the King’s marriage to his mother breaks his heart.
However, as close attention is paid to the circumstances surrounding the events that follow, the line becomes quite blurred when deciding whether Hamlet acted maliciously out of blind vengeance or whether he was simply tempted up that path by coincidence and occurrence. When you consider that he was following the instructions of his father’s “ghost” it becomes even more blurred. It was the ghost which created the fire inside Hamlet, the desire for revenge but also the need for revenge as a duty, to his “murdered” father. The ghost, however, has been the subject of much debate amongst critics and readers of Hamlet, with the controversy surrounding whether the ghost is “real” as a physical element of the play, or whether it exists simply in the mind of Hamlet. The play opens with Horatio and various watchmen alarmed that they have seen a ghostly presence, although we don’t know for sure that they have actually seen the purported ghost of the former King. This could indicate that what they saw wasn’t actually a ghost, and further evidence to suggest this could be found in the scene in which Hamlet sees the ghost but Gertrude cannot see him (Act III, Scene IV).
Some critics, such as Jan Pick, argue that the appearance of the ghost as an actual element of the play is simply to encourage the audience to accept Hamlet as a rational human being rather than an insane character; the inclusion of the ghost as somebody the audience (if not the other characters) can see lends an air of authenticity to the ghost scenes, authenticity which can only exist to a modern audience in the assumption that Hamlet actually is insane, and imagining the ghost. Still, this scenario leads the viewer down a different but equally enthralling path which (again, assuming the ghost is a figment of Hamlet’s imagination) can be loosely accepted as a “realistic” plot element and therefore accepted by a modern audience.
The acceptance of the ghost therefore leads to an acceptance of the “revenge” theme in its traditional sense but also from a rational point of view. Whilst today’s viewer wouldn’t appreciate the concept of “revengeful duty”, we no longer believe Hamlet to be a rational man as a result of the ghost, and we therefore have an image of a man being ruled more by his personal, mental “demons” than by age-old tradition. He is also described by one critic as suffering from Freud’s Oedipus complex, in that Hamlet is “heavily aggravated by the absence of his father and excessive closeness of his mother, and this accounts for the refocusing of his patricidal wish onto Claudius, and shows how his need for revenge is internal.”
Hamlet's needs are deep and complex, his motives more unconscious than they appear. This lends a new theme to the play for a modern interpretation, which sees Hamlet as a man struggling with his own mind, rather than as a vengeful loyal son. This interpretation is ultimately open to each individual reader/viewer, but to spectators brought up on modern values and education, this element of the plot could prove of more interest than it’s original intention, if you delve deeper than a tale of ghosts and revenge and find a man struggling to maintain his sanity in the wake of his father’s apparent murder. It is only one interpretation, but Hamlet as a psychological play would leave more leeway for audience engagement and sympathy in the 21st century than Hamlet as a bloody and murderous tale of ghosts and vengeance. Other interpretations would declare Hamlet to be as sane as any of the other characters and simply consumed with hatred and revenge, so it is this open-to-interpretation nature of the play which makes it such a universally popular play to both study and watch.
Even for today’s modern audiences, Hamlet remains a shocking and graphic play. Of great historical importance (Hamlet is often cited as the most famous English play ever written) and with themes still considered controversial in the 21st century, there is no doubting that Hamlet is still of huge educational and cultural interest in this modern era. This is reflected in the successful transfers of the play onto modern stages, and into films and television. The fact that people still want to watch Shakespeare’s most famous play in the modern media is testament to the longevity of the play and its principle themes, and also to its lasting popularity. Bearing in mind that a lot of these adaptations stick quite closely to the recognised ‘official’ scripts, this shows that Hamlet transcends a play of fantastical scenarios and has entered the public consciousness as a piece of classic and enduring literature, fantasy or no fantasy. One of the most famous and successful film adaptations of Hamlet is that of Kenneth Branagh, whose portrayal of Hamlet shows “a naturally positive and sweet-natured fellow who feigns madness, rather than a tormented soul who is already half loony before he sees the ghost of his murdered father.” It can be said, then, that Branagh has managed to both capture the original premise of the tale, and the audience’s interest without compromising. So, does this prove that modern day audiences (Branagh’s movie was released in 1996) are more willing to accept the more outlandish ideas of Hamlet than previously believed, or simply that audiences are able to suspend their disbelief out of interest in other themes and aspects explored in Hamlet? The ghosts are depicted as real in Branagh’s film, as is the cold vengeful nature of Prince Hamlet, yet it was a huge critical success. One critical analysis of the play could explain why:
“This version of Hamlet has one thing that made me love it: originality. Well, the story may not be original but many of the elements are, including the visual style. Some say that Romeo + Juliet had visual style, and it did, but Hamlet has a much more appealing, and more appropriate look. One of the many gorgeous scenes takes place after the marriage of Claudius and Gertrude. The reception, taking place in the social hall, is amazingly colorful and energetic.”
Basically, in today’s “leisure landscape” anything is acceptable in the realms of entertainment, assuming that it is entertaining. An audience is as willing to accept a tale of apparitions and retribution now as it was in the days Hamlet was written, only with a different outlook to the play. The more ‘informed’ modern audience may take the stories of the ghost as another mindless yet entertaining aspect of a “show”, whereas Shakespeare’s audience would most likely have accepted the ghost sightings as a very real element of the plot, without really questioning the likelihood of such an occurrence. Similarly, their own instilled beliefs of pride and dignity would lead them to accept the revenge aspect, whereas their more level-headed theatre-going counterparts of the modern age would not expect this sort of thing in their everyday life.
From my perspective, however, Hamlet remains of interest to modern theatre and film viewers simply because it represents entertainment, which is limitless in an age of science fiction shows and space travel movies. Hamlet, in fact, could be one of the more believable stories to be found in Hollywood movies and on the stage, in the 21st century. Not forgetting that there are probably a number of potential viewers who do steadfastly believe in ghosts and the supernatural. There is also, of course, the historical and educational aspect of the play. There is still a demand for Hamlet, despite its antiquated devices, simply because of its legacy and reputation as one of the greatest and best-known plays ever written.
In exploring the many possible reasons for a modern-day, 21st century audience to take interest in William Shakespeare’s Hamlet, I come to the conclusion that there are many ways to approach a modern-day viewing of the classic play and that the result is dependant on the individual watching. There will be some who cannot find any positive aspect of watching a performance of the play in the 21st century, feeling that they cannot possibly relate to such fantastical plots as ghosts and over-the-top pledges of revenge. However, it is my personal opinion that watching a performance of Hamlet is like watching a piece of history repeated before your eyes, if you look at it from the perspective of a “groundling” or anybody who would have been present at the Globe theatre or an early performance of the play. Sitting at home in your 21st century living room, it would be very hard to empathise with the characters and their situations. However, had you been present at the time, it would have tapped into your social conscience due to the conceptions of the time, and it is important to remember this, and to merit Hamlet for its contextual importance as well as from a modern outlook. In conclusion, then, I find it hard to believe that a modern day audience could not find some interest in watching a performance of Hamlet, be it from an historical or entertainment point of view.
Memo
Haggle for security, money for integrity,
It all gets on top of me so pay off your misery
Settle for your basic chores, hang for breaking stupid laws,
Wither with your human flaws, smile, please, as you hit the floor,
Kick me while I'm feeling down, pat your backs you thieving clowns
Quick stamp out intensity, fuck the mass morality
Battle for your family, I'm weak willed and I'm weak kneed
All we need is some pity from all this overpowering greed
Reduced to cleansing others eyes from these reduced smothered lies
Who is right here? You decide,
While my depth is multiplied
Kick me while I'm standing up and tell the world it's me corrupt
Office blocks and paper cuts
Too late, no-one gives a fuck
Hose your kingdom down in grey, tax us half our fucking pay
Then tell us we'll be okay, we'll live to fight another day
Take our freedom, take our pride
Take our last place left to hide,
then tell us that the Bible lied
It's actually your right to decide.
Insure us for our knee caps, tax the shirts right off our backs
And for those who answer back, strip them of their council flats
Wake up in the afternoon, smile through your impending gloom
You pay for the baby boom, though you never leave your room
Get to work a minute late, you were held in traffic hate,
You've got too much on your plate, move to Europe, it's too late
Give us all we ask you for, after all, you promised more
Smile please as you hit the floor, fuck this we can't take no more
It all gets on top of me so pay off your misery
Settle for your basic chores, hang for breaking stupid laws,
Wither with your human flaws, smile, please, as you hit the floor,
Kick me while I'm feeling down, pat your backs you thieving clowns
Quick stamp out intensity, fuck the mass morality
Battle for your family, I'm weak willed and I'm weak kneed
All we need is some pity from all this overpowering greed
Reduced to cleansing others eyes from these reduced smothered lies
Who is right here? You decide,
While my depth is multiplied
Kick me while I'm standing up and tell the world it's me corrupt
Office blocks and paper cuts
Too late, no-one gives a fuck
Hose your kingdom down in grey, tax us half our fucking pay
Then tell us we'll be okay, we'll live to fight another day
Take our freedom, take our pride
Take our last place left to hide,
then tell us that the Bible lied
It's actually your right to decide.
Insure us for our knee caps, tax the shirts right off our backs
And for those who answer back, strip them of their council flats
Wake up in the afternoon, smile through your impending gloom
You pay for the baby boom, though you never leave your room
Get to work a minute late, you were held in traffic hate,
You've got too much on your plate, move to Europe, it's too late
Give us all we ask you for, after all, you promised more
Smile please as you hit the floor, fuck this we can't take no more
The Next Best Thing
We are not your second best
The bridge you burn after the rest
The face you feel with bonded hands;
those hands, that healed many a broken man.
Is life but a routine? Bound to the past,
swimming around in circles,
searching for a wave that lasts?
We’re at the peak of a downward spiral
listening to the screams,
bargaining with the other side
as life is hard to please.
We are not your tarnished past
The stones that block your meandering path
The match you spark when all is lost
The face the elephant forgot
Are you the victim of your ambitions?
Let us be your food for thought
leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.
I’m left at the summit of this landslide
challenging our dreams,
haggling with the Devil
as life’s so hard to please.
You will be our safety net -
Well, who will be yours?
The bridge you burn after the rest
The face you feel with bonded hands;
those hands, that healed many a broken man.
Is life but a routine? Bound to the past,
swimming around in circles,
searching for a wave that lasts?
We’re at the peak of a downward spiral
listening to the screams,
bargaining with the other side
as life is hard to please.
We are not your tarnished past
The stones that block your meandering path
The match you spark when all is lost
The face the elephant forgot
Are you the victim of your ambitions?
Let us be your food for thought
leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.
I’m left at the summit of this landslide
challenging our dreams,
haggling with the Devil
as life’s so hard to please.
You will be our safety net -
Well, who will be yours?
One Too Many?
Richard Howard - A Biography (Dec 2006)
A pub landlord and self-professed “socialite”, Richard Howard has an imminent problem on his hands. On July 1st 2007, smoking will be finally made illegal in any indoor public place throughout Britain. That happens to include pubs. “They’re taking the piss,” he scowls as he stubs out the cigarette he has been happily inhaling for the last two minutes. “They’re going to ruin the pub trade. They’re killing this generations’ pastime.”
Born March 23rd 1967, Richard Howard grew up in rather normal surroundings. He was born in Cardiff to the typical ‘nuclear’ family, with working class parents, and two younger brothers. A high achiever in school, he chose to enter the workplace rather than continue his education and soon found himself working behind the bar of his local public house. It provided a little bit of extra pocket money to complement his income as a factory engineer. “I was a trainee, I think they’d call it an apprentice or something of that ilk.” He pauses for thought, instinctively reaching into his cigarette pack for another. I notice that the packet is a little larger than your standard ten-pack or twenty-pack. Upon closer inspection, I see the numbers “24” in large gold numerals on the front of the box. Richard has noticed me noticing. “You gets twenty-four, mate. That’s why I buy them. Lasts me a little bit longer.” I enquire if this strategy saves him any money, but I’m met with a shrug.
“I was making a living, but only just. I was eighteen, I’d moved out of my parents’ house and I had a car on the road, so I was only just getting by. Well, I got a job in a small pub a couple of streets away from my house. I fucking loved it mate. It was so different from the shit I had to put up with every day in the factory… I’d say I was there maybe a month before I’d gone full time. The landlady there offered me an assistant manager’s job, and I bit her fucking hand off.” Putting that disconcerting image aside, I wanted to ask Richard about the atmosphere in his small local pub in the 1980s, compared to the pub we are sitting in at the moment: Richard’s own pub, The Clifton; a large city suburb establishment, more akin to a characterless chain pub than the sort of smoke-filled, horseshoe adorned lounge rooms popular in the past. Before I could, however, a tall nervous teenager, clad in a shirt and tie and sweating profusely, had motioned that Richard’s assistance was required in the kitchen. Richard leaves.
Soon to enter his 40s, I get the impression that Richard is the sort of person clinging to the last remnants of his carefree youth, with silver roots peeking through an otherwise suspiciously dark mop of slightly overgrown hair, his vocabulary generously littered with expletives and dressed in the sort of style more befitting the twenty-somethings serving behind his bar. Rather than living vicariously through them, however, Richard Howard would rather set the pace for them. “Sorry about that, he’s new, needed a bit of help. He’s probably still got a hang over from last night in all honesty, mate. We all went into town and had a couple after work. Well, more than a couple really.” He sniggers and reaches for the cigarette packet again.
I had come to this pub today for a purpose: to get a so-called “everyman” reaction to the forthcoming smoking ban. Richard has been involved in the pub trade from many different perspectives in several different roles. In 1991, Richard had become the manager, and later the landlord, of the local pub in which he first poured pints as a teenager. In 1996, with some financial help from his parents and his then girlfriend, he had bought a pub in a very bustling suburb on the fringe of Cardiff city centre. With lots of passing by trade, and regulars who had been frequenting the premises since the 60s, he took a risk in modernizing the look and feel of the pub. It paid off. “We had a couple of the old boys stop coming in, they didn’t like it anymore. But for the most part, the old regulars still come, and the kids, the teenagers come in all the time too. So it’s the best of both fucking worlds.” Of course, Richard has worked hard to make the pib a success, but also finds the time to stand back and enjoy himself. “Well, I like a drink. I’ll keep drinking until I feel too old to pull it off anymore. I’m not an alcoholic by any means, I just enjoy the social life and having a few with my mates. The only drink problem I have is it’s too fucking expensive.” He lets out a now-familiar snigger, which turns into a sobering coughing fit. This ties me in nicely to my next line of questioning: the dreaded smoking ban, and how he thinks it will affect his business.
“What this government is doing is wrong. They’re happy enough to take all that tax out of the cigarette industry, take all that money out of smokers’ pockets, and then they’re trying to stop us smoking the fucking things when we’ve paid for them! So what will happen? A lot of people only smoke socially, with a drink. If they can’t do that, they won’t buy cigarettes anymore. So, all of a sudden, this percentage of customers won’t be buying fags anymore. Who do you think is going to make up for all that money lost on cigarettes, mate? You and me! The taxpayer! And you’ve got your die-hard smokers, no pun intended. They won’t come and sit in a pub all night and not have a smoke, or go and stand outside in the bloody rain. So they’ll stay at home, and all the tax that the government was making from the alcohol they’ve been drinking, now that’s gone too! So they’ve got to make that up! Next thing you know, we'll be in a bleedin' recession. It’s the tax payer who’s the loser at the end of the day, mate. Fucking pathetic.” I’ve obviously hit a nerve. Richard has been in the pub trade for two decades. I ask him if he has any better suggestions. “I say you give out smoking licenses. Fifty percent of your pubs in any one town or city would allow smoking, and fifty percent won’t. Your customers have got the choice, whether to go to a pub where they know people will be smoking, or they can go to a pub where they know it’s banned. Same with staff. You want a bar job, then go and work in a pub that suits you. You don’t like smoking, apply to work in a bar which hasn’t got a smoking license. Problem solved.”
Of course it is more complicated than simply black or white; there are several shades of smoky grey which would need addressing. However, Richard is adamant; a trait synonymous with the kind of confidence you gain from having discussed something over and over with the hundreds of regulars who pass through his door each day. Having heard and scrutinized tens of opinions on the same subject, eventually you must reach a stage where you have every useless fact and argument at your disposal. When it comes to putting the world straight on the issues of today, Richard is pretty much infallible. In his own mind, at least. So where do Richard, and the pub trade in general, go from here? “Well the big test comes in April. That’s when the ban comes into force in Cardiff. If it doesn’t hit us too hard, I’d like to open up more pubs. Maybe go a little further afield. If not, I’ll fucking pack up and move abroad. Open up a nice bar somewhere sunny where my customers can go outside for a cigarette and not catch pneumonia.”
A pub landlord and self-professed “socialite”, Richard Howard has an imminent problem on his hands. On July 1st 2007, smoking will be finally made illegal in any indoor public place throughout Britain. That happens to include pubs. “They’re taking the piss,” he scowls as he stubs out the cigarette he has been happily inhaling for the last two minutes. “They’re going to ruin the pub trade. They’re killing this generations’ pastime.”
Born March 23rd 1967, Richard Howard grew up in rather normal surroundings. He was born in Cardiff to the typical ‘nuclear’ family, with working class parents, and two younger brothers. A high achiever in school, he chose to enter the workplace rather than continue his education and soon found himself working behind the bar of his local public house. It provided a little bit of extra pocket money to complement his income as a factory engineer. “I was a trainee, I think they’d call it an apprentice or something of that ilk.” He pauses for thought, instinctively reaching into his cigarette pack for another. I notice that the packet is a little larger than your standard ten-pack or twenty-pack. Upon closer inspection, I see the numbers “24” in large gold numerals on the front of the box. Richard has noticed me noticing. “You gets twenty-four, mate. That’s why I buy them. Lasts me a little bit longer.” I enquire if this strategy saves him any money, but I’m met with a shrug.
“I was making a living, but only just. I was eighteen, I’d moved out of my parents’ house and I had a car on the road, so I was only just getting by. Well, I got a job in a small pub a couple of streets away from my house. I fucking loved it mate. It was so different from the shit I had to put up with every day in the factory… I’d say I was there maybe a month before I’d gone full time. The landlady there offered me an assistant manager’s job, and I bit her fucking hand off.” Putting that disconcerting image aside, I wanted to ask Richard about the atmosphere in his small local pub in the 1980s, compared to the pub we are sitting in at the moment: Richard’s own pub, The Clifton; a large city suburb establishment, more akin to a characterless chain pub than the sort of smoke-filled, horseshoe adorned lounge rooms popular in the past. Before I could, however, a tall nervous teenager, clad in a shirt and tie and sweating profusely, had motioned that Richard’s assistance was required in the kitchen. Richard leaves.
Soon to enter his 40s, I get the impression that Richard is the sort of person clinging to the last remnants of his carefree youth, with silver roots peeking through an otherwise suspiciously dark mop of slightly overgrown hair, his vocabulary generously littered with expletives and dressed in the sort of style more befitting the twenty-somethings serving behind his bar. Rather than living vicariously through them, however, Richard Howard would rather set the pace for them. “Sorry about that, he’s new, needed a bit of help. He’s probably still got a hang over from last night in all honesty, mate. We all went into town and had a couple after work. Well, more than a couple really.” He sniggers and reaches for the cigarette packet again.
I had come to this pub today for a purpose: to get a so-called “everyman” reaction to the forthcoming smoking ban. Richard has been involved in the pub trade from many different perspectives in several different roles. In 1991, Richard had become the manager, and later the landlord, of the local pub in which he first poured pints as a teenager. In 1996, with some financial help from his parents and his then girlfriend, he had bought a pub in a very bustling suburb on the fringe of Cardiff city centre. With lots of passing by trade, and regulars who had been frequenting the premises since the 60s, he took a risk in modernizing the look and feel of the pub. It paid off. “We had a couple of the old boys stop coming in, they didn’t like it anymore. But for the most part, the old regulars still come, and the kids, the teenagers come in all the time too. So it’s the best of both fucking worlds.” Of course, Richard has worked hard to make the pib a success, but also finds the time to stand back and enjoy himself. “Well, I like a drink. I’ll keep drinking until I feel too old to pull it off anymore. I’m not an alcoholic by any means, I just enjoy the social life and having a few with my mates. The only drink problem I have is it’s too fucking expensive.” He lets out a now-familiar snigger, which turns into a sobering coughing fit. This ties me in nicely to my next line of questioning: the dreaded smoking ban, and how he thinks it will affect his business.
“What this government is doing is wrong. They’re happy enough to take all that tax out of the cigarette industry, take all that money out of smokers’ pockets, and then they’re trying to stop us smoking the fucking things when we’ve paid for them! So what will happen? A lot of people only smoke socially, with a drink. If they can’t do that, they won’t buy cigarettes anymore. So, all of a sudden, this percentage of customers won’t be buying fags anymore. Who do you think is going to make up for all that money lost on cigarettes, mate? You and me! The taxpayer! And you’ve got your die-hard smokers, no pun intended. They won’t come and sit in a pub all night and not have a smoke, or go and stand outside in the bloody rain. So they’ll stay at home, and all the tax that the government was making from the alcohol they’ve been drinking, now that’s gone too! So they’ve got to make that up! Next thing you know, we'll be in a bleedin' recession. It’s the tax payer who’s the loser at the end of the day, mate. Fucking pathetic.” I’ve obviously hit a nerve. Richard has been in the pub trade for two decades. I ask him if he has any better suggestions. “I say you give out smoking licenses. Fifty percent of your pubs in any one town or city would allow smoking, and fifty percent won’t. Your customers have got the choice, whether to go to a pub where they know people will be smoking, or they can go to a pub where they know it’s banned. Same with staff. You want a bar job, then go and work in a pub that suits you. You don’t like smoking, apply to work in a bar which hasn’t got a smoking license. Problem solved.”
Of course it is more complicated than simply black or white; there are several shades of smoky grey which would need addressing. However, Richard is adamant; a trait synonymous with the kind of confidence you gain from having discussed something over and over with the hundreds of regulars who pass through his door each day. Having heard and scrutinized tens of opinions on the same subject, eventually you must reach a stage where you have every useless fact and argument at your disposal. When it comes to putting the world straight on the issues of today, Richard is pretty much infallible. In his own mind, at least. So where do Richard, and the pub trade in general, go from here? “Well the big test comes in April. That’s when the ban comes into force in Cardiff. If it doesn’t hit us too hard, I’d like to open up more pubs. Maybe go a little further afield. If not, I’ll fucking pack up and move abroad. Open up a nice bar somewhere sunny where my customers can go outside for a cigarette and not catch pneumonia.”
Saturday, 25 July 2009
The Price
The sky is still grey on this rainy day,
the cracked surface below, still gleaming under salty streams
and that endless slap of blackness
through the window, next to his photograph.
This hopeless overkill…
He turns his back on the fragile chill and sighs.
He noticed how the strained, tired sky still clouds over today.
Even though she has gone there is no more wrong
than there was before,
Yet the reasons remain…
Except now he can’t blame her for the cloud, or the rain,
or for the shadow above his head, that bitter mass of obscurity that hangs
even when she’s gone, and the frost bites at his hands
and even when she’s there no more
the Devil lurks outside his door.
Even though she has gone.
Long gone.
The twisting, turning, willing of knife into back
scratching, scraping, streaming
through his mind,
like the polystyrene scream in her eyes...
The truth drowned her voice.
Eaten alive by his bruised white sheets
Caged in a comfort
created by hand
Controlled
in environments stained by man
But of course that spark that flies
It could never die
Only lose itself
In the passing crowd, just as she had done
He discovered himself smiling
A revelation at last, and the confidence flowed through his pores
and words finally flowed freely in this place, through razor lips
that had rarely spoken
words which she did not provoke.
Save all this excitement for a rainy day
and let me watch it wash away.
I love it when lightning strikes
because it lights up our dreary lives.
the cracked surface below, still gleaming under salty streams
and that endless slap of blackness
through the window, next to his photograph.
This hopeless overkill…
He turns his back on the fragile chill and sighs.
He noticed how the strained, tired sky still clouds over today.
Even though she has gone there is no more wrong
than there was before,
Yet the reasons remain…
Except now he can’t blame her for the cloud, or the rain,
or for the shadow above his head, that bitter mass of obscurity that hangs
even when she’s gone, and the frost bites at his hands
and even when she’s there no more
the Devil lurks outside his door.
Even though she has gone.
Long gone.
The twisting, turning, willing of knife into back
scratching, scraping, streaming
through his mind,
like the polystyrene scream in her eyes...
The truth drowned her voice.
Eaten alive by his bruised white sheets
Caged in a comfort
created by hand
Controlled
in environments stained by man
But of course that spark that flies
It could never die
Only lose itself
In the passing crowd, just as she had done
He discovered himself smiling
A revelation at last, and the confidence flowed through his pores
and words finally flowed freely in this place, through razor lips
that had rarely spoken
words which she did not provoke.
Save all this excitement for a rainy day
and let me watch it wash away.
I love it when lightning strikes
because it lights up our dreary lives.
Flushed
As he unbuckled the harness he took a look around and released a familiar sigh, possibly out of sheer habit. His hand, smothered in a vulgar, bright red plastic glove, weakly extended a thumb in the direction of the orange blur above his head, and received a muffled bellow in return. Most likely the signal that, as usual, he was now in it alone. He flicked on his torch and took a look around at his environment, as if something may have changed since yesterday. It hadn’t.
Everything was the same. He had been coming down here now for nigh on thirty years. Well, this was going to be the last time. He tried hard to feel nostalgic, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to miss this. Carefully, he placed his right foot forward and felt about for a safe place to rest it. He felt the water trickle against the rubber waders which, intrusively, extended up to his crotch. His left foot followed, only slightly less apprehensively. He switched off the torch, deciding to rely rather on the lamp adorning his helmet, and the tablets of ginger light emanating from his ceiling. He considered where to start, and then considered whether it really mattered at all where he started, or where he finished, or whether he ever even finished at all. Would anybody even care?
People have changed, he pondered, not for the first time. Once upon a time he had mattered; what he did had mattered, how he made people’s lives better. He was part of a team, a strong team, a team that was respected. They called them “flushers” back then. Nowadays, it was some fancy term that some German boardroom had coughed up between pats on the back and plastic cups of coffee. Sanitation officer? Hygiene agent? It didn’t make a difference anyway. He was a flusher, on flushers’ wages, only without the appreciation that, at one time, at least allowed him to look in the mirror and be able to smile at the reflection he saw. Wearily, he reached around to his backpack and took hold of one of the many rod-like instruments hanging from a large pocket and tried to work out why his sense of smell had let him down by remaining so strong, despite his advancing years. It had been one of the pre-requisites for the job, when he had started. “A healthy heart, a strong back, and a good sense of smell.” Today, it wasn’t such an issue. For starters, a good night of rain had cleared the sewer of much of it’s debris, and along with it, the stomach churning odours that the powers that be were so eager for him to be able to smell. And, anyway, he really didn’t care today. Today was going to be the last day he would smell that horrific smell. Today was going to be the last day he would smell any smell.
He had started his final day on this earth with a brisk stroll around Hyde Park, before realizing that he was, subconsciously, following the same route he would be taking fifteen feet lower just a few hours later. So he turned around and returned to the empty shell that had once been home, but nowadays was simply “the house”. Bought and paid for by Thames Water; well, by them, and by his blood, his sweat, his health and, he surmised, his happiness. His life - and hence his perception of life - had changed in the last ten years or so. The ground beneath his feet, and everything below, shifted from a livelihood to an albatross. He often thought of the people of the world who never get to see the other side of the coin, as he put it. They happily turn on the tap and let the efforts of many flow freely back to whence it came. Then he re-assessed his usage of the word “many”. It had been many. When he started, there was a veritable army of flushers, keeping London running smoothly, but there were never any new faces. He would never have been made to work on his own a decade ago, there would have been at least three people on each team. There were hundreds of them. The problem is, the youth of today don’t want to work underground, cleaning out the sewers. Don’t be silly, the very thought is ridiculous. So there were no building blocks put in place for the future. The army dissolved. Men died. Men retired. Men quit. In fact, for God’s sake, there were only about forty of them left now. Forty men, to do the job of four hundred. What would Joseph Bazalgette think? What would these young businessmen and entrepreneurs think when the trunk sewers overflow, when the waste pours freely into the river, onto the streets, wallowing in the muck of their own avarice, victims of their own greed and ambitions? Is this job not good enough for you? Sow your own seeds!
He breathed a short, deep breath and refocused on his surroundings. He was suddenly aware of the chill in the air. The water felt icy cold as it enveloped his plastered feet. He took the rod and unhooked a large cloak of some sort of fabric that had knitted its way into a crevice on one of the mildew encrusted pipes that littered the vast network of corridors below the hustle of existence that he had often yearned for, briefly, before folding his dreams back into his pocket to look at again some other day. The ensuing gush, accompanied by the gruesome aroma he had missed so much, seemed to disturb a rat that had been lurking nearby, examining a potential meal, he supposed. His mind drifted once again, as it was wont to do.
He remembered a time when he was younger, much younger in fact. Certainly young enough to consider a future which didn’t involve shoveling shit out of blocked up drainpipes. He had wanted to, assumed even, that he would join the Navy. His father had been in the forces, as had his uncle, and his grandfather. However, he met Jen, and then she got pregnant, and a life at sea seemed a lot more complicated than it did before. So whenever he would feel like being alone, he would take a long drive to any seaside town which took his fancy, and spend a day sat on the rocks, or perhaps on the pier if they had one, and just gaze across the waters all day. A couple of times a year, he would do that. Of course, the need to be alone isn’t quite such an urgent matter nowadays, and a day spent looking at water would be nothing more than a Busman’s holiday. It was something different then, though. It had possibilities. It was endless, reaching out into the sky, confident and striking. It wasn’t just an ocean, it was a road; a pathway to another world, a different life. Then, of course, he saw the other side of the proverbial coin. Nowadays, it was a slippery slope at the start of a downward spiral. It’s beauty tarnished by a world that just stopped giving a damn. A river of hopelessness, of depravity. His boss would often say that the mess that greeted the team as they lowered themselves into the bowels of London was nothing more than a lack of respect for the lifeblood of our planet.
The discoloured victim of mankind’s ignorance- the so-called “lifeblood”- had begun to rise, and was nearly up to his knees now. He realized that it had started raining again. Any self-respecting flusher knows that when the rain comes, it’s time to get above ground. These trunk sewers can fill to the roof pretty quickly if the storm gets heavy. He trudged his way to a higher platform, from which he could climb his way up out of the abyss. The rain would do most of his job for him now, anyway. And if it didn’t, and we have a repeat of last winter, well whose fault is that anyway? He looked at the sewer for what, he was still insisting, was the very final time. He could not stand another day down there. He could not stand another day of cleaning up the mess of a city with its priorities in the wrong places. But, if he didn’t, then who would? Now maybe he was being selfish. He was the one with the wrong priorities. He emerged into the dying light of his last day as a guest on a planet which had ground him down since the day he arrived. Tonight was his night. Tonight was on his terms. This is it. Finally.
The rain was heavy now, pouring down in thick sheets, like a window too tough to break, and too dark to look into. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a puddle as his drenched middle-aged body, barely mustering a slight jog, retreated home.
This is it. It won’t be long now.
He thought we might get a bit of thunder tonight, nice heavy rainfall, clean out the old system. But that doesn’t matter anymore.
Tonight. Finally.
The torrent battered his waterproof clothing, as he almost thanked his luck. "Luck"? Hah!
Won’t be long.
He hastily unlocked his front door, shaking off his dripping attire, trying to catch enough breath to assist in the lighting of his cigarette as he walked into the kitchen. And as he turned the tap, and poured himself a glass of water, a slight smile broke out across his face. He couldn’t quite pinpoint the feeling. Was it pride, perhaps? After all these years? Too little, too late.
Tonight is the night.
Wait, maybe it was happiness. Are things really that bad? How many people can say that they make a difference, however small, to something that really matters. Hell, this whole city is able to do the same thing he is doing right at this very moment, and he is partly responsible for that luxury. Perhaps the other side of the coin does have it’s rewards? He decided that was far too big an issue to debate at this time on a Friday evening. He carefully lit up his Victorian coal fire, and spared his customary thought for those responsible for retrieving the coal. Maybe he would take a drive up to Weston-super-Mare tomorrow lunchtime, and think about it there.
He hasn’t done that in years.
An Introduction
My name is Carl Wheatley. I am 26 years old, live in South Wales, and will be filling this blog with random miscellaneous thoughts, media, creative writing, poetry and the like.
That's it really. This is my debut post. Rivetting stuff, huh?
That's it really. This is my debut post. Rivetting stuff, huh?