She wanted vistas

Ah, memories, how fleeting etc

Cleaning up the old FB inbox, I came across a message (see below) from a chum who reminded me how indifferent the Universe can be to the trials of mere mortals. Firstly, my name isn't Chris (although Mark may have been protecting my identity - no need old bean!) and secondly, I'm not sure The Hayes Island Snack Bar sells pies... Still, on the first point, Ninjah (residents of Cardiff will know exactly which 7 foot bin-thumping rap star I'm talking about) called me Nick for ten years, and the lovely Lisa from Jazzy Jackets in the market insisted my name was Matt. When set straight they were respectively mystifyingly unperturbed (Ninjah didn't care - he preferred Nick to Gareth), and embarrassingly forgetful (I became instead "Maaaaa - shit! - Gar!") Anyway, I have no idea about how genuine this extract courtesy of Mark Thomas may be, but it warms my cockles nonetheless. Enjoy. 13 November 2008 Mark Thomas can't remember things the way they happene...

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Foolish Oaths and Rash Promises

Not meaning to put myself in the same bracket as any of the 1000-faced heroes of legend, but in an attempt to cultivate positive, creative habits rather than reinforce old, less salubrious ones, I made a rash public promise that I would write a poem every day for a month, starting on the 14th January to the 14th February inclusive, meaning 32 poems over the next 32 days. I hereby pledge to write one poem a day for the next month, up to and including 14th February. — Innominate Primate (@TheMightyBuch) January 13, 2015 This is something I think I need to do, to make sure I follow through. I've tried things like #100HappyDays , have told myself I would attempt 50 sit-ups and press-ups on waking up each day, or would get up at five am and do an hour's writing before showering and getting ready for work, but up to this point I have been incredibly consistent in the breaking of my word to myself. Guilt lends fuel to the shame spiral engine, and down I would go, into brown b...

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In response, a rebuttal, from an apologist for the Liverpool Cause

I feel the need to raise the ugly spectre of my footballing allegiance this sunny Tuesday morning in response to some not unfounded criticism from an understandably long-suffering Jack , now into the fourth (or fifth?) day of waiting for the delivery of a little Jack, and also a Swansea City fan of some years. I say not unfounded but playing to an anti “Plastic Scouser”* crowd is just going for cheap laughs if you ask me. So, a rebuttal it is. In no particular order, let’s start with punditry. Like all those in the harsh media spot light, the best football pundits are the ones who are unequivocal about their opinions. It doesn’t matter if they’re right or wrong, as long as they invite comment and argument, otherwise what would be the point? An expert opinion is useful if one has to make a decision on something, but when the decision is out of your hands in the first place, the only use it serves is to make a prediction that can be debated endlessly for fun or to infuria...

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From The Centrifuge

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