Till Death Us Do Part.

At a loss for something to blog about today, I thought, instead of simply rambling on about absolutely nothing, I would instead share with you one of my favourite British comedy classics. (It was this clip or the “Jesus was English” clip — but I thought I’d save that one for Christmas! 😉 )

Alf Garnett’s going to Bournemouth…

Part Two.

Part Three.

© 2008 Gary William Murning

Burning Love.

The novel I’m currently trying to place, Children of the Resolution, has a scene of which I’m fairly fond. My protagonist, Carl, is still only about six years old and one of his classmates had just died (it’s a “special” school for kids with physical disabilities, set in the early 1970s.) One line in particular — because it was just the kind of thing I would have thought or said the time — I especially like.

Given that it’s Elvis Week, and that the man himself (or his music, at least) has been a part of my life for many, many years, now seems a good time to share the extract with you.

“If it made her feel bad to tell us about how Emiline had died and everything, she shouldn’t have to do it. Someone else should have done it for her. Mr. Dixon in assembly should have said, instead of making us sing Give Me Oil in My Lamp (although, I had to admit it was a good song — not exactly up there with Burning Love, but good nonetheless.) It wasn’t fair and I wanted to make it better for her but didn’t know how.”

Elvis and Priscilla.

Regular readers will know that I’m something of an Elvis fan. Okay, I don’t avidly collect his records and memorabilia like some sideburned, sixty-year-old plumber from Barnsley (not that I have anything against sixty-year-old plumber’s from Barnsley, you understand!), and I’m probably not about to make a pilgrimage to Graceland any time soon — but I have been listening to his music for most of my life and it still does the job it’s supposed to.

So, with the 31st anniversary of his death only a couple of days away, I was a little puzzled to read on the BBC website that the dolls below are being sold in Memphis as part of a weeklong event marking the anniversary.

As a little as I like Priscilla (she’s a Scientologist, for heaven’s sake — need I say more?), the juxtaposition between their marriage and his death seems rather unfortunate… okay, I’ll fess up. I am chuckling just a little bit. The irony really appeals to me.

Do you think the marketing boys and girls at Elvis Presley Enterprises got there anniversaries mixed up? Or maybe they have a bored Englishman working for them who wanted to, you know, have a bit of a laugh? 😉

You Can’t Say That.

I’ve been thinking about the death of George Carlin for the past few minutes — specifically his Seven Words You Can Never Say on TV routine, which can be seen in my previous post.

In 1972, Carlin was arrested in Milwaukee for disturbing the peace after performing this act and, even though I don’t know a great deal about the man (I only recently discovered him; he wasn’t that well known in my neck of the woods), it seems obvious that even then he could very clearly see the road down which we were travelling — the road to that place where the greatest sin of all is to cause offence.

Personally, I’ve never really been someone to deliberately go out of my way to offend. Except in exceptional circumstances. But increasingly I find myself appalled by the cultural mass-mindset I see around me. Everyone is perpetually afraid, it seems, to offend. Words that were once acceptable now no longer are, everyone is a minority in need of protecting, of cosseting, of being kept happy and free from unnecessary stress. You can’t say that, but you can say this — unless such and such a person is present, then it might be construed to mean something quite different, in which case, say this instead, making sure that you smile at the same time so that it can’t be misinterpreted as unnecessarily sarcastic or ironic. Whether you’re gay, black, Asian, disabled — or just a plain old vanilla Caucasian with everything in working order — you can guarantee that at some time someone will perform a nifty little verbal Riverdance routine in order to avoid causing offence. And, without wishing to offend (!), it is a complete load of fucking bollocks.

Now I’m fairly sure there’s someone out there with an “ah, but” at the ready. And quite rightly so. There is a line that cannot be crossed — a line that isn’t about the choice of words but about intent. Offending people, I will state quite clearly, is not always a bad thing. Quite often, in fact, it’s to be applauded. But this doesn’t mean that by saying this we are sanctioning bigotry and hatred. Quite the opposite, in fact.

You see, any liberties and rights that we might have (and I’d recommend hearing what George has to say about these things!) are for me founded on one basic principle: my right to have and express an opinion. Yes, with this comes responsibility. If I say something unacceptable (for example, something intended to incite racial hatred) then I should be held accountable. But for mere offence? Should I be gagged simply because I make someone feel uncomfortable, or make them question the number of burgers they eat in an average week? I don’t think so.

You see, I can say that. People like George help us see that. I can say that and, more to the point, so can you.

And if they don’t like it… well, fuck ’em.

Near Death Experiences.

Now, I’m sceptical about many things — UFOs, ghosts, god (actually, the latter goes a lot further than mere scepticism!), Gordon Brown’s ability to steer us through these difficult economic times, you get the idea. So it was with interest that I read of a new academic book, written by an intensive care nurse from Swansea, on the subject of near death experiences.

Many books have been written on the subject, but I’ve seen nothing (or very little, anyway) that could be described as “academic”. I therefore thought that this might be the book for me. A clearheaded study of the phenomenon by someone in a profession that allows her to have firsthand experience (okay, second-hand experience — but you know what I mean.)

Judging by the BBC website article, however, I don’t think I’ll be rushing out to buy the book any time soon (and, no, this isn’t because said book costs an exorbitant £85 — though that certainly doesn’t help matters!)

Now I think it’s important to state at this stage that my comments cannot be considered an assessment of the book because, of course, I haven’t actually read it. This is more about the way the book is presented — which possibly grossly misrepresents it (though if it does, Penny Sartori, the author, is certainly complicit in this.)

The first thing that struck me was that we are immediately presented with the usual anecdotal “evidence”, the kind of thing we hear quite often when this subject arises. Bright lights, dead loved ones, floating above the room, lives flashing before them in an instant — nothing all that new or spectacular, as one might expect. Fine, anecdotal evidence is pretty much all we have got, but in an academic study I would hope that it’s used appropriately.

The second point that really hit home, however, was the blithe acceptance by the author of what she was told by patients. For example, this:

“In another case a patient reported encountering a dead relative who gave a message to pass on to another member of the family who was still alive.

Ms Sartori said the information had stunned the receiver because it had been a secret and it was impossible the patient had prior knowledge of it.”

Impossible? Impossible? Do we have solid proof of this? What was the secret? What was the information? Wasn’t it possible, in fact, that the patient had somehow deduced the secret and supplied an appropriate message?

In another case…

“[…] a critically-ill patient, who also had cerebral palsy, awoke from a near-death experience able to use his right arm normally, even though it had been bent and contracted since birth.

“It shouldn’t have been possible without an operation to release his tendons, but he could open his arm freely,” said Ms Sartori.”

Your point, Ms Sartori? The angels did it? How does this fit into an academic study? It says nothing, either for or against any particular argument. Yes, it’s intriguing. But does it tell us anything about near death experiences? And if it does, is it anything beyond the anecdotal?

With regard the often used explanations for near death experiences of endorphins, abnormal blood gases or low oxygen levels, there appears to be nothing in her findings to support this. A genuinely important piece of information. Her comment, however, that “All the current sceptical arguments [my italics] against near death experiences were not supported by the research” suggests a bias that I find offputting.

The penultimate paragraph is a real doozy, however:

“Current science says it is a by-product of the brain. But it may be that consciousness is around us and the brain might be a mediator, an antenna, instead of controlling consciousness.”

And it may be that green and purple-spotted aliens come down whilst the patient is unconscious, insert a phallus into the patient’s right ear and impregnate the fertile brain with this admittedly fascinating experience — but, personally, I’ll leave all that spooky, New Age nonsense to the people who are really good at it.

Academic? I hope so — but based on this article, I somehow doubt it.

[Edit: This quite possibly provides a better insight into Penny Sartori and her work.]

Death Off-Stage.

Well, today I reached the point in my novel where I had to, reluctantly, let the character of Johnny — the fictional representation of my childhood friend, GS — die. I expected it to be difficult, whatever I may have said in previous blog posts, but in the end it just happened, much as it did in real life, off-stage and oddly veiled.

I’d thought of tampering with the circumstances — solidly putting the “semi” in the phrase “semi-autobiographical” — and having Johnny die centre-stage, clutching his bosom, so to speak, where my narrator (yes, okay, where I) could see him, but that struck me as crass and intrusive. GS wouldn’t have objected, I’m fairly sure. He liked a bit of drama, and often went out of his way to create it. But I think the off-stage choice is the right one. There’s a dignity about it that I feel is right. Whatever else it might be, I can only be pleased with that, at least.

In other news… I’m taking tomorrow off, and heading out I don’t know where. Possibly onto the moors again — see if I can find out anything more about Austin Wright. I can’t help wondering, Why Fylingdales? What’s he, an ex-remote-viewer, doing out there? It has to be significant.

If you see me on the news tomorrow evening being detained by sweaty military types, you’ll know I’ve got a little carried away with my research 😉

And the Cotton is High.

Ah, yes, a day to “rise up singing”, as the song says. Endless blue sky, sunshine, the double Begonias looking pretty — and Bertrand Russell for company. What more can a bloke ask for?

Summer has indeed arrived and, because it may not be here for very long, I’ve been making the most of it — getting my 1,000 words written and then relaxing in the fresh air reading Religion and Science whilst listening to the kids out the back bounce enthusiastically on their trampoline (actually not as annoying as it might seem; the rest of our neighbours are either “getting on a bit” or just plain boring, so a couple of bouncing kids gives the place a bit of life.) I like this time of year. Not too hot, not too cold, the longer, brighter days making reading easier on the eyes.

It helps that Children of the Resolution is going well, of course. I know exactly where I am with it, what needs to be done and when it will be done by, so that when I allow myself a little relaxation time, I don’t find myself irritated by buzzing-fly problems in need of fixing. Turning off has always been difficult for me. I’m the type of writer (well, this applies to the non-writer in me, too) who will suddenly fall silent as an unsettling thought takes hold, and the only solution is for me to follow the thought to its inevitable conclusion. This can be time consuming, and not something I want happening when I’m trying to recharge. But planning this novel as methodically as I have has helped reduce these incidents to a bare minimum. I can therefore sit in peace with Bertrand, and talk to the Begonias.

Children of the Resolution is entering its darker phase, however, and I’m especially glad that the weather is such a glorious contrast to the inner landscape of my novel. I think it would be more of an emotional drain if I saw that darkness mirrored around me. Writing about the death of a friend in childhood… oddly, it’s not as difficult as one might expect. Writing is what I do. I’m involved, but (while I’m working on it, at least) it’s an involvement primarily with the project, with getting it right and being fair to the characters who inspired it. But still, it stirs a few memories: the cruelty of it all, the injustice, the “trench-humour”, the stupidity of some adults, the impossibility of — at times — saying the right thing and, perhaps most of all, the sense of a life unlived. No great insights. Not really. Just simple truths that, I suspect, are best contemplated in warm sunshine.

The real Johnny, I believe, wouldn’t have thought much of that, though. He would have sniffed his indifference and told me to put it away and finish it during the darkest days of December. “Mer-more atmosphere, that way,” he would have stammered. “Can’t ber-beat a ger-gloomy atmosphere to make you feel like you’re rer-really alive.”

And he’d probably have been right. In his own, unorthodox way, he usually was.