Giving Rosa a voice

 

Today's a mixed day.  Part three of 'A Little Something To Hide' is out, but I don't feel particularly celebratory about its release. Rosa’s a tough read, one that should arguably come with a trigger warning. I have solicited opinion on the subject; some suggested I should include one, others have said it would be wrong to do so. There are valid points to both arguments, and I respect them equally. In the end, I opted to highlight Women’s Aid in my promotional activities, a national charity in the UK working to end domestic abuse against women and children. It’s an imperfect compromise, but I hope it serves a purpose. I am humble before anyone that disagrees. When I wrote the first draft of Rosa in November 2020, Harvey Weinstein had not long been convicted of rape. Soon after the first allegations against him emerged in October 2017, #MeToo entered my conscious as the clarion call to empower women that have experienced sexual abuse, sexual harassment or rape. I was, shockingly, eleven years behind the times. Tarana Burke, a sexual assault survivor and activist, first coined the phrase and started the movement on MySpace in 2006. It wasn’t until 15 October 2017, when Alyssa Milano wrote in a tweet, ‘If you’ve been sexually harassed or assaulted write ‘me too’ as a reply to this tweet’, that the #MeToo movement developed significant prominence. That meant that for more than a decade, Tarana Burke’s voice wasn’t carrying to the masses. I quietly celebrated the Harvey Weinstein verdict and that the #MeToo movement hadn’t just found its voice, but was being heard – there’s a world of difference between the two. Until then, and for too long, the voice was muffled. With the outing of Harvey Weinstein and other high-profile predators, the #MeToo movement gained traction. Yet while these cases rightly received prominent coverage, they are the exception, and the coverage stems more from the celebrity of the offender or the victims, rather than because of the crime. Sexual assault and violence against women is a monumental issue. According to the Office for National Statistics, in the year ending September 2023, the Police in England and Wales recorded 191,186 sexual offences including 67,938 rape offences. Over the same period, Police flagged 862,765 recorded offences as domestic abuse-related. The voices of most of those victims are unheard, just as Rosa went unheard. That’s where her story came from, it is intended as a bleak reminder that although we have a #MeToo movement that is allowing women’s voices to be heard, there are many, far too many, that are silent. I was nervous about writing Rosa. I have no experience on which to draw, nor do I knowingly know of anyone who has undergone the trauma that Rosa suffered at the hands of her husband. I don’t know whether what I have written diminishes or reflects the brutality that many women face, but what I wanted to do is remind us that we still have a long way to travel to ensure that all women and children are safe and protected. The conclusion to Rosa’s story is not one that I advocate. But, if you wear the thin veil of a smile at the end, I assure you, you are not alone. I didn’t know the outcome of the story when I started writing Rosa, and neither do I think, did she - but the ending to her story is an exception. Every year for the past nine years in Parliament, Jess Phillips, the MP for Birmingham Yardley has read a list of women killed by men or where a man is the principal suspect in the UK. When she read the list in 2024, it took her more than five minutes to read out the 98 names. Despite the work of Jess and other prominent advocates for the protection of women and children, including my former MP, Laura Farris, I am conscious that the #MeToo voice has lost some of its prominence, that it has faded from the mainstream, leading to a need for greater advocacy when the safeguarding of at-risk and vulnerable women and children should be a priority. The silence that so many women endure, either because they don’t feel safe to speak, or because when they do, they are subsequently failed by a broken criminal justice system, is horrific. I am not professing to have a remedy; I don’t pretend to know what needs to happen to make the systemic changes within society that will make a lasting difference to the way many women are treated. What I do know, however, is that there are many organisations that support the women and children who are the victims of domestic abuse and sexual assault – prominent among them is Women’s Aid. On the ‘What We Do’ page of the Women’s Aid website it states plainly, ‘We save lives.’ To achieve that goal, the charity relies on donations and fundraising, which is why every penny of royalties from the sale of Rosa will go to support their vital work. Please, if you can, do a little something to help. Cheerio for now Craig Craig Brown is an author living in Newbury. Discover his serialised novel, 'A Little Something To Hide' at craigbrownauthor.com BlueSky/Threads/Twitter: @GOMinTraining Copyright © Craig Brown, 2024 23 July 2024

When Women Rule

I get it now.  It’s not hype, it’s not hysteria.  It’s close to a cult, but without the malevolent undertones, and with one important distinction, its members are free to come and go as they please.  I suspect, however, that once they join, they’re never going to leave.  Not because they’re indoctrinated, but because they’re exercising their free will.  There’s a world of difference.

You may be forgiven for not knowing what I’m talking about.  I am referring to the absolutely massive sisterhood that is the Swifties.  They’re not all sisters of course, there are quite a few brothers and others, and for three and a half glorious hours last night, I included myself in their number.  Don’t believe me about the sisterhood?  The concert was at Principality Stadium in Cardiff, that bastion of Welsh Rugby and machismo.  The stewards converted every second gents toilet to a women’s loo in the gap between Paramore, the support act, and the main event, the incomparable Taylor Swift.  Women ruled.

It was hard to find anyone in Cardiff not going to the show, and it seemed everyone dressed for the occasion.  I may have been the exception (although as instructed, I did wear my salmon pink polo shirt to at least be passably present).  Sequins, glitter and glam abounded.  Any cowgirl seeking to buy boots in Cardiff will have found little remaining stock, but she could have picked up a pink Stetson from any one of dozens of hawkers selling knocked-off Taylor merch.

Across the city, fans dressed in their favourite Eras tour fashion.  Whether a tasselled dress, a sequined skirt, a flashy leotard, or a plain white t-shirt bearing slogans from Taylor’s canon, all of them wore an outfit to reflect their adoration for the woman they’d come to see.  Some of the boys wore costume too, the standard seeming to be the number 87 shirt of Travis Kelce, Taylor’s partner.  The marketers at Kansas City Chiefs probably can’t believe their luck.  I hope Taylor’s on their Christmas card list.

It was an astonishing, uninhibited display of girl power.  Total immersion in Taylor and complete ownership of every look.  It was glorious and mighty and perhaps summed up most fantastically on one of the white Ts reading, FUCK THE PATRIARCHY.   I couldn’t agree more.

What Taylor Swift has done through her music and actions, is to grant permission to young women to be themselves, to assert themselves, to challenge the opinions of others.  She is giving license to fans worldwide to redefine societal norms.  Her success, and the way she manages her career – by reclaiming her music from Scooter Braun, by using song to highlight chauvinism and egoism, by instructing women to challenge an invidious status quo, is a message that millions want to embrace.  It’s not a cult, it’s not a fad, I hope it’s not even a movement.  I hope that what Taylor Swift represents is a historic corrective, the moment when one woman told a generation of adoring followers that they are better than the male dominated world would still have them believe.

As the majority of the 67,000 crowd sang along word perfect to every song, I marvelled not only at the performance, but at the staging of an event that was breathtaking in scale, rehearsed to within an inch of perfection: band, backing vocalists, dancers, stage crew, audio-visual, even the audience played a part, like the man four rows behind us who proposed to his partner during ‘Love Story’ – the whole show choreographed to performative excellence, the only glitch, a microphone that didn’t cooperate for a beat during her acoustic set.  Leading it all, Taylor Swift, celebrating what she reminded us was her eighteen-year career, greater than half her life.

The show was phenomenal, a hyperbolic word that fails to do it justice.  As I’m writing this, my light bracelet is lying on my desk, still flashing blue, pink, yellow, its face resembling an alien life form.  Certainly, the thousands worn by fans at the show served to change the place into something other worldly.  As a geek Dad, I loved the technology on display, albeit it’s beyond my comprehension.  But even more so, I’m baffled by the phenomenon.  I’m finding it difficult to find the words to describe Taylor Swift.  As much as she is redefining music, performance, theatre, and what it means to be a woman, she needs to redefine the language of hyperbole, I don’t think strong enough words exist to describe her, but I’ll have a go using my limited vocabulary to express what I thought of last night’s show  and everything to do with it – WOW!

Craig Brown is an author living in Newbury.
Discover the first volume of his serialised novel,
'A Little Something To Hide' at craigbrownauthor.com

Twitter: @GOMinTraining
Copyright © Craig Brown, 2024
19 June 2024

The Lady's for Turning

 

With more spins than a child’s gyroscope on a Christmas morning, Liz Truss’s premiership is looking decidedly revolutionary, but only in relation to the number of its U-turns.  There are, however, two changes of heart that she has not yet made, which are a worrying sign of what may follow given her adherence to a flawed ideology.

 

The first is her bizarre decision to intervene on King Charles’ appearance at COP27.  The King is a life-long advocate for green issues, to prevent him from attending the conference is an unnecessary interference and, to paraphrase the words of her predecessor, is spaffing Britain’s soft power up the proverbial wall.  As Prime Minister Truss sets about dismantling the power that the UK enjoys, you’d think she’d at least want to preserve some of it with an easy win.  What one doesn’t know is whether the intervention stems from the influence of lobbyists or her ideological position for maintaining small government.  Possibly I am being unkind.  Perhaps she is simply worried that Charles will talk to delegates in the same way that he talks to his plants, or worse, those who fill his fountain pens.

 

The second issue is of far greater concern.  In the seemingly endless Tory leadership hustings, Liz Truss was adamant that she was the strongest advocate of minimal government intervention, a laudable argument when exercised judiciously.  A government that permits its citizens unfettered choices in day-to-day activities is welcome, most of us like our freedoms preserved.  Equally, entrusting decisions to devolved administrations or local authorities to reflect what best suits each community is a preferable state.  However, dogmatically sticking to such principles, when arguably an intervention is warranted, is not the demonstration of strength that Liz Truss appears to believe.

 

Truss has intervened to prevent a public information programme designed to encourage responsible energy use and practical tips to reduce consumption.  That Jacob Rees-Mogg, Honourable Member for the 18^th Century, proposed the initiative, makes it even more remarkable that Truss should think it too ‘woke’ to proceed, especially given his previous role in government as Minister for Rogering the Peasantry.  Having announced the plan, the Department for Business, Energy, and Industrial Strategy had to immediately withdraw the initiative on the basis that our Prime Minister believes “the country does not need its government telling it what to do.”  While libertarians may consider the policy commendable, it points to a wider concern – the rigid adherence to a dogma, rather than introducing a communication strategy that will benefit the country.  In these straightened times, when fuel bills are advancing at unprecedented rates and energy security is at risk, it is a sensible measure to provide information to the citizenry that will lessen energy demand.  Notwithstanding, it is a communication exercise, not a statutory directive, we will still have the freedom to make our own decisions regarding energy use.

 

A public information campaign is a responsible action for our government to take.  Not issuing guidance misses the opportunity to educate the nation in practical measures to ease the pressure on energy resources for the sake of appearances (which as her Instagram account illustrates, is singularly important).  Truss will argue that it is what she promised in her leadership campaign, albeit she’s rapidly developing a track record of dispensing with commitments faster than Elon Musk can change his mind about Twitter ownership.  Not that we should be surprised, her history demonstrates a politician with a chameleonic character.

 

Her dogmatism in limiting government intervention does lead to concerns as it relates to recent history.  We are emerging from a global pandemic in which government intervention was critical to addressing the spread of the virus.  Those governments that were more interventionist were considerably more successful in containing the disease.  By contrast, those countries whose leaders preferred a more libertarian approach, including Trump, Modi, Bolsonaro, and Johnson, presided over some of the worst death tolls on the planet.  Of course, ‘libertarian’ is being kind, it was arrogance and apathy that prevailed in their administrations, and vast numbers paid the ultimate price for their hubris.

 

With Truss adopting a rigid policy of non-intervention during the energy crisis, what can we expect from her in the event of another pandemic – a rigid belief that the public would know best what to do and should not suffer dictate from Government?  I would hope not, but it is a worrying prospect.  It makes sense that a responsible government would act appropriately to protect its citizens in the event of a pandemic.  Equally, one could argue that a responsible government would inform its people of measures to reduce fuel consumption during an energy crisis.  Truss clinging to her ideology demonstrates an astonishing lack of responsibility and a disregard for the most vulnerable.  Let us remember that we are discussing a public relations exercise as opposed to a policy directive.  At the end of it, we are still at liberty to choose what we do – she hasn’t yet curtailed that right.  If Liz Truss’s dogma prevents her from making coherent decisions regarding measures to avoid excess energy use, God help us if she is still in office should another pandemic hit.

 

 

Twitter: @GOMinTraining
Copyright © Craig Brown, 2022
12 October 2022

What is White Privilege?

I saw a Tweet during the week in which comedian Nathan Caton undertook the ‘Check your privilege’ test, lowering his fingers in response to an audio clip featuring some of the systemic racism that black people face.  Check out his reaction at 51 seconds when he’s run out of fingers and the narrative continues.

Now do the test.

How many fingers do you have left?  I had 10, which I achieved by ignoring the teasing that I get from friends for being a Kiwi.  I’m pretty sure that doesn’t count.  It was a salutary lesson in what so many of us white people fail to understand and an illustration of why those responding to the hashtag #BlackLivesMatter with their indignant ‘All Lives Matter’, really don’t get it.  That’s White Privilege

Another comedian, Mark Steel, writing in the Independent provided an analogy that summed it up rather well.

“there are people who object to the slogan ‘Black Lives Matter’, making the reasonable point that “ALL lives matter ACTUALLY.”  They make a good point, as long as you ignore the fact that obviously all lives matter, but clearly many people, including armed police, don’t think black lives do matter.  It’s like ringing for an ambulance after a heart attack, and being told, “Why are YOU so important, surely ALL hearts matter?”

I don’t consider myself to be racist, and I’m not, overtly.  However, I’ve just written a screenplay and, in my mind, I had a clear vision of the characters I was writing.  Admittedly, I didn’t dig too deep for inspiration.  It was a cast largely plucked from a Richard Curtis movie: Hugh Grant, Colin Firth, Emma Thompson, Renée Zellweger, Rowan Atkinson, Kristen Scott Thomas – you get the picture.  The problem though, is that they’re all too old, and dare I say it – white.  Its conception illustrates my unconscious biases, that a white upper middle-class demographic would fill the roles.  It’s a subtle form of racism; a 50-year-old-man penning a trope that reinforces an embedded stereotype.  I failed to see it as an issue, and therein lies the problem.  For so many of us, it’s not.  That’s White Privilege.

It wasn’t until I submitted my screenplay for professional scrutiny to The Black List that I was challenged to think about the composition of the cast.  The website has a section that invites details on each character including gender, age, and race.  Until then, I hadn’t confronted the ethnicity of the characters.  Their ages are important, so too is their wealth, but they could be from any ethnic background – it’s immaterial.  My prejudices had coloured my thinking, if not my cast.  That’s White Privilege.

I reflected on the cast of ‘Hamilton’; Lin-Manuel Miranda’s brilliant musical telling the story of one of America’s founding fathers.  It is an outstanding production with a fabulously diverse cast that play the parts of white historic figures, deliberately so.  At no point during the watching of the show did I even consider that the casting was flawed because the actors weren’t white.  Frankly, it was performed by an exceptional cast and is a supreme performance which is delightfully colour-blind.  There is no need for the characters to be played by white actors.  What the show needs, and what it has, are the absolute BEST actors; a requirement that should be adopted in many more walks of life.  But it’s not.  That’s White Privilege.

That may lead some angry white men to complain that affirmative action is discriminating against them, denying them their privilege.  I almost joined them when I heard an interview with a literary agent who suggested that right now, it’s not a good time to be a white, middle-aged, heterosexual male writer if you’re trying to break into the industry.  Woe is me.  I determine a career change to pursue my dream to find, after hundreds of years of publishing being controlled by my demographic, that the odds are against me.  At least, that’s the excuse I can use if my novels and screenplays continue to gather dust.  Heaven forbid I should think they remain unpublished for any other reason like, for instance, they’re not good enough.  That’s White Privilege.

Instead of feeling aggrieved or bemused, we white folks need to take conscious and conspicuous action if we’re to dismantle the implicit racism that exists with White Privilege.  We probably don’t have to think, as John Boyega did following his impassioned speech in Hyde Park recently, that his words about the injustices that black people are facing may result in backlash from the moguls in his industry.  Would a white person face the same risks?  Listening to his address, I don’t know why any of what he said would result in censure – but then, I’m a white man, so why would I?  That’s White Privilege.

As it happens, John Boyega just about fits the age profile that I need for my characters, so if he’s interested, there’s a role for him – and he can decide who he wants to play, although perhaps the story’s entitled arsehole should be played by a white man.  Of course, whether it gets produced is another matter altogether.  I think it’s brilliant, but then it’s written by a middle-aged white man and the cards really are stacked against me.  That’s not White Privilege, that’s just delusion.

Twitter: @GOMinTraining
Copyright © Craig Brown, 2020

05 June 2020

Attempting the impossible

Happy New Year.  I’m a couple of weeks late, but as these are the GOM in Training’s first mutterings of 2020, I’m sticking that out there.

Given the turning of the year, I’ve come up with a couple of resolutions which, as of today, I’m almost managing to keep.  They’re different to anything I’ve proposed before.  The first, which is NOT to interfere with other folk’s barbecues, saw some early challenges in the first three days of the year.  These were spent in New Zealand, where a barbecue occurred on each of those days.  I left Anthony, Bella and JP, and Mike to do their thing.  Each was superb: Ant’s effort, unencumbered by my contribution, was excellent.  I allowed the view over the Orewa River and out into the Hauraki Gulf to distract me whilst he grilled a feast.  That same Gulf, but from a different perspective on Waiheke Island, distracted me again as Bella’s butter and thyme drenched Pipis opened in all their gloriousness on the hotplate, a perfect starter to precede her Dad’s effort, JP demonstrating expertise of his own.  Back on the mainland, Mike’s swift breakfast barbie the following morning served as our final treat before heading back to Blighty.

Here in the northern hemisphere, winter has us in its grip; outdoor cooking opportunities are rare, but this Saturday, a friend’s firing up his Weber as part of his wife’s birthday celebrations.  He’s English, so could probably do with some help, but I’ll resist.  He has shown reasonable form when turning a snag, so I’ll let him have his tongs.  If I budge in, it may engender foul language; he’s a man of the cloth so it wouldn’t do to put temptation in his path.

My other resolution is proving to be a mite more challenging.  “Be more like Ange” was my declaration on the eve of the New Year.  It’s a tall order.

I would suggest that Ange is like a whirling dervish, however, that would imply some form of chaos in her wake.  Not with her, quite the opposite, she’s a tornado of tidy.  When she flies around the house, order follows; it’s extraordinary.

I first noticed this on a visit to spend time with her and her husband, Shane, when they lived in Queenstown.  Queenstown’s a tourist mecca, there’s something for everyone, a discovery I made at the local tourist office as I garnered armfuls of brochures.  My plan was to review them when I returned to their house.  When I did, I popped them on the coffee table whilst I went to the loo.  Ange returned from work whilst I was out of the room, and when I got back, the brochures had vanished.  I momentarily questioned my sanity, then asked the obvious question.  “I’ve tidied them away,” she replied.  “Oh,” was all I managed.  I hadn’t realised they needed tidying.

On a subsequent visit for their wedding, we blokes; Shane, his best man, Dave, and I participated in the preparations by sitting down for an afternoon in front of the TV to watch the cricket.  The coffee table that had once briefly hosted a range of extreme activity brochures now supported our beers, each perched on the centre of a coaster, three corners of the table occupied.  In the fourth corner, an empty coaster sat, perfectly square to the sides of the table.  Ange, slightly more engaged in the wedding preparations than we were, fizzed around the house undertaking a variety of tasks.  “Watch this,” said Shane in a moment when she was out of the room.  He subtly shifted the fourth coaster, turning it so that it was no longer square.  The next time Ange whizzed by, she realigned it to the table without pausing as she passed.  “You do it,” said Shane when she was out of earshot, encouraging Dave.  He duly obliged.  So did Ange, once more restoring order on her next pass.
  “Your turn,” said Dave, drawing me into the plot.  I childishly participated, bolstered by Heineken-fuelled courage.  Ange, armed with freshly delivered flowers for the following day’s nuptials, straightened the coaster as she flew by again.  Shane rose to the challenge she’d unwittingly set, daring to move it a fourth time.
On her next approach she paused, hands on hips, glaring.  “I know what you’re doing,” she said.  “Leave it alone.”  Chastened, we complied.

This December we had the opportunity to spend more time with our friends and rather than disrupting the interior design through misappropriation of coasters, I chose instead to observe Ange in action.  Her tidying is immediate and breathtakingly swift.  I swear, if I’d chomped into a biscuit and an errant crumb were to break loose, she’d dispose of it before it hit the floor.  She’s a marvel.

So, my resolution, to be more like Ange, is an attempt to introduce a little more tidiness into my doings.  Mrs GOM is rightly sceptical, she’s experienced 25 years of the antithesis, so perhaps has justified reasons for doubt, but I have set off with aspirations.  From the centre of the kitchen, there is a four-foot radius where I’ve focused my attention.  Surfaces get wiped, dishes get washed and my usually chaotic efforts in meal preparation have a degree of order to them that was hitherto unknown.  It’s exhausting and I’m not sure the heightened activity will extend beyond its current scope.  That might demand attention in another room, the one to where I’ve been throwing the stuff from the kitchen.

I’m also trying to follow the example of immediacy and pace, but that’s possibly beyond my capability.  My frantic efforts create more mess than order; water is sloshed over work surfaces, discarded waste misses the bin and there is a real danger that crockery will meet an untimely demise, all of which creates additional work.  I’m not sure that Mrs GOM is impressed with my attempts, however, she’s welcoming the improvement, however mild.

I’ve tried to encourage Daughter of GOM (DofG) to join me on the crusade, however she’s too busy to participate, preferring instead not to empty her suitcase from the holiday.  Mrs GOM would argue that if ever there was evidence in favour of nature in the ‘nature versus nurture’ debate, when it comes to tidiness, DofG provides it; until that is, one considers that I’m her father.

Mrs GOM persists with her patience.  Mine, however, is being tested.  Dog of GOM (DoG), not to be confused with DofG, is not playing ball.  Or rather she is, discarding them, along with other remnants of her play and snacking about the house.  Ange’s dog knows better than to leave a toy discarded in a corner – it may never reappear. DoG, on the other hand, has taken to mass disruption, leaving bits all over the place in an effort to undermine my declaration and overwhelm me into submission.  I’m not giving up though, I’m going to convince DoG to join the effort and adopt more appropriate behaviour.  She’s bound to be easier to train than DofG.  That said, as I write, I can hear DoG shredding an envelope that she has purloined from the recycling bin beneath my desk.  My failure to notice this egregious act may illustrate that my resolutions are doomed to failure.

Maybe I will dig out my tongs for the forthcoming weekend, you know, just to spare the Englishman his blushes.


Twitter: @GOMinTraining
Copyright © Craig Brown, 2020
17 January 2020

Don’t trust the technology

We recently signed up to a new gym.  Fancy place, fully digitised and tech heavy.  I have been asked repeatedly whether I wear a pacemaker.  I think that has less to do with my health and more to do with buggering up their electronics.  I suspect if I had one, I’d be encouraged to focus more on the analogue equipment.

One bit of kit that caught my eye was the Boditrax, a glorified set of scales that carries the by-line “beyond body composition”.  I’m not sure what that means; beyond composition suggests decomposition to me and, although I’m not as fit as I’d like to be, I haven’t yet started to rot.

By standing on a platform and gripping its handles, Boditrax magically provides more information than a simple weight measurement.  It provides 14 different metrics including fat and muscle mass, skeletal and abdominal analysis, a physique classification and a metabolic age.

I’m tickled by the physique classification for the highest fat percentage and lowest muscle score.  Boditrax has opted for the politically correct “Hidden Obese”.  I’m not sure where people in that category will be hiding their fat, but it does conjure an image of veins popping from prolonged tummy tensing.  My measure provides me with an “Obesity Warning”, which presumably means that I need to do some exercise or start looking for hiding places.

I did think I was doing a little better than that reading implies, but there is clearly work to be done.  None more so than when it comes to addressing my metabolic age.  Mrs GOM stood on the machine before I did and, coming in at 16 years younger than her actual age, the machine confirmed what we all know, that she is brimming with youth.  By contrast, I am not.  I turn 50 next year, but according to Boditrax, four summers have passed since that mark was achieved, proving categorically, despite Mrs GOM’s assertions to the contrary, that you can’t trust technology.

Maybe the clever people at Boditrax should develop their system to incorporate a maturity index.  On that measure, I’d be sure to come in considerably below my years.

Twitter: @GOMinTraining
Copyright © Craig Brown, 2019
18 October 2019

The training is over

Credit: Gary Andrews (@GaryScribbler)

A friend recently remarked that I could perhaps lose the “in Training” element from my GOM in Training sobriquet.  It appears, he suggested, that I am now a fully qualified grumpy old man.  I think he has a point.  When reflecting on my most recent posts, I have become increasingly outraged at the political and social climate within which we live.  I didn’t intend for the GOMIT to become a political commentator; the plan was for something considerably more frivolous and light-hearted.

If my friend is right, and my training is complete, I have discovered that my chosen path is akin to a newly qualified doctor discovering that he or she doesn’t like blood.  I don’t like to be grumpy.  For a start, it’s exhausting.  Summoning the energy to rail at the world exacts a toll on my preferred optimistic state, where I’m much happier to exist.

Over the last week I’ve been quietly mulling what to do.  I could continue to scream into the void at our parlous world or revert to a more genteel form of moaning where daily trivialities, such as the baffling appeal of Snapchat to teenagers, or the growing trend to have jeans hover halfway down the wearer’s arse, assume a far greater magnitude than they should warrant.  These latter subjects provide a much greater opportunity to moan in mystification than in outrage, which is considerably better for mine, and everyone else’s wellbeing.

As well as the mainstream media, much of the grist to my GOM mill derives from Twitter and other forms of social media, where it is possible to find extremes of views which all too frequently lead to a competing vitriol, where it is possible to witness the “good people on both sides” become increasingly hostile toward one another and demonstrate the somewhat less savoury sides to their nature.  I cannot be too critical; I am in no position to cast that first stone.

However, as poisonous as Twitter can be, it also has redemptive voices; users who offer considerably healthier reading.  Moving forward, I am likely to spend a little more time following their tweets than the poison that spews forth from the grubby little thumbs of @realDonaldTrump and others.

Take Gary Andrews (@GaryScribbler) for instance, whose sketch appears at the top of this page (https://twitter.com/GaryScribbler/status/1177345226911944706).  Of that, he wrote:

Tough enough being at a new school without the extra burden of our circumstances - but I do like Lily’s solution. Finding a laugh when things get uncomfortable. It both breaks my heart that she has to go through this and makes it swell with pride at her bravery. #doodleaday.

Nearly 55,000 of us get to share Gary’s daily challenges and triumphs.  We are regularly treated to the unadulterated pride and love he has for his children, but occasionally, he will share poignant moments too, where he opens up to the grief he experiences following the death of his wife.  He’s a hero.

So too is Lin Manuel Miranda (@Lin_Manuel), probably best known as the creative genius behind the musical ‘Hamilton’, who operates at a seemingly inexhaustible pace as he leaps from project to project, whilst managing to tweet some wonderfully positive and often esoteric tweets.  One recently (https://twitter.com/Lin_Manuel/status/1177691534742949893) read simply:

Gmorning.

There’s a lot going on.

Take all the time you need.

It’s advice we could all do well to follow.

If you prefer your positivity in a more surreal form, then I suggest following the watermelon eating Thoughts of Dog (@dog_feelings).  His punctuation leaves a lot to be desired, but with 2.8 million followers, there are a lot of grammatically tolerant people out there who are treated every few days to a canine insight that will make you smile.  Take this little pearl (https://twitter.com/dog_feelings/status/1158060297044844545)

i know there’s bad in the world. and it would be silly. to pretend it isn’t there. but for now here’s my leash. and a few licks on your hand. to convince you that one day. we will be alright

Even if you don’t like dogs, it’s hard to argue that the dog’s account has a much rosier outlook on life than a huge number of the Twitteratti.

There are other reasons for me to refocus.  There are manuscripts that need some love and a creative canon that deserves nurturing considerably more than my expressions of anger.  I’ll continue to follow the maddening politics that dominate our culture and, no doubt, will periodically spew forth with my unwanted opinions.

In the meantime, however, I’m going to add some life to no one in particular, help a man restore a battered sloop and mull over a coach load of folks on their way to Albuquerque.

Twitter: @GOMinTraining
Copyright © Craig Brown, 2019
4 October 2019