American Sniper - A (Half) Review

Last night my girlfriend and I were looking for something to watch and she suggested 'American Sniper'. I knew with near certainty that it would be a fervorous advocation of holy American righteousness and patriotism, remorseless and unapologetic in its justifications of the murder of peoples caught up in the wars of American imperialism, but it wouldn't be defensible to make such a drastic assumption without at least taking a small look, so I downloaded the film through the Torrent sites, gladly avoiding giving a penny to the 'Ministry of Truth' that created it. 

I had some vague, false impression that this film might show some measure of compassion towards the Iraqi people, not simply portraying them as the 'terrorists' and 'insurgents' (/'freedom fighters') that the media directs our perception towards, but this was quickly dismissed.

The movie begins with the Islamic call to prayer, which introduces us to a rooftop in an Iraqi city where we find our hero, the 'American sniper' looking through his sniper scope to spot dangers in the streets ahead of the patrol on the ground. The troops are told that the city has been 'evacuated', which would probably mean that American planes dropped leaflets over the city that said something to the effect of 'get out or die', after they dropped a few thousand tonnes of bombs and nuclear waste warheads, like you do. Since the city has been evacuated they are told to treat any male of military age as a 'foreign combatant'.

After watching a man on a rooftop talking into a mobile phone while observing the troops, our American Hero spots a woman and a young boy walking out of a doorway and into the middle of the street in front of the patrol. In full view of the troops ahead, but somehow only seen by American Hero, the woman hands the young boy a rocket propelled grenade, whispers something to him, whereupon he begins a childishly slow and wobbly run forward with the RPG in his arms. 

Our hero has already reported what he saw on the radio, but no-one can corroborate what he has seen. He is told that it is his call. He has a child in the crosshairs of his sniper-scope. He breathes. He holds his breath. The audience holds their breath. The boy takes his last...

CUT!

Cue the all-American dream! The film is halted as a young boy is about to be shot through the heart by a sniper of an invading army, not for the young boy's short life to flash before his eyes, but to learn of the sniper's admirable Christian upbringing in some small town in Texas. We see him attending church with his family, cheekily pocketing a small bible which we later find he keeps with him always. Our American Hero is a young lad not much older than the one he was about to shoot. His dad is teaching him to hunt deer. We see him fighting to defend his younger brother when he is being bullied. His dad teaches them to never be a sheep, never be a wolf, to do what is right: 'these are the good guys'.

American Hero is older now, riding bronco in the rodeo and winning, his younger brother cheering him on in support. They call themselves 'Cowboys', 'living the dream'. American Hero comes home to find his girlfriend in bed with another man, turning them both out. But no worry, he soon meets a lovely young lady at a bar, who downs whisky to impress him before throwing it up outside, while he holds her hair back like a true gentleman. A relationship ensues.

We have all but forgotten about the little terrorist with the RPG, and are fully convinced of how lovely a guy AH is. He could shoot me in the face and I'd forgive him at this stage. At this point AH sees a terrorist bombing of a US embassy on the TV. His angry face is a little comical. It reminds me of my father holding me up to a mirror when I was having a strop as a child, to show me how silly I looked. It always got me laughing. A bit of sob later and 9/11 is on the TV (an event completely unconnected to Iraq in any way - more evidence points at George Bush and Dick Cheney as being complicit than Saddam Hussein or any other Iraqi). That is the last straw. We leave AH's amusing angry face to find him in the recruitment office, and he quickly finds himself in Navy SEAL training, excelling at shooting. The scene is set. Our American Hero context is in place. We can now safely watch him shoot foreign children in the knowledge that he was raised in a good Christian family with best principles at heart.

BANG! A bullet tears through the chest of the young boy and he falls to the ground, dropping the RPG. There is no cut scene to show the story of his life. Maybe his entire family is dead, killed by American bombs, but we aren't concerned with that. We are concerned with the justification of his death and the justifications of hundreds of thousands of others' deaths. We achieve this justification by showing you how the grown men killing them are good people really, and that they have no choice in the matter. 

The woman runs forward to pick up the RPG, to throw it at the patrol of American Heroes. AH gets a round off just in the nick of time, as she manages to throw the grenade, but not quite far enough to cause damage to the other American Heroes. I feel like our hero has learnt a lesson here - shoot first, ask questions later. We are shown poor AH's remorse at having to shoot a child. Poor AH. 

I didn't watch much more of the film. As I think of our American Hero, bible in pocket, the young boy and the soldier patrol, I think of Ezekiel 25:17 - American Hero is shown as the blessed; 'in the name of charity and goodwill, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness'. Our American hero, shooting a young boy in what may well be the street he was raised, is portrayed as the shepherd in this, guiding the poor weak American troops through the valley, protecting them from the tyranny of this little boy. But, as Samuel L Jackson put it at the end of that film we all know and love, "that shit ain't the truth. The truth is, you're the weak, and I am the tyranny of evil men."

This film is an abomination, a shameless blood stain of war propaganda made with one thing in mind - to glorify and validate the most atrocious of wartime actions. We have seen and heard the contempt with which many soldiers take life. We have seen soldiers make t-shirts with pregnant women in crosshairs. War is rape and torture, murder and misery. This film seeks to whitewash all that we abhor about war and portray it as a holy act of love. It is sick. It is inhuman, immoral, flying in the face of everything we hold decent. It is an evil attack on our hearts and minds, and should be condemned as a revolting assault upon everything good in humanity. 

That's all for now.

The Blink That Killed The Eye - A Review

'The Blink That Killed The Eye' is the first collection of short stories written by Anthony Anaxagorou: poet and author. I am glad to have known him since I was 4 years old, when we were best friends for a few years before he moved to another school. We had virtually no contact for the best part of twenty years after that, despite going to the same secondary school, mixing in different crowds. Ten years or so later we would run into each other in town occasionally and one day we got chatting about his poetry which I'd seen online. 'Burma Makes Me Bad' hit me hard; a piece of beauty borne of harsh reality. Each and every one of his poems hit me hard, the words emphasised in their power by Anthony's flawlessly passionate delivery. He began self-publishing poetry books, going on to work with schools, universities and charities in a variety of outreach, literacy and poetry projects, before beginning a collection of short stories in 2013. I know him as a friend and as an extremely thoughtful, motivated and insightful individual. That is my personal context. Now for the book.

'The Blink That Killed The Eye'. It is an interesting title, one which draws the reader in with very little effort. A blink is a momentary lapse in our eyesight as the eye closes to rehydrate the eyeball after it has been open too long, or to shield from glare, dust, and wind. Maybe the inference is that his stories will highlight the things we miss in the blink of an eye when we are concentrating too hard on the obvious. Maybe the blink is a metaphor for us protecting ourselves from the shit flying at us as we speed through life, causing us to miss vital points that might have helped us find peace or understanding (or to avoid the shit better!). Maybe it is a broader warning to society; telling us that blinking to avoid the questions and challenges that we don't like is killing us socially. All of these are valid interpretations, and I could extract more, but to try and determine the author's meaning we must read more than the title.

Anthony begins with a man's description of his father under the chapter heading 'Bad Company'. It is written in the past tense while he describes his father, soon shifting to describe events in an imagined present; the subject is re-living experiences in his mind. The description of the father comes from a place of respect and admiration but does not immortalise the patriarch like a child might be expected to. It is written from a perspective making attempt to understand rather than pass judgement, invariably a trait attained through maturity. It hints at imperfections in the man, but attempts, successfully I believe, to place them in the wider context of his person, and they cease to be imperfections and are accepted as simply part of 'who he is'. The father is used to set the scene for the son, who is enduring physical hardships working for his uncle in the present. The story jumps between poetic descriptions of his physical struggle to successfully perform the tasks assigned to him by his uncle, his undirected, as-yet untapped interest in poetry, and the aggressive relationship with his girlfriend, who has her own undisclosed issues and is very violent in her confrontation with him. I cannot help but feel that this chapter represents the author's struggles to achieve his dreams of writing 'professionally', the physical work on his uncles roof being metaphor for the social demand for 'work', and 'paying your way', while the girlfriend plays the part of every misunderstanding skeptic and critic, not of his work, but of his personal philosophies and ambitions: 'Bad Company'. Something his father says at the beginning of the chapter echoes in my mind: "Know your worth Alex."

In the next story Anthony goes on to describe an extremely abusive marital relationship, and the psychological effect on the victim from her own perspective, drawing her torment around the reader. I feel myself wishing that every abusive husband would read this, and feel the weight of the vile abuse the subject receives. It horrifies and upsets me to read it, but I am not enduring the horrible reality of this abuse, so I count myself lucky. Anthony follows this with a story centred around security guards in a office block. They refuse to allow a woman in as she has forgotten her ID, and by the end it becomes clear that we know this woman. It links the first two stories together sweetly and subtly, and I feel water in my eyes as I come to the end of the chapter, where we start a new page joining a bunch of men in the security department of an office building. There is a minor incident with one of the workers, and this story follows the interaction between the others as they try to decide what to do. At first I am confused as to the part this story plays. It is the shortest in the book. It then hits me. I don't spot it at first because I am so used to it. The men are horrible to each other. They are aggressive, rude and abusive to each other, in the casual manner that is commonplace in many male dominated working class industries: 'banter'. It doesn't take me long to hypothesise that we have encountered one of these men in the book already, echoing his daily experiences in the most unconstructive way to his partner. The author isn't excusing anything. He isn't justifying anything. This is an examination; a study. This is an attempt to understand human beings in their overt and covert suffering. To understand why people do the things they do. No judgement.

We are taken to a prison where a man has begun serving time for murdering his wife. We are informed of his being a victim of rape and other physical abuse as a child. The author does not make excuse for him on account of this, it is simple fact: this man, this murderer, this monster, this human being was once a child with a clean slate that was dirtied by the inherent corruption in the world. No father ever told him to 'know his worth'. His perception of worth was dictated by his abusers, left to deduce his place in this world off the back of the contempt shown for his existence. No justification, just facts. Here they are. Don't flinch.

Young love. Anthony takes us into the setting of a single solitary mother living with her daughter, the mother having few friends and relying on alcohol to numb her loneliness, the daughter growing up in an environment where the dominant male role model in her life is a plastic cowboy figurine planted amidst her doll collection. We are quickly spirited across a decade or so to the point the daughter has her first boyfriend, a man who reminds her of her cowboy figurine. This precipitates a violent confrontation between mother and daughter. I imagine the mother filled with the fear that her daughter is going to leave her, for a man who in her mind will undoubtedly leave her like she was left, while simultaneously robbing her of her only child and source of companionship. He would hurt her like she was hurt. The author however, alludes to jealousy as the source of her anger and aggression. I think loneliness and depression are the root cause of that jealousy. Under the influence of these negative emotions, coupled with the angry confusion brought on by the alcohol she consumes, the mother succumbs to her misery and assaults her daughter after being told that she is moving out to be with 'Alex', which, I remember, was the name of the young aspiring poet from the beginning of the book, but this Alex does not sound like the aspiring poet from earlier. We follow this story with one of separation, and Alex's sorrowful reminiscence connects us back to the young man in 'Bad Company'. We explore a young man's first encounter with love's rejection. His attempts to rationalise his feelings of sadness and loss. His reminiscence of times passed. Most of us can relate.

'The Blink That Killed The Eye': The final story briefly explores Alex's emotional recovery, his attempts at writing, then taking us into a world of physically and mentally disabled persons as he tries his hand as a carer. He meets people who have 'acquired brain injury', leaving them incapable of taking care of themselves or living 'normal' lives. The blink is our inability or refusal to see past the surface of these poor souls' lives, past the often barely intelligible speech to scratch the surface of the person that once shone from within, the person now trapped within; the happy child, the doting parent, the motivated worker; within the broken body we are presented with, within the fragmented speech and simple conceptualisation are the memories of a human being; memories of being considered a human being. The blink is the means by which we maintain a position of judgement. The blink is the mechanism of wilful ignorance with which we dismiss that which we are too damn lazy to consider: that behind every short story is a wider biography, experienced in the singular realm of the person, waiting eagerly in a lonely corner of the library for a willing reader. This book is not an easy read though. It requires patience and consideration. Empathy. Open eyes and open ears. Open heart and open mind. Realities that are too broad for newspaper headlines, too elaborate for teleprompters, yet elusive enough to be missed in the blink of an eye. Anthony is asking us, encouraging us, pleading with us, for our own sake, to consider, reflect, contemplate what makes a person who they are, the ugly and the beautiful, the good and the evil. Each thing has it's origin. Is the seed evil? Or the rain? Or the farmer? Or the very ground itself? We all too often accept the most basic explanations of the world, of society, of people, but the individual realities are infinite in their number and complexity. We hide behind our ignorant, externally imposed preconceptions of people, society, life. At those moments when we catch a glimpse of something truly real, really true, we panic, flinch, turn away, blink. We hide from that which might cause us to change the hard coded beliefs that come with 'maturity'. Anthony wants us to stop this cycle of stagnation, to face that which terrifies is most - that which we do not understand. This extends further than human interaction. It extends to encompass the entire sphere of human experience - when you are confronted with that which makes you uncomfortable, that which challenges you, that which you are most afraid of, face it! Stare it down without flinching and observe without the fog of pre-conceived thoughts. Try to learn that which you did not already know. In the words of Jiddu Krishnamurti:

"The whole of life, from the moment you are born to the moment you die, is a process of learning."

The blink hides that lesson that we don't like, that we find difficult, but this is not mathematics, science or language, this is humanity. Every person has the ability and capacity to learn and improve their understanding, if we keep our eyes open long enough.

Shalom

The most Jewish thing I remember about my childhood was singing 'shalom' in assembly with all the other Muslim, Hindu, Christian, Buddhist and Jewish kids.

"Shalom shalom

May peace be with you

Throughout your days.

In all that you do

May peace be with you

Shalom

Shalom"

As I write those words my eyes well up.

We would sing those words like a mantra over and over, and I can remember sometimes one of the teachers would deftly guide half of the school to sing a half bar out of sync with the other, creating a beautiful echo effect in the already echoey school hall.

"Shalom shalomshalom shalom

May peace be withmay you

Peace be with you

Throughout yourthroughoutdaysyour Days

In all that you indo allthat you domay 

Peacemay bepeace withbeyouwith you

Shalom

Shalom"

I loved singing that song.

Pain

The word 'pain' is very limited in the scope of its definition, describing an aspect of life that is avoided by most people. It is something we reluctantly endure when we must, and block out when we can with drugs. There is a lack of understanding because the majority of us dislike it, making it a core source of suffering. But pain is a sensation, like touch, taste, sight, smell and hearing. It is a message from ourselves to ourselves to communicate that something damaging is happening to us. It is a message, a loud and often aggressive one, that something is wrong. Therefore should we be blocking it out? If it is a message then maybe we should be listening and trying to understand the structure and meaning of the message, but we fight pain, are told to hide pain with drugs that we are sold in ever greater quantities and potencies. In doing this I believe we are stifling the communications systems of our bodies, and I believe, hampering our understanding of ourselves and slowing our recovery.

There is no limit to the different interpretations of pain, because everyone feels and interprets it differently, through different bodies and different minds, with different levels of tolerance and control over their reception, perception and reaction to this sense. Some people have undergone major surgery without anaesthetic. Many people induce pain upon themselves through various forms of self-mutilation as a form of ritual. Some people derive direct pleasure from pain. Some suffer pain but derive pleasure from their suffering. Some endure it to prove their worth to the tribe to which they belong. The categories are numerous, but the individual differences are endless. Pain is self-defined.

When we are children our automatic reaction to pain is to scream or cry. Perhaps this is an evolutionary defense mechanism to startle an attacker, or perhaps to alert a parent that their offspring is in danger. Maybe it is a vocal amplification of the sensory message we are experiencing. Whatever it is, we learn to tolerate it as we get older. A bang on the knee no longer yields sobbing floods of tears as we mature. A grazed elbow no longer puts us in as much distress as it used to. Once we grow up and realise that a grazed knee is not any kind of real danger to us, we brush it off and carry on with our day, laughing about it. What has changed here; the message, or our perception and reaction to the message? Think to yourself; does a childhood memory of the pain from a minor injury seem any different to the pain you feel from a similar injury today? I see no difference. It is only my experience that has changed: experience gives us memory and knowledge of pain, knowledge which allows us to react to it suitably. 

I have suffered from migraines for some time. Experience has taught me that I cannot continue what I am doing when I experience this pain. I must move away from bright light and loud noise and concentrate all of my attention upon my head until the migraine is relieved. The pain used to sometimes come on in waves, and the waves could result in my body tensing up, which I learned made the pain worse, so I learned to relax. By acknowledging the pain I found ways to receive it better. This did not make it any less unpleasant. More interesting perhaps, but I felt no desire to continue feeling such a sensation, so I resolved to find out what was the cause of my suffering. This led me to try stopping drinking tea, coffee and alcohol, of which I found coffee to be the cause. If I had simply blocked the pain out with drugs I would still be suffering, probably more so than I was, and causing myself further damage through continued consumption of painkillers and caffinated drinks. Anyways I think you get the point. This is an old post I am polishing off so I won't go on much further. I will end by recommending anyone in pain to acknowledge the message your body is sending you before drowning it out with drugs. 

Your body is talking to you. LISTEN!

Punch now, ask questions later

Just woke up and remembered a lad trying to start a fight with me as I got in a taxi last night. He was wasted and giving grief to some guy for being black so I told him calmly and politely to leave it out. The taxi driver told me I should have punched him.

I told the taxi driver that if I'd done that he would have woken up the next morning with a bruised face more angry than ever, and some other person would have been on the receiving end of his anger and frustration somewhere down the line, that it wouldn't have done anyone any good in the long run.

The taxi driver told me that he wouldn't have thought about it like that, that he would have punched first and asked questions later.

This is the problem with the world. People don't think enough. We often allow what we call our emotions to dictate our behaviour, usually at critical moments when logic and restraint are most called for, and we then justify it with 'I was angry'. This is no excuse. Anger and other emotions are much like alcohol. They cause us to behave in strange ways that we would not normally behave. They take control of us and jump in front of the rational thought processes that normally dictate our behaviour.

It is not easy to get in front of our emotions when they rear up. We spend our lives trying to keep ahead of them, and if we didn't or couldn't we would live like animals.

Our emotions are what we call instinct. The chemically induced contexts that take pole position in historically important situations of survival. They do not always act in our favour though. Despite the rigours of natural selection, the nature of the world is that mankind has evolved complicated social structures that relieve us of the literal struggle for survival. These social structures have arisen as a a result of conscious, logical thought, not instinct. Instinct is always there, in the back seat, but the driver is logical thought: Contemplation: Consideration: Imagination.

Headache?

Everywhere I go I see adverts asking me if my work is blighted by headaches. They show me pictures of suffering faces, getting sequentially happier as the advertised pills take effect. They say things like 'for lives bigger than pain', and 'to help you get on wih your busy life, faster'.

I don't know where to start with this one. I guess I'll  address the advertiser directly:

"No, my work is not blighted by headaches. It used to be though. Until fairly recently, for a period of 5 years or so, I suffered from terrible migraines. When they hit me there was no way to deal with the pain but to find a dark quiet place, wrap my arms around my face to keep out the light, and sit it out until the pain subsided. I studied the pain, listened to it, trying to understand the message that my body was sending me. That was an interesting experience. Pain is completely different if you look at it from a completely different perspective. After much deliberation and painful study I finally translated the message. It was a simple one: 'something is wrong'. I went to the doctors. I remember thinking I might have a brain tumour or something equally horrendous. It would be understandable after the years of abuse I had subjected my body to. Perhaps even deserved. I sat down in the doctor's chair and told him what was wrong. He didn't ask me about my diet. He didn't ask me if I drank water regularly. He didn't ask me any of the questions I thought would be simple common sense to ask. No, he asked me whether I was taking painkillers. I was pretty disappointed in him and responded that I avoid taking them as much as possible, as they do not deal with the cause, only the symptoms, that I wasn't getting headaches previously, I am now, so something has changed. His uninterested expression told me I was not going to get anything useful from him. He said that I should start taking painkillers, and if the headaches persisted to come back. I was disgusted. I left feeling disillusioned but determined to do something to try and stop the headaches. Over the next few weeks I stopped drinking alcohol, tea and coffee, and resolved to drink lots of water. My migraines stopped. Over the following year or so I went backwards and forwards, cutting out this or that and narrowed it down to the coffee. When I drank coffee, I got migraines. When I didn't, I didn't. I tried cutting down to just one coffee in the morning and water the rest of the day but my migraines returned, so I cut it out completely. I was afraid of doing this, as I, like millions of others, was psychologically addicted to coffee. I did not like the uncomfortable, edgy buzz that it gave me, but after years of drinking coffee all day every day I had adopted this illusion that if I didn't drink coffee I would be tired and lethargic all the time. The opposite was the truth. I slept better, I was more relaxed, and thanks to my replacing my caffeinated drinks with water I was now well hydrated all the time, and generally felt better than I had in a while." 

"So, in summary, no, I am not blighted by headaches. No, I will not buy your product which masks the damage I do to myself in the course of modern life. No, I will not stick my headache in the sand and pretend it's not there. I will listen to my pain, try to understand its message; why it is there; then I will adjust my lifestyle to remove whatever is causing my suffering. But I really appreciate your concern, and I am able to get on with my busy life, faster, now that I have stopped drinking that thick black liquid we call coffee and eating pills to mask the damage they were causing me."

Pain is a message. It is a message from your body to you. Try listening to it instead of blocking it out. It may tell you something useful. 

The Forty Fourth Blog Of Trig - Cannabis: A Letter To An MP

I have seen a couple of articles recently about your 'hard stance on cannabis'. Without meaning to sound insulting, I must assume that either you are completely ignorant as to the reality of the situation surrounding this hugely popular drug, or you are following some agenda that opposes the legalisation or decriminalisation of one of the most popular and harmless drugs on this planet.

 

In the last year I have watched a friend's father, a decorated veteran and successful businessman, destroy himself through alcohol abuse. I have watched people who have never tried class A drugs before do so because they are drunk and their inhibitions are lowered. I have watched people being rushed to hospital from drunken accidents. I have watched drunken fights. I have watched my father's youngest brother hobble round his home on a zimmerframe, in a worse state than his 90 year old father, as a result of the alcohol he has consumed. His wife divorced him because of his drinking, and he does not see his children any more because of this. He will no longer let anyone in his house because he is so ashamed of himself. Let us name this paragraph, 'ALCOHOL'.

 

In the last year I have smoked cannabis most evenings after work. I get home, take off my suit, sit on my sofa, put the TV on and roll a joint. When I am finished I put some dinner on. I might roll another while I am waiting. I will smoke maybe 2 or 3 joints through the evening, and go to bed about 11:30. I then wake up at 6:30, iron a shirt, put on a suit and go to work, where I advise investment managers on how to use our software. I am excelling in my job, receiving praise from many of our most difficult clients. I have an uncle (the oldest) who is 65 years old and does likewise. He runs a business with his wife, is healthy, happy, intelligent, and has been smoking cannabis (he tells me) every day for 40 years. If only his younger brother had done this instead of alcohol. The vast majority of my friends are the same. They smoke cannabis regularly, most of them daily, and they get up every morning and go about their lives. You would not know that they are cannabis smokers if you met them. They are professional, hard working, intelligent people. They are kind-hearted, generous, decent people. None of them have any more psychological issues than the next person, and I would even venture to say that they are on the whole a lot more stable mentally and emotionally than most people I know who don't smoke. Let us name this paragraph 'CANNABIS'.

 

You seem to have a lack of understanding about who smokes cannabis, why they smoke cannabis, the effect it has upon them, and the damage it causes. The reality is that PEOPLE IN ALL WALKS OF LIFE SMOKE CANNABIS, and they get on with their lives without issue. The idea that cannabis can be a 'gateway drug' is laughable. I have never smoked cannabis and been tempted to try another drug. When I am drunk however, my common sense is diminished and I am much more likely to do things that are out of character. When I smoke cannabis I am liable to eat more food and sleep better. Of course it is a drug and should be treated with respect, but cannabis is by far the least harmful drug I have ever taken, and I have taken a few.

 

Cannabis smokers come in all ages, all races, all religions and all social classes. You may know many of them and not even realise it. If you want to mark millions of people as criminals, as people who are a danger to society, for smoking a plant, YOU are the criminal. I am sick of paying prohibition prices for a plant I could grow myself. I am sick of people suffering and being given harmful drugs for the profit of pharmaceutical companies at taxpayer expense when they could ease their suffering immeasurably by growing a weed in their garden. I am sick of being demonised by people who are completely ignorant about the most versatile plant on this planet (cannabis/hemp). I am sick of seeing people ruin their lives drinking excessive alcohol, when they could be getting high on weed without destroying their liver and kidneys. I could go on and on and smash every single illusion there is about cannabis, because that's what they are - illusions.

 

I have smoked cannabis heavily for 15 years. I have a good job, a great social life, amazing friends, amazing family, I pay my taxes, and ironically the only time I have been arrested was for drunken disorderly. Your stance on cannabis is immoral, offensive, and damaging in many ways to the future of our society. Please do some research. Speak to people who smoke cannabis regularly and have done for years. See how they live their lives. They aren't much different from you

The Forty Third Blog Of Trig - Return To Barcelona Part 1

RETURN TO BARCELONA BABY! It's been a long time coming, but I finally made it back! As I write this I am sitting in the foyeur of 'Equity Gothic', a hostel not too far from Estacion De Franca. It is Saturday 3rd August 2013, which I think might be 2 years to the day since the end of my last visit! Not sure if that has any significance whatsoever, but it does feel like I've kind-of picked up exactly where I left off on some kind of solar/lunar cosmological basis. I have two and a half days left to play with, but I'm shattered from humping my bag round town looking for a hostel and it's always good to write about experiences while they are fresh in your mind, so I'll relax and describe the wonderful time I have already had in my short stay so far while I listen to some guy play some lovely guitar behind me.

I left London on a hot sunny Thursday afternoon, 1st August 2013. It was my brother's birthday a couple of days earlier or I would have come out sooner, but I wanted to spend the day with him so I put it off a couple of days. It was a last minute 'deal' from Easyjet, which meant I ended up paying double what I would have liked, but my heart was set on it, and my good friend Derrick from the CELTA course had told me that he was moving back to the US very soon, so I wanted to see him before he left. I had told him when I was arriving, and he had given me his number to call.

My flight left Luton at about 6pm London time and I arrived about 9pm in Barcelona. I had not booked any accommodation, intending to either chance it on finding a room in Barcelona when I arrived or hoping that Derrick or another friend could lend me a sofa for the night. If not, I considered the possibility of chilling on the beach for the evening, but that was not preferrable. The day of my departure I discovered that Derrick was the only one of my CELTA pals who was in Spain, that everyone else had left or just gone home to see family. Derrick kindly offered to put me up, but he was an hours train ride from Barcelona. He went to the trouble of checking train times and called me to let me know that there was one leaving at 10:20. Part of me wanted to just find a place in Barcelona then find my way to them Friday morning, but once I arrived I was pretty tired and had time to catch the train, so my decision came easy.

I took the bus into town and then took a short taxi ride to Sants Estacion, where I bought a ticket to Tarragona for about 15 Euros, which I have been told is expensive. There are different companies operating services on the railway and they have different prices depending on how fast the journey is. You can cut the cost in half if you are willing to add an extra 20 minutes to your journey. Sounds like a no-brainer, but when the last train of the evening is the faster, more expensive one, you take what you get.

I arrived in Tarragona just before 11pm, headed out of the station and lit up a cigarette, as usual wondering why the fuck why, and before I was half way through it, Derrick pulled up. I chain-smoked it down, again wondering why the fuck why, threw my bag in his boot and jumped in the car to give my friend a big hug, thanking him for being so kind as to pick me up, put me up, and go out of his way to help me get there. 25 minutes or so later we arrived at his home in a small town called Vallmoll.

The house was lovely, a nice family home. It sat right in front of a quiet road with a small pavement in front and fields opposite, with a backdrop of vineyards and typical Spanish countryside. There was a small front garden separated from the street by a short wall with a fence on top, and a gated driveway. The car parked in the small driveway and as I got out I was happy to see a very fruitful lemon tree above me. I thought they were limes initially as they were still green, but Derrick informed me of the former.

Derrick's wife Rosa welcomed us at the door. I immediately got a positive feeling from the warmth in her smile, and was invited into their home. Derrick showed me upstairs to the room they had set up for me. I dumped my bag and then went downstairs to meet their children, Amy, 6, and Aiden, 2. They were both gorgeous kids, and they soon treated me with the kind of affection that comes naturally to happy, innocent children. Derrick and I chatted until about 4am, remeniscing and catching up on the events in our lives, and just like when we first met, putting the world bang-to-rights. I went out for a couple of cigarettes during the evening, and was told to go out the front of the house so as to not disturb the dogs. I had an image of two loud rowdy beasts, but they turned out to be two lovely, friendly animals. Amy told me that they had rescued them from the street when they were puppies, which I thought was very sweet. Unfortunately they had to give them up before they returned to the USA, and I worried that they might struggle to find homes for two old dogs, no matter how friendly they were.

Before we went to bed Derrick and Rosa asked if I minded watching the children in the morning as they had to drop their car off at the garage and pick up Rosa's parents' car for the day. I was hesitant. I had no problem with watching a 6 year old. Watching a 2 year old who had only just met me the night before I was not too confortable with, but Rosa assured me that they would be asleep until late morning since they stayed up so late the night before. She was right.

When Derrick and Rosa returned, Derrick cooked us all a fried breakfast comprising eggs bacon and pancakes. Lovely. Rosa told me that they did not normally eat such a breakfast, so this was a treat for my benefit! They got more thanks for that. Rosa's sister popped in as we finished eating. She had numerous tattoos, and informed me that she was a tattoo artist. She stayed a short while, and after she left we all squeezed into the car and headed to Tarragona.

I was sandwiched in the back between the two kids, which with their kiddies car seats was not particularly comfortable. They both vied for my attention, Amy grabbing my left arm and hugging me affectionately and Aiden grabbing my left and taking bites out of me with a kind of childish feral excitement. Amy, only six years old, spoke to me in excellent English for her age, which surprised me as well as both her parents, as she did not normally converse in English. Rosa told me that Derrick usually spoke to her in English and she understood what he said, but that she would normally reply in Spanish/Catalan. It was quite amazing that she could speak English so well from hearing her father speak it, despite not having spoken it much herself.

We parked in Tarragona and went walking around the town. Tarragona was one of the major European cities of the Roman Empire, and this is very apparent as you walk around the town. Derrick told me how developers are afraid of starting building projects there as every time they dig down they find more ruins. Work then halts so that archaeologists can survey the area and judge what can be done to preserve the remnants of these historical landmarks. As you walk through the town you can look into many of the shops and see the original walls and sometimes the stone seats that once formed part of the enormous 14,000 seat amphitheatre. It is a beautiful town.

As we walked round the town, little Aiden rode his plastic motorbike, which he called 'Toto' (motorbike in Spanish is 'moto'), being chased by Derrick down every hill we encountered. On one of Derrick's longer downhill chases Rosa took me into the bank to change up money, as you had to have a bank account to do so. She deposited the English and then withdrew Euro, at a rate that turned out to be worse than that at the airport! MESSAGE: Don't trust banks.

As we approached lunchtime I offered to buy them all lunch to say thank-you for their lovely hospitality, but they told me we were going to the beach first since we had the late breakfast, then we would grab some sandwiches on the way to Amy's swimming lesson. I had made a mental note to make sure I did something to show my gratitude, but since they were being such gracious hosts and were politely declining my offers, I decided to make an extra effort to do so.

The beach was clean, the sand was soft, the water was clear, and the gradient in the sea was very slight so it was perfect for beach games. I had my frisbee with me (as I always do these days when the sun is shining!) so after laying my towel down I headed into the water to cool off, before grabbing my frisbee and throwing it deftly out to Derrick in the water. We must have spent at least an hour and a half throwing the frisbee across the waves, launching ourselves through the air and into the water to catch the strays. On one of these launches my sunglasses came off my head. They only cost a tenner or so, so I wasn't too bothered, but I walked a couple of sweeps along the stretch of water we had been playing in trying to find them, Derrick joining me. I had given up on them when a Spanish lad came over and asked if I had lost sunglasses, and that his friends had found some. I went over to the couple he directed me towards, said 'hi' and asked if they had found sunglasses, in the kind of pigeon English you find yourself speaking when talking to 'foreigners', making glasses over my eyes with my fingers. They shook their heads. I smiled. 'No?', turning to the lad who directed me to them and shaking my head, making a kind of 'I don't know' motion with my arms. He came over and spoke to them then told me their friend had put them on and gone up the beach to the shop. He came back shortly and returned them.
"Gracias!"

We left the beach to take Amy to her swimming lesson, stopping on the way at a lovely sandwich bar, one of a chain of restaurants that have won international awards for their food, and it was pretty damn good. I order burger with cured Iberian ham, and caramelised onions, eating it with difficulty when we were back in the car. Amy chomped through her food next to me while Aiden snored quietly on my right.

We get to an outdoor swimming pool about 50m by 30m, on a small hilltop amidst rolling green hills, very quiet and tranquil, with only a few houses nearby. Kids all swim lengths in groups of three or four as the mothers cheer them on or sit by and chat in Spanish. I relax and watch, popping out of the area for a couple of cigarettes. When the swimming is finished the kids play around and I go with Derek to pick Rosa's grandparents up, then we drive to the garage and pick up Derrick and Rosa's car. When we arrive we notice that thieves have stolen the covers from the side indicators on her grandparents car at some point during the day. The mechanic says he can easily get replacements.

We head back to their house, have showers and change. I ask if I can take them all out for dinner to thank them for their hospitality, but they are hesitant because of the kids. It seems as though they might decline for a while, but then they decide to take the kids to Rosa's parents place, which is an amazing country house converted from an old farm, down a bumpy rubbly dirt track. I meet Rosa's cousin and her boyfriend and say hello to her parents again. They have all kinds of mushrooms drying in the house, some of which Derrick tells me are very rare and sought after. I learn that the family have a passion for mushroom hunting, taking frequent trips to find them. I am told that they are frequently asked to reveal where they find some of the rarer ones, but they keep it a family secret.

We leave Rosa's parents' place and drive to the restaurant, after a short while heading down an unlit road much like the one that leads to their house. I feel like I am being let in on some local secret, as you would never find this place unless you knew exactly where you were going. We are driving for a good ten minutes down the dark track before we find the place.

Out of the darkness emerges a faint light and we turn into a rubbly car park with what I estimate to be at least 40 cars. This place is popular! We head through into the restaurant. The eating area is open to the sky and contained within walls covered with green foliage. I am happy to hear dub and reggae playing from an unseen speaker hidden in the foliage somewhere, loud enough to hear clearly but not so loud that I have to raise my voice in conversation. There is a lovely atmosphere.

As we enter, Derrick and Rosa speak in Spanish to one of the waitresses, who is surprised that they have turned up without a reservation. They know her as she is a teacher like them, but she also waitresses in the summer. We are given the choice of waiting for a table to become free or eating in the waiting area, which looked much more chilled. We sat down and it took Derrick to point out to me that the entire area was constructed of packing pallettes, even the seating, which had large cushions spread across it. I never would have noticed if he hadn't pointed it out.

We order a beer each and then look at the food menu. It all sounds very good, and we decide to all choose something and then share. I order 'coca bread pizza', which is a traditional Catalan pastry with raw pizza toppings: goats cheese, peppers, rocket and olives. Very tasty. I also order guacamole nachos for us all to share. I forget what Rosa and Derrick ordered, but I remember all the food being delicious.

When we have finished our meal I pick up the bill, which is surprisingly cheap given the quality of the food and the popularity of the venue. We only had a bottle of beer each and shared one after we finished eating, which probably explains part of that! We relax and chat about all kinds, I tell them what I have been up to in London the last couple of years and they tell me what they have been doing, and their plans for the future. It was a lovely evening and I feel happy that I have done something to thank them for their hospitality.

We leave and pick up kids, who are curled up asleep on the sofa. Rosa picks up Aiden, who is completely naked and out for the count. Amy wakes up and throws her arms up at me so I pick her up and carry her to the car. Makes me feel a strange sense of comfort, and I consider the idea of having my own kids one day. We drive home and all go straight to bed, ending a long but lovely day.

I wake up leisurely Saturday morning and start going through Derrick's large collection of E-books and copy a load of them onto my hard drive, everything from science, to languages, philosophy, cooking, gardening, and more. I spend a good hour and a half going through them, only getting about half way through before deciding I have enough for the time being.

I pack my bag up and tidy my room, then dump my bag down by the door and sit in the front garden with Aiden, who keeps picking his toys up and thrusting them towards me with a big smile, making sounds that appear to be randomly combined syllables. His happy confidence tells me that he knows exactly what he means, even if I don't!

Amy has been inside with a piece of paper and coloured pencils for some time, and she emerges with a big smile on her face, presenting me with a picture she has drawn. The page is decorated with delicate coloured swirls and red hearts, and has two people, a smiling man with a kind-of Tin-Tin haircut; me; and a girl with big black curls; her. At the top of the page is the message 'Ilofiu'. I cannot describe the feelings I felt at this sweet young girl showing me such affection. I can only say that it made me look forward to having my own children, and gave me a sense of how protective I would be of them, as I felt for Amy after less than 2 days in her company. I felt admiration and perhaps even a touch of jealousy for Derrick and Rosa having such a beautiful family. Seeing happy children really gives me hope for the future of humanity in this world.

I intended to catch the train to Barcelona at 12:40, but after a scramble to find their car keys, which Aiden had picked up and dropped behind a garden wall, I was aiming for the 13:20 instead. On the way to Tarragona we talk about the influence of the world's media upon children. We share a sense of disgust at the way children's social and emotional development is guided by television, and even if you have no television, by the other children around them, most of whom undoubtedly do. We discuss how a child can be excluded from social groups if they do not watch certain TV shows. This does not just apply to children. We discuss the influence TV has on children's perceptions of sexuality, which when you look at it, is hideous. Children grow up watching 'artists' such as Rihanna, Beyonce, Lady Gaga and others, parading their semi naked bodies in sexually provocative ways on TV throughout the day, and if you've seen the way young girls dance to western pop music, you cannot tell me it does not influence them. On the flip side, many young boys will hear some male Hip Hop stars speak of women with absolute contempt, glorifying the abuse of women as objects of sexual gratification no more important than a vibrating sex aid. People have been conditioned to accept these things as normal. If you don't believe this, consider how your parents or grandparents view such subjects, then tell me we haven't deviated from the morality they tried to instill in us. It didn't happen spontaneously. It was fed to us, and all along people involved in the decision making processes that determine what is fed to us have decided to allow all that is broadcasted. I think that is a very important thing to remember; that this is all a result of conscious decisions by people in positions of power. Follow that thought to its conclusion and you will find those conclusions quite disturbing.

We arrive at the station but are a bit early, so we continue our discussion at a park nearby while the kids climb about. We talk about how parents can guide their children and warn them about the things we have discussed without making them mistrust the world, and without breaking their innocence too soon or alienating them from you or the world. It is a difficult question. Not one that I feel I can answer, even if I was confident of one. I tell them I feel it is of paramount importance to be as honest as possible with your children. Every time they find our you have told them something that is not true, they trust you a little less, respect you a little less, and your guidance loses its influence. That is the best opinion I have to offer them.

We walk round to the station and I buy a ticket, before popping outside to smoke a cigarette quickly. Derrick joins me and I tell him again how lovely it has been to stay with him and his family, wishing them luck for the future and promising to try and get out to the US one day to visit. He tells me I will be welcome any time. I put my cigarette out, pick up my bag and head to the platform.

And so it's goodbye! I give Derrick a big hug and thank him again, telling him how lovely it has been to see him again. I kiss Rosa on both cheeks and give her a hug, thanking her for putting me up with her lovely family. I bend down to Amy's level and give her a big hug, thanking her for the lovely picture she drew, promising to come visit them in the US one day. Aiden looks like he doesn't understand what's going on. I give his hair a ruffle and say goodbye, then turn back to Derrick and Rosa and repeat.

I am leaving from the opposite platform so I head down the stairs and walk through a tunnel to the other side. The whole family waves goodbye to me from across the tracks and then walks out of the station. I feel quite emotional. The train arrives ten minutes late, and then I am on my way back to Barcelona again.

'Return to Barcelona: Part 1' - DONE!

The Forty Second Blog Of Trig - Torture

I expect there's lots of people who could say that they torture themselves psychologically. I think that perhaps if we were honest with ourselves we could all probably say that we torture ourselves to some extent. We torture ourselves with worry. We torture ourselves with fear. We torture ourselves with lust, jealousy, hatred and anger. We torture ourselves with regret. We torture ourselves because we do not understand these feelings we have named within ourselves. To understand them is to overcome them. We should study ourselves, our thoughts and feelings, see how they arise, understand them and conquer them. In conquering them we conquer ourselves.

I have sometimes consciously imagined my worst nightmares happening to me. I have pushed my mind to face my deepest darkest fears. It used to happen from time-to-time spontaneously, and it was something that disturbed me somewhat. Over time I progressively faced these demons, stared them in the face and called them out. As I defeated these demons, I found more ready to replace them, more difficult ones, and I defeated them too, but they just kept on coming, getting bigger and more powerful. I still have many powerful demons to defeat, but I believe that to defeat these demons is to achieve peace. I feel confident.

The Forty First Blog Of Trig - The London Stock Exchange

I can't remember much of my first day at the London Stock Exchange. My team was a lovely group of people and the managers were friendly and socially laid back, but serious when it came to the business. I was answering calls and emails from traders and their technical support teams when they experienced issues with the pricing and trading systems. I was lucky in that I had used the pricing systems before, but only superficially, and the Order Management System was completely new to me, as were the more technical aspects of the trading business, and the complicated mechanics of the London Stock Exchange. I asked a lot of questions of my mostly only slightly more experienced colleagues, which were usually met with helpful assistance, but one girl felt it necessary to complain to my manager D that I was asking too many. This was the girl who sat next to me, a good looking girl who was friendly lot of the time, but sometimes a little moody and abrupt. I was taken aside after a few short weeks and pulled up on my 'excessive question-asking'. I was not remorseful in my response:
"The way I see it, every time I answer that telephone I am representing one of the most well known and reputable companies in the world, and I want to reflect that. There is an enormous amount to take in, and I want to give correct and professional responses to clients, and to do that I need to ask questions of my more experienced colleagues to expand my knowledge. I'm not going to stop doing that until I feel more comfortable in my role. I've only been here a few weeks, and to be honest I'm pretty surprised that I have been pulled aside for this."
I spoke very honestly and calmly and D was completely understanding and professional as ever. The matter ended there. The girl in question ended up quitting a couple of months later. I don't think I was the only one who would not miss her.

As well as our day-to-day client support roles, we were each given additional 'projects' to work on, with Sales, Development, Administration, etc. I was assigned a couple of tasks by the head of Development. A very cool guy a couple of years younger than myself, I learned that he had dropped out of university to find a role at the LSE, going on to excel and find himself in a very responsible position indeed. It seemed that he thought a lot of himself, but I could not blame him. He was cocky but friendly, quite a joker, a nice guy. The tasks he gave me involved fairly repetitive data entry, so I analysed them to find the quickest way of completing them and flew through. He gave me another task and I did the same. I was thoroughly enjoying myself in the challenges of my new job, even the repetitive tasks.

After a couple of months I was settled into my role, and had laid the groundwork for some great friendships among my colleagues. A girl who joined the company with me was particularly down-to-Earth, and we had many interesting talks. She was educated in a Steiner School in Germany, but had moved around a good bit. Steiner Schools do not push children into academic disciplines until a little later in life; 6 or 7; allowing children more freedom to explore their creative side. In my experience this allows children to develop their individuality more than in the standard school systems of today, and this is often very apparent in their creativity and enthusiasm for life. She was very animated in her exclamations and very excitable, and had an awful lot of energy, running Zumba classes many nights after work. I wondered how she managed it.

The other guy in my team was a younger lad from Essex, a good looking guy who I expect the girls flocked to. He was very softly spoken with a calm temperament, very friendly and often very funny. He was quite reserved and seemed to be very thoughtful in the way he conducted himself, and there was not really anything to dislike about him. We didn't ever really get the chance to chat properly, just the odd few words here and there, but I knew from the little contact we had that he was a really nice guy.

Other than the girl who hated my questions, there was one other girl on support, a stunning blonde girl from Essex, but not your stereotypical TV Essex girl. She was very sweet and friendly, very helpful to me when I started, and clearly very intelligent. She struck me as the kind of girl who would do well for herself in the business world, and not just for her looks. She was engaged to be married, to my disappointment, not that I think I would have had any chance with her! Well, maybe I would, I don't know, but my out-of-this-world philosophies and crazy life would be hard to reconcile with her love of clothes and shopping.

The admin girl was lovely. A petite girl who worked hard and played hard; vodka was her drink of choice, on the rocks. She had a lovely smile and infectious laugh. She was a socialite with a down-to-earth attitude which seemed to be born out of a good bit of party experience. We got on very well and developed a great friendship in my time there.

Aside from my immediate team there were the product managers and the sales girls. They were all of different ages and all lovely, but very different people to myself. There were two ops guys, an intelligent younger lad who seemed a little uncomfortable in his shoes sometimes, but had a great sense of humour and was great fun to be around, and the head of operations, a very intelligent guy who had a good heart and a philosophical mind, but was obviously troubled by the stresses in his life. Just before my departure he took time off to sort out personal issues. We got on very well in my time there, and I was sad that I left before he returned to work.

After 8 weeks with the company I was asked into a meeting with D and one of the Product Managers, and told that they needed someone to take over the day-to-day management of a new business area the company was taking over, which was a telecommunications hub for brokers. They said that they thought I would be great for the role, which I accepted with pleasure. I tried to play it down in my mind at the time, not wanting to think more of it that it was, but it was quite a responsibility given the short time I had been working there. I would be first point of call for the technical support teams of banks and brokers around the world, to resolve connectivity issues, help with onboarding queries and liaise with the second line technical support at the LSE. I started the new role in the new year 2012, but spent December learning the ropes with a lovely girl from Greece who was there on a graduate scheme, and had been helping to prepare the management shift that the hub was undergoing. We came to be quite close, despite a couple of minor disagreements. I fancied her quite a bit and I think she might have liked me too, but like so often in my life I didn't do anything about it because of my crazy nature. People I work with see one side of me; a heavily filtered me, a me who puts on a smart costume every morning and acts out a role that I am payed to play. Friends and family outside of work know a completely different me; a more complete me; who some call 'Trig'. Trig is renowned for being, much more so in the past now, a heavy-drinking drug-taking wreck-head. I doubt that many people in the office would be as comfortable around 'Trig', let alone his much crazier friends. This thought has stopped me from asking many girls out over the years. My friends are very important to me, and I would not give them up for anyone, so any girl I choose to spend time with could not be at all judgmental, and be able to handle people who are out of the ordinary. All of my friends are extraordinary to say the very least.

A week after I started the job the 'Occupy London Stock Exchange' movement attempted to...occupy the London Stock Exchange. Police and private security barricaded the area, so 'Occupy' set up camp in the courtyard of St Pauls Cathedral and we in Paternoster Square were besieged by police and barricaded behind rows of security fencing, which was later to be constructed in lattice to fill the entire square. We received group emails saying that we should not engage the protesters, and that we should not talk to the press. I was not stupid enough to talk to the press, but no-one was telling me not to talk to people protesting on behalf of causes that I in my heart believed in. I enjoyed walking through at lunch and mingling with the crowd. I would go and sit on the steps of St. Pauls and listen to them conduct their daily briefings, at which they would discuss funds, tasks that needed completing, with every decision requiring confirmation by show of hands from participants.

I had an amazing chat with a guy from somewhere in Eastern Europe on the steps of St Pauls one day while having my lunch. We began talking about the politics, but ascended to the philosophical, the miracle of the experience of life and the lack of appreciation of it in the world. As we conversed he came to tell me that he had once been a bad man, that he had killed people, but that he had seen the beauty in life and the futility of negative emotions; fear, anger, hatred. He told me that he was once consumed by these emotions, and that he had been living in a self-imposed hell. He told me that he had ascended to Heaven on Earth through the realisation of the miraculous beauty of existence; just being alive; in the moment of reality; and as I observed his scarred face smiling up to the sky, I believed every word he said. The words resonated with my own feelings, and I told him so. It was a wonderful chat, a beautiful rolling moment of life. We exchanged names and I left to go back to work. I did not see him again.

I saw Charlie Veitch and Danny from the 'Love Police' on one occasion as I left work. They mingled with the Occupy protesters, but there was some kind of dispute going on when I arrived. 'Rich people are more important' read Charlie's sign, with a smiley face below it. An older guy who I could have sworn was Tony Benn was asking him why he thought the wealthy Italian Prime Minister Berlusconi was more important than the philosophical leader Mahatma Gandhi. A couple of rough-looking guys in Anonymous masks were acting quite aggressively and seemed as though they might attack Danny, but Charlie Veitch's tall figure might have helped to prevent that, and Danny ended up reporting that he was being harrassed to nearby police. Then Charlie gathered a few people and began to speak.
"Rich people are more important!" he said, "Rich people are more important, because they arrange the infrastructure that we all rely upon. They tax us to pay for the services we need."
There was no sarcasm in his voice, no hint of the irony that had come to be one of his trademark characteristics. But then what is sarcasm? Sarcasm is saying one thing but meaning the opposite. Orwell called this 'double-speak'.
"Who agrees with me?" He asked the small crowd around him.
"Yeah." - "Yes." - "Me." They replied halfheartedly.
"Who disagrees?" He asked. I put my hand up. "I disagree." Too quiet.
"You agree?" He asked.
"I disagree." I replied.
"But why?" He asked, simultaneously directing his attention away from me to indicate that the question was rhetorical. I had previously been a fan of his and supported what he was doing with 'The Love Police', but after seeing him sell himself out on the BBC documentary '9/11 Conspiracy Road Trip', I could take the man seriously no longer. His words sounded hollow and empty. He seemed to be playing psychological tricks on people at the behest of someone with a lot of money and power. He lost a lot of supporters from that documentary.

The Occupy protesters seemed on the most part to be intelligent middle class individuals, slightly tainted by a small number of angry disillusioned individuals and a couple of what appeared to be alcoholics with nowhere else to go. Nevertheless, they were well organised, setting up a 'university tent' full of couches and well stacked book shelves, a kitchen tent which cooked meals for the people there, waste disposal and recycling, and their numbers were initially quite impressive, but they decreased as winter approached. They caused disagreements within the church from their presence, leading to the resignation of at least one of the church officials in protest against the possibility of violence being used by the police to remove the protesters from the cathedral courtyard. On the first day the protesters arrived, I think it was a Saturday, the bishop of St Pauls asked the police to leave after they barricaded the cathedral entrance. The protesters were then addressed by Julian Assange, who gave an inspirational speech in support of all those there and the cause of Truth. I met a lovely girl at St Pauls for a date that day, as I wanted to check it all out. We then headed off to a restaurant for dinner after observing the protesters and ridiculously large police numbers.

While I was enjoying working at the LSE, a shadow was cast over me reminding me of the important role they play in the corrupt corporate system. One day we arrived at work to see a protest against the private security company G4S outside, highlighting their involvement in the imprisoning of Palestinian children in Israel, and their inhumane treatment of all kinds of people in their global dominance of the 'security industry'. I chatted to one or two briefly and took a couple of their leaflets, while our own private security guards and the sleepless eye-in-the-sky looked on.

I often wondered whether I was being monitored. I decided it was ridiculous to assume that I wasn't on some level. The LSE is a high risk target for 'terrorism', and someone like myself, with an outspoken and controversial online footprint, was sure to raise a few alarms. I was surprised that I had even got the job in spite of this to be honest. I would expect serious vetting for anyone who walks through those doors, and anyone with so much as a smartphone can find out a lot about me just by typing my name into Google.

I settled into my new role very quickly, and impressed the managers with my work. I liaised with the technical support teams of financial institutions around the world on a daily basis, assessing their technical requirements and helping them to set themselves up on our network and establish new connections. I updated technical guides, took on the responsibility for invoicing, reorganized the email system, produced reports on the Gateway activity and revenues, visited clients, attended two trade shows, I was a busy man!

My initial 6 month contract came to an end and I was informed that this was being extended another 3 months, as they had quotas for how many staff they could take on and had to justify taking on more staff permanently, which I found confusing as the reason the hub had been passed to us was because it had been neglected in recent times. My managers told me that they wanted me on permanently, but it was up to the guys upstairs. Perhaps they had searched my name on Google, I don't know, but my good work still earned me a very nice payrise with my contract extension.

As summer approached, my grandmother grew increasingly ill. Her Alzheimer's had reduced her to a shadow of her former self, and a couple of emergency trips to hospital drained what little of her energy was left. I remember getting up one morning to hear my mum screaming in despair that her mum had stopped breathing. She rushed off with my dad to her house, but the carer had managed to get her breathing again before they arrived. As her ability to eat and drink diminished, we knew it would not be long. My brother spent three months in India around this time, but we daren't tell him how close she was to death, just hoping that he would make it home to see her before she passed away.

My mum spent most of her time by her bedside towards the end, lifting her up to get water and nutrition drinks in her mouth, but the distress it caused her was too much for either of them. She slept most of the time, but occasionally she would wake up and say a few words, and then, the exertion of those few words exhausting her to fatigue, she would be asleep again.

The last time I saw her alive I went round after work. She happened to be awake, but her eyes looked straight through me and straight through the wall behind me. I held her frail hand and talked to her, and I thought I saw some recognition, and she started speaking softly, barely a whisper. I could not understand what she said, so I called my mum. She held her up and leaned in to hear her.
"You want some water mum?" She asked.
She called the carer in, who held my grandmother upright in the bed while my mum put a small surgical sponge soaked with water to her lips for her to drink. She drank, spluttered, coughed and cried out in despair; she could hardly swallow any more, and choked on the tiniest bit of food or water. I bit my lip to stop the tears and left her in my mother's care.

It was a Wednesday morning that she died. That morning when I got to work I told my manager that my grandmother was close to death, and that I might have to leave at short notice to be with my family. She was sympathetic and supportive, and said that if there was anything she could do, I should let her know. Within two hours I received a call from my dad to say that she did not have long, that she was hardly breathing, and they were certain she was about to pass away. I was glad to hear that my mum was by her side. I grabbed my things and told my manager I had to go, that I would be in touch later.

It is a strange feeling to get on a train with people going about their daily business, knowing that you are on your way to say goodbye to a loved one for the last time. Breath comes difficult. Thoughts come thick and fast in no rational order. Prominent memories are enhanced in their power over your emotions. Happy or sad, they choke and squeeze water from the eyes. I hold back tears with deep breaths. Remind myself that most tears are nothing but self-pity. The most valuable tears are those that cannot be prevented.

I get off at the station and my dad calls to tell me that nanna has passed away. Emptiness. He comes to pick me up and we give each other a big hug. We don't speak much. Silence in the car. Trees passing by the window look surreal. The whole world looks surreal. Unreal. We are at her house very soon. I embrace my mum and hold her tight. The last of her parents has passed. She needs us. I try to be strong but a mother's emotion is powerfully important to a child, even one that has grown into a man. The tears I have been saving fall down my cheeks quietly.

I go in to say goodbye to my nanna, but she is not there. All that is left is the body that carried her for the last 90 years. The body doesn't mean too much to me. Looking at the body does not evoke emotion. What evokes emotion are the living breathing memories in my mind. I think of when I lived with her. I remember when she would wake up in the night in a panic, calling out for help because she did not know where she was. I remember sitting with her and reminding her once again the story of how she came to live in that house nearly 30 years ago. Through the tears she apologises, and I softly tell her off for apologising. When she has calmed down, I put her to bed and she is soon asleep. The next day she has no memory of it. She tells me about her father. "He was such a wonderful man. The most wonderful man I ever met, aside from my dear Sammy."
She stares off into space and smiles. I feel the moment she realises he is gone as the smile begins to fade slowly. This is all I have left of nanna. The body in front of me is not my nanna. My nanna was a life, a soul, a spirit, whatever you prefer to call it. That body carried her life, but no longer. She resides in our hearts and minds now.

My mum's family arrives shortly after her mother's passing. It is a beautiful day, the sun shining down on the garden, glowing with the colourful life my grandmother took care to nurture throughout her own life. It was beautiful.

I send a message to my manager to say that I won't be in until Monday. Nanna's body is taken away and the funeral is scheduled for Sunday. Thursday my brother and I help my mother prepare her house for the wake. She is to be buried alongside my grandfather Sam, who was laid to rest almost 20 years previously.

Friday morning I get a call from my agent to say that my contract at the London Stock Exchange has been terminated with immediate effect. I am shocked, but not that shocked.
"You sound as if you expected it?" He asks me.
"No, it's quite a surprise, especially since they have chosen to do so 48 hours after the death of my grandmother, while I am mourning and helping my family to prepare for her funeral. I'm pretty shocked that they have done it with such lack of consideration. It would have been decent of them to wait until Monday and do it face-to-face."
"Yes, I heard that your grandmother had passed. I'm very sorry for your loss."
"Thank you."
"Did they say why?"
"They haven't given me any more information."
"I received my contract extension yesterday!"
"Yes I know, it is a bit strange. I think you'll have to speak to D to find out more."
"Well, I guess I need to find a job! Do you have any positions open at the moment?"
"You'll have to find out the reasons for your contract being terminated first."
"I understand. I'll let you know once I've spoken to them."

I call D but he is not available, and my manager K cannot give me any information as to why my contract has been cancelled so suddenly.
"Well K, it has been an absolute pleasure working with you, I wish you all the best for the future."
"And you Sam. Take care."

A few weeks earlier I had published a blog post about Barclays' and Glaxosmithkline's sponsorship of the 'Guardian International Development Journalism Competition'. I referenced a few articles I had found online about the recent fines they had received for such crimes as trading with brutal dictatorships and killing babies with illegal drug trials. This quickly became my highest hitting post, and remains so today. Within a few days I saw on LinkedIn that my profile had been viewed by a guy who was, if I remember correctly, 'Head of Internet Security for Barclays Plc'. This made me smile. Nice to know someone's listening! Very soon after I saw that my profile had been viewed by someone working for a large financial law firm in Washington DC. This made me smile, but I was also aware that this could put my job at risk. Sure enough, a couple of weeks later, I got the call I describe above. A couple of weeks after this, Barclays was shamed by the LIBOR scandal, possibly the biggest and longest-running financial fraud ever. No-one has been held responsible.

I believe this is the reason my contract was terminated, although other factors could have contributed. I often get into heated debates with zionists about the ethics of the apartheid-slash-ethnic-cleansing situation in Israel-slash-Palestine, and had received what I considered to be a threat from one person, who said to me, "do your clients know your opinions on this?" I gave a rather heated response.

I was disappointed at having lost my job, but confident that I would not have trouble finding another. I waited for the call from D to explain the reasons for my contract being terminated, and after a couple of calls to chase this, he called me. He expressed his sympathy for the loss of my grandmother, and apologised for the delay in his call. He went on to explain that my contract had been terminated for 'business reasons from above'. I told him that I thought this was strange, especially since they had chosen to inform me through my agent rather than in person, and while I was mourning the loss of my grandmother as icing on the cake. He again apologised, saying that they got the word 'from above' that my contract was to be terminated immediately, and that was what had to happen. I pushed for more information, and told him that I believed it was due to my online activity; blogs, Twitter, etc; but he denied this, saying, in a hesitant manner that raised my suspicions, that he didn't know anything about Twitter or blogs, that it was 'purely for business reasons'. At this point I accepted that I was not going to get anything further from him, wondering whether there was anyone else listening in on the call. I thanked him for giving me the opportunity and experience of working at the London Stock Exchange, told him that I had thoroughly enjoyed my time there, and wished him all the best for the future. He did likewise and we said goodbye.

And so I put my CV online and started looking at jobs. Sure enough, I found one quickly enough and started my new job a month or so later. On my second day I was devastated to learn that my good friend Liam had died. I'll tell you about Liam sometime.

I got a message from one of my ex-colleagues shortly after I lost my job saying they were sorry I had left and that we should meet up for a drink. I messaged back that I would be happy to meet up, but got a message the following day saying that we would have to postpone 'until things had calmed down'. I bumped into another ex-colleague after I started my new job who confirmed that they had all been warned against having any contact with me. It didn't stop them from coming out for drinks though. We chatted about what was going on in our lives and what we had been up to, and barely spoke about the London Stock Exchange. We still keep in touch.

Forty First Blog Of Trig, Signing Off.

The Fortieth Blog Of Trig - Necessary

"Shall we get some drugs?"
"Nah mate. It's not necessary."
"Hahaha, 'not necessary'!"
"That's right. Not necessary. I'm having a good time, you're having a good time; it's not necessary. We get into a habit of taking drugs to have a good time, and our minds justify it with the assumption that it is necessary, but it's not."
"But we're drinking alcohol, is that necessary to have a good time?"
"No, but we have chosen to meet up for a bar crawl. A bar crawl requires alcohol by definition. We could always do a soft drink bar crawl, but that requires a redefinition of the bar crawl."
"What about cigarettes?"
"Not necessary."
"Why do you smoke then?"
"Weakness of will."
"Well what if I am weak willed for drugs and want to get some."
"That's fine, but I don't want any. I don't feel the necessity."
"Fair play mate. I aint gonna do them by myself."
"Good. You gonna pass that joint though?"
"Noooo! It's not necessary!"
"Fuck off."

The Thirty Ninth Blog Of Trig - Woolwich Violence: The Facebook Response

"This country is disgraceful letting all the evil scummy foreigners in.the government needs to look after our own people first. Rip the fallen solider in Woolwich. Hope the scumbags rot in hell."

"It is terrible what has happened in Woolwich, but will everyone stop being racist until we know exactly what has happened, and plus not every Muslim is a soldier hating terrorist. P.s. I'm from an army family before anyone starts. X"

"What is happening to the human race?! And why are these men being cared for in a hospital after such a blatant and horrific murder? Hack the f*ckers to death."

"A few extremist's actions and thoughts are not that of an entire religion please remember that people there's to much hate in the world already"

"That attack in London is an absolute disgrace. Not a British National send them back, if we pulled that shit in Pakistan, Dubai, you name it there would be uproar"

"It's a lack of education and full understanding of the Islamic faith that leads to these kinds of acts and it's also unfortunately a lack of education and full understanding of all facts that leads to the statements and ignorant opinions that some people are posting. A lot of people on here could really use a few sociology lessons in my opinion. I am certainly not condoning any form of extremism or terrorist activity in any way but wake up people and do not judge an entire race or religion by the actions of a misguided few. I know lots of devout Muslims that are truly fantastic people. My thoughts go out to the family and friends of the deceased RIP"

"Why is David Cameron rushing home from Paris? Surely he can delegate sending non-lethal aid to the Woolwich terrorist beheader of soldiers? Aren't we supporting these people in Syria?"

"Fucking sick to my stomach about what's happened in woolwich. How dare them cunts come into this country and touch our troops like that , hope they fucking burn in hell. RIP the soldier who lost his life from this vile attack and thoughts are with his family."

"Cannot believe what my eyes have seen and heard... Woolwich attack and Stacey Dooley being bullied in Luton was wrong on soo many levels.. Extremist idiots who give a bad name to all of us people as humans regardless of race and reiglion... Their attitude stinks and also those who support violence and hate like that silly moron Anjum Chaudhry need to leave this country , migrate and preach somewhere else... We want to live here peacefuly with the rest of our communities without the fear of having barbaric extremists like them in our society.. I as a muslim condemn such attacks..I AM BRITISH and I LOVE MY COUNTRY... Islam means peace not war !!! And anyone who uses Islam to their own advantage to use excuses to preach hate and violence are idiots !!!"

"Broken Britain we want our country back all u scumbag Islam,Allah preaching terrorist arsehole's piss off back to your own country. Can see some serious retaliation from this."



RIGHT! Awful tragedy we have seen in Woolwich today. But I have to look at what I am seeing objectively. Where do I start...the BBC is saying it is a jihadist attack - the guy in the video is a Londoner. He sounds British to me. If you don't think he is, then you are thinking like a racist. I didn't hear him say anything about Allah, or Jihad, or Islam, or Al Qaeda, Iraq, Iran or Afghanistan, Pakistan, Libya or Syria or Israel. He rants on about how we need to get rid of the government, and the scumfuck media have leapt upon it as an excuse to make you angry and scared to pave the way for relinquishing more of your privacy and freedom in the name of 'security'. This is not a religious attack. It is not a racial attack. It is a brutal murder, by sick, violent people. Like the many other murderers we see in London. Like the kids we see stabbing and shooting each other outside schools. You don't see the whole of Britain up in arms about that. That is also racism. Like the apathy towards the hundreds of thousands of innocent people around the world who have fallen victim to the bombs of western powers. People are so angry, so appalled and disgusted that this one man fell victim to this horrible act, but read about a wedding being blown up in Afghanistan and shrug. And you're surprised that some people hate our country?
Look at things objectively. Beware of emotions that spring up from what is shown to you. Look, listen, learn, grow, and think for yourself.

UPDATE - I have been criticised for the paragraph above. The men who committed this crime do clearly claim to be on some kind of a religious crusade. One of the perpetrators of this crime have since called themselves a 'Soldier of Allah', which some people would use as an excuse to brand Islam as an evil religion. Muslims around the world have condemned the attack.

The Muslim population of Britain is 1.54 million according to the Office of National Statistics. 1,540,000. Two men out of these one million five hundred and forty thousand brutally murdered a British soldier in broad daylight on the streets of London. Why did they do this? The Telegraph says the following:

The defendant said the only reason Fusilier Rigby died was because of British foreign policy, and told how he had been “disgusted” by the “shock and awe” of the Iraq war.
“I was keen that the reason for the death of this man is not misunderstood. I wanted people to understand that this is only happening for one reason: foreign policy.
“It continues to be my hope that the life of this one soldier might indirectly save the lives of many, many people both in the Muslim lands and this country.”

So the perpetrators claim to have a righteous cause behind this vicious murder, one whose goal is to save Muslim and non-Muslim lives. As disgusting and insane this might sound to most people, this is what they claim was their motivation. In contrast to this, I am reminded of Anders Behring Breivik, the Norwegian who murdered 77 innocent people, mostly teenagers, on what he claimed was a Christian anti-Islamic crusade. He may have been declared insane, but at what point does it stop being religion and start becoming insanity? When you try to slice a man's head off in the street? Or when you shoot 77 people?

It is all insanity.