Time Travel

I watch many varied things on the TV whilst on my exercise bike for a couple of hours every day. Often my mind wanders depending on what I am watching.

Whilst watching some crap about time travel I started to think of where I would go and who I would visit if I could go back in time for an hour or two. I'd probably go and see my mother before she met my dad but that might end up with me not existing to be able to go back to visit my mother before she met my dad. Of course, if I didn't exist I couldn't have gone back in the first place to cause whatever it was that stopped me existing in the first place.It gets quite confusing if you think about it too deeply.

One scenario I gave thought to was "what would I say to the Beatles if I met then in, say 1966 and had an hour just to chat?"

If you can imagine the scene, you've chatted about the music and yourself and, being open minded people, they accept that you are from the future and inevitably want to know what it holds in store for them.

John: You have a crazy few years John. You meet a Japanese woman who is famous for letting people cut off her clothes with scissors until she is naked on stage. She seems to be the only woman in the UK who says they have never heard of you. You fall madly in love with her and bring her in to all the recordings you do with the group. The lads get pissed off with this but you don't care and you get married and have a honeymoon inside a bag in a room in the Amsterdam Hilton. You make an L.P. where you're both photographed bollock naked for the cover. One side of the L.P. is your wife wailing as she has a misscarriage. Eventually you move to the US and she gets a bit bored of you so she sets you up with a young Japanese woman who you move in with for a year or two. Eventually she gets fed up of him and orders you back and you have a son who ends up quite talented. In 1980 a fan shoots you and you die on the way to hospital.

George. You get more and more frustrated that you don't get your songs on the albums and you eventually bring out a triple album of your own which is critically acclaimed. This is after you write two songs for the final Beatles album, one of which becomes probably the most popular Beatles track of all time. Eric Clapton falls for your mrs. and buggers off with him. You get deep into Indian culture and spirituality. You meet an attractive, unknown woman who you marry and have a son with. In 1999 a lunatic breaks into your house and stabs you seven times. Eventually you overcome him with the help of your wife who hits him over the head with a poker and an antique vase. Sadly, possibly caused by years of smoking you have various types of cancer and eventually it takes you away in 2001.

Paul. Fuck me. Are you ready for this? After many happy years of marriage your first wife dies and you marry a one legged escort girl who eventually takes you for 25.5 million when you divorce her.

Ringo. In my time you're still Ringo but with dyed hair.

How times change.

In 1920, Irish rebel leader Michael Collins ordered the murder of police inspector Swanzy in Lisburn, Northern Ireland as they received intelligence that he was passing information regarding natonalists over to the army and, in particular, the Black and Tans.

Swanzy was shot dead outside church on August 22nd 1920. My grandmother was preganant with my dad but, outside the church were five of her kids who all witnessed the murder. One ran home telling her that she had seen the police chief being killed and his “puddings” were all spilling out.

Riots followed and many catholic houses were ransacked or burnt out as well as over thirty bars in the small town. Most catholics were sacked and could only return to work of any kind if they signed an allegiance to the crown. The whole time became famously known as the Lisburn burnings.

My grandad lived on Canal Street. The canal ran by the road end and every house but his was ransacked and the belongings thrown into the canal. As they reached his house someone shouted “George Campbell lives there and he fought in the war” The house was spared. A day or two later they were paid a visit by the local IRA. They said they knew why his home was untouched but there were rumblings from others and he had better be careful. He had, of course, also lost his job.

The same day, he saw an advert for Mill workers in Vierzon Forges in France in the local press. He took himself off to France, not speaking any French, got a job, came back and, Grandma, Granddad and six kids all moved to France.

There are a legion of stories that followed that would fill a book but the best one for me involves my dad. There is a famous hotel in Corneville in Normandy, where they had moved to (they moved many times) by the time he was five or six. This would be around 1926. My dad and a friend used to fish trout from the two local rivers and sell them to the chef at the hotel.

One day they were outside the hotel and a car pulled up. They were lucky if they saw one car a day. My dad heard the couple talking and realised they were English. The man got out of the car and asked my dad, in broken French, for directions. My dad answered him (he was of course a fluent french speaker) in English, with an Irish accent. The man just stood and stared back in astonishment, not understanding why some scruffy french street urchin had spoken to him in English. He scratched his head and drove off with a bewildered look on his face.

This generation is the last of its kind. When the last one is gone, they will be sorely missed

Just back from a visit to see the old feller. It's fair to say it was a little contentious.

After lively discourse explaining why we were there on a Tuesday (I was not aware that he had introduced an appointments system for visits) a sigh changed the direction of the conversation

Apparently I'd be as miserable as he is when I get to 95 (God forbid either eventuality) if my knees were as bad as his. At this juncture I pointed out for the umpteenth time that he refused operations for replacements some 15 years ago as "it wasn't worth it at my age" He replied with pointing out there there is nowhere in this place where he could hang himself. I checked and he was correct. I confirmed that the ceiling wasn't strong enough to take a hook and his bad knees would prevent him from climbing onto a chair anyway. He gave me a death stare.

Trying to be helpful I suggested to him the same outcome could result if he stopped taking the 20 plus pills he takes. "Bloody pills" he replied "They're useless. I have no idea why I take them". I asked him if he still had the epileptic fits. "What fits" he replied. "I've never had any fits". Janet and I then spent a few minutes describing the effect they had on him but he had no recollection of ever having them. We were wrong. The pills must work. To try and lighten a gloomy mood and lower my blood pressure (the room was now boiling hot) I asked him if he had any idea where his letter to his parents was, the one that he wrote during the war. After a few moments thought he said "You mean the one I sent from Italy?" "Yes" I replied. Da (His father) has it"

I pointed out that his dad died in 1963. He said that was the last time he heard about it. I pointed out I read it about five years ago when he lived in the flat. He asked me which half of the letter I had read. The part his dad had or the missing part. It took me a while to explain that I would have some difficulty reading the missing part. He called me a bloody idiot. He then said that Geordie (his brother) had it. I pointed out that Geordie had been dead for over ten years. After his reply to that I also had to remind him that Paddy was dead. I gave up on the letter. A typical visit to the home.

I just watched the James Randi documentary for the second time. Randi is a magician and escapologist who has performed for over 60 years.

In the 1980's he was appalled by the number of psychics who were fleecing the public with faith healing and fortune telling. He set out to expose them and made himslef very unpopular with a 100% record of exposing fraud putting many lucrative careers out of business.

He particularly loathed Uri Geller and famously set him up to fail his psychic tests live on the Johnny Carson show. Geller failed miserably and the show ended in chaos as Geller advised Carson that "He wasn't feeling it tonight" so he couldn't go on.

Geller went on to receive substantial funds from the American psychic research facility who then announced he was the genuine article. Scientists subjected him to rigorous testing and Geller passed them all.

An extemely pissed off Randi then infiltrated the organisation and trained two young magicians to perform all the Geller tricks. They were tested and tested by scientists who also pronounced them as genuine psychics.

Randi exposed the fraud on national TV but, rather than admit they had been fooled, they took the Geller line that Randi too was a mystic but didn't realise it.

The whole point of this post is how similar it seems to the modern religion of man made climate change. Scientists have made up their minds and nothing short of a milenium long ice age will change this.

It seems, the higher the IQ, the easier it is to fool people.

World Cup 2030

The voting has taken place at FIFA headquarters in Iran and outsiders Saudi Arabia have won the rights to the 2030 tournament. There were claims of racism after a newspaper poll found that every single delegate had voted for them. By a weird coincidence, all the delegates had at least one hand missing.

FIFA president Sam Allardyce, who earlier described his presidency as his "dream job" said, he was delighted at the result and, at the same time denied rumours he was now at number nine in the Forbes list of the 20 wealthiest men in the world.

If England get through their difficult qualifying group alongside Andorra, Brunei Darussalam, Macau and Bingley, captain Wayne Rooney says he is confident England will progress to their usual place in the quarter finals before being elimininated by the lowest ranked team still in the tournament. Rooney, who will be 45 when the tournament kicks off, also guarantees that he will add to his tally of goals for his country despite not having scored since 2016.

England sponsors, Stannah Stairlifts, are pouring money into youth football to bring down the average age of the England team in the hope that fresh talent will emerge. England vice captain, Wayne Rooney, fully supports this move though warning that the old brigade won't give up their positions without a fight. Rooney has come under fierce scutiny since he was appointed England manager and appointing Vera O'Flynn, a ninety two year old former masseuse, as the team physio.

Early betting puts the hosts Saudi Arabia as favourites, followed by Kuwait, the UAE and Allardyce Rovers, who qualified without playing, in a secret ballot.

One of the BBC's Christmas highlights is a new episode of Sherlock. I really enjoyed the previous series, second only to the great Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce who will never be bettered.

Despite this, I don't think I will enjoy it as much as before. Instead of seeing Sherlock, I will see Cumberbatch preaching and sneering at people who don't share his lovey views on the world and how we should be managing it.

I won't see Watson but, Martin Freeman telling us how the Labour Party and, Ed Milliband in particular, were the only choice to take the country forward and rid us of the misguided people who think that socialism isn't the great answer to everything.

I am sure they are perfectly decent people but, they should stick to what they do best, pretending to be someone else. If they want to be politicians, drop the day job and try to earn a living as a politician. I doubt the money would tempt even their social consciences.

Grannies in the groove

My dad moved into a care home a few weeks ago as it was no longer safe for him to live alone. This follows on from my late mother who moved into a brilliant care home some years earlier as her memory disappeared with dementia. We knew the time had come for her when my dad fell in the bathroom and lay on the floor, wedged between the toilet and the wall for over twelve hours without my mum noticing he was even missing. Making him tea with cold water or gravy browning was one thing but this was a step too far.

What brought this to mind was looking at a notice board in his new home and seeing various events for the residents lined up. These included horticultural lessons, talks from guest speakers and music and dance. Anyone who knows my dad will realise that this notice is of no interest to him as he makes a hermit living in a cave look social by his standards. With my mother it was different. She loved the weekly sing songs and the dancing. It took her back to her youth and she was a young woman in her head for a short time.

She could never remember what music had been playing when I asked her but other residents told us that it was mainly war time stuff with Vera Lynn and Glen Miller type favourites. Of course, all the old ladies loved these and looked forward to them every week. Occasionally there was a comedian who would tell jokes going back to the period they knew best. This got me thinking.

Move forward a decade or two and what will it be like when the children of the 1950's are in the homes. What will the entertainment be then? It will be no good playing "we'll meet again" to them as that will be the music of their parents. Can you picture the scene? In comes the entertainer. He sets up his equipment and seconds later blasts out "One two three o clock four o clock rock and all the grannies stagger to their feet and start jiving around the room. The older gents will try their best to curl their top lips like Presley without, hopefully, their top set of dentures falling out. St John's ambulance will be outside to give oxygen and take care of dislocated hips. The cooler women will sit and hand jive whilst the teddy boys will snarl and look on with disdain.

Move forward another decade and we will have old men head banging bald heads to America by the Nice and playing air guitar to 21st century schizoid man. The folkies will try and squat on the floor when Dylan is on and aggravate pleurisy by attempting to smoke a joint after breaking a finger or two whilst rolling it. The old mods will glare at the old rockers whilst hippy grannies try to dance naked to Jefferson Airplane. The local hospital will have a deluge of dislocated hips after every Chubby Checker record.

The next decade will all dig out their flares and apply copious amounts of make up whilst getting down to Bowie and Bolan. Old men will relax back in a chair listening to "Tales from Topographic Oceans" and criticize others for "not getting it". The younger end will jump to their feet at the first hearing of. "God save the queen, it's a fascist regime" and old ladies will have the safety pins removed from their knickers and stuck through their top lips. Men with three hairs will cough up a lump of gunk and spread it through them to get an authentic punk look. And what about the comedy? Will they laugh at a Bernard Manning tribute act when a fat old bloke comes on and starts telling jokes about Pakis?

You can take this as far as the next decade where there was still a definite style. Young romantic old folk dressed like Steve Strange and cursing Joe Dolce for keeping "Vienna" from number one. I can see in my minds eye the DJ playing the gap band and all the old folk sitting on the ground rowing and then having to sit there and piss themselves waiting for the carers to come in and pick them up. Worse still, how about a granny twerking!

I have given you a glimpse of your future. Be prepared.