A leopard and his spots…

So not murder then, no not murder at all. Manslaughter, yes; but out on bail awaiting sentencing in about a month’s time; murder must mean something else in South Africa.

Do they never learn?

The first time I saw Oscar Pistorius on the news he reminded me of a cheetah as he flashed around the running track on his blade legs. I had to admire his drive and ambition. In his place I might have hidden myself away and spent my life watching TV. Here was a very determined and focussed man, a man to be reckoned with when the need arose. In retrospect, and as it’s turned out, he had more in common with a cheetah than I realised at that time.

The cheetah can move faster than any other land animal and has the ability to accelerate from 0 to 100 km/h (62 mph) in three seconds – so it’s quick. The cheetah is also a unique felid, a one off; its closest relatives are the puma and jaguarundi of the Americas. It’s notable for modifications in the paws, and is one of the few cats with only semi-retractable claws. In other words the cheetah’s claws are always half out. When hunting, it runs down prey easily and almost every facet of its anatomy, even its camouflaged pelt, has evolved to maximise its success in the chase. Its purpose is to kill and survive through speed and wits – even though most of its predators are stronger.

Clare Balding wrote recently after Pistorius lost the 200m in the last Paralympics to Brazil’s Alan Oliveira, who beat him with only a few yards to go: “Pistorius was furious. Funnily enough, I did not think his behaviour after the 200m was odd. Just interesting. I have seen plenty of sportsmen react badly to defeat and for him to blame the length of Alan Oliviera’s blades was petulant and unsporting, but it wasn’t odd – except that it came from him. The stranger thing was the way he appeared at the medals ceremony the next day. The look was very ‘Clark Kent’. Oscar’s hair was gelled flat, he was clean shaven and wearing black rimmed spectacles. He bowed his head on the podium, saying clearly with his body language, ‘I am contrite, I am humbled. Please still love me.”

I know it’s an obvious thing to say, but it seems that Pistorius is a pretty good actor (I’ll leave you to crack the Oscar joke).

Just how this man has not been found guilty of murder is beyond me. His former girlfriend, Samantha Taylor, who dated him for 18-months, says he made her sit on a naughty step and would drive at 200mph after he flew into a rage with her. She said she feared he would kill her and even once hid his gun. She also claims that she was left with bruises and scars after he bit and pinched her.

So, Pistorius is cleared of murdering his model ­girlfriend Reeva Steenkamp because the judge has ruled that premeditation has not been proven. Apparently there was only circumstantial evidence of an argument and uncorroborated witnesses' statements count for nothing. I may be oversimplifying, but he shot four bullets through a bathroom door at ‘someone’ who was cowering on the other side. At close range and given it was an unprovoked action, how could he not foresee and want their death? In my book that is murder regardless who he believed the victim to be or not to be.

I still see a cheetah when I look at Pistorius, although now he is in the dock and not on the running track. This time when I look though I not only see a creature of great speed, but I also see a wild killer determined to win at any cost who keeps his claws half drawn at all times and uses his colouring, class, and even tears to camouflage the heartless killer he really is.

It seems the likes of bullies like Pistorius will never change their spots and nobody really expects them to. We should all hang our heads in shame.

Some more rubbish...

Of course before I left Wales I stood for a while by the field and watched the sun set.

Yes, those sunsets have begun again with the cooling of the evenings and the light fading so much quicker and earlier. I love this place with the long cottage in the distance, the crows sitting on the telephone wires as they caw to the sky above. I love those funny grey clouds bobbing on an ocean of orange-red. It’s a peaceful place, a place where nobody can touch me; somewhere I can be alone with my thoughts if only for a while. A place of refuge and tranquility and when the sun is going down, especially when it leaves behind something as spectacular as this, I stop worrying about the fools and idiots and simply breathe.

The frame is a whimsical notion. It seems to sum up what I feel when I am there. A moment in time like a photograph, a snapshot of a peace I know won't last, but at least I can experience for a moment. A calming moment in a beautiful place, my special place that I often go to even when I'm not physically there.

So, there you have it, some more of my rubbish which you can never understand. I hope that you are reading this.

You won't win.

The end of Summer...

So that’s it, the end of the summer and what a great summer it’s been. I’m sure that we must have had wet days but if we did I seem to have managed to dodge most of them. Of course, sharing my time between Cheshire and our tiny, dusty cottage in North Wales has helped this whole process along and summer has seemed like one long holiday to me. Four days in the shop, three days on the beach, three days in the shop, four days on the beach; all-in-all it worked out pretty well.

With time to do it I suppose I could have cut the hedges, instead we spent our time re-exploring our part of Wales. Going back to beaches and places we haven’t visited for years was a real treat, almost like discovering them all over again. Bardsey Island, Aberdaron, Porth Neigwl, Abersoch, Porth Colman, Bangor Pier, Port Ysgo (the beach in the picture above), Borth-y-Gest… Almost a different beach each day with cowrie searches (you can die if you don’t find one and if you find thirteen you have to stay on the beach until you find another), the watching of waves, the sound of the breeze in the sand. Butterflies, birds, hedgehogs at night, the bright moon in the crisp night sky, and almost twenty years of memories.

Food and alcohol played their part too. Well what would life be without wine? Picnics with hard boiled eggs and home grown tomatoes eaten from benches overlooking the sea, rolled and stuffed breast of welsh lamb roasted crisp in our dilapidated oven and served with roasted potatoes, crab and prawns, bread and soft French cheese, pasta and meatballs, sweet and sour fish, cider and beer, wine and beer, wine and cider, and black coffee – but only when I had to.

Yes, a good summer. One to remember I think in a world where it’s far too easy to forget how beautiful the scenery is and the fun of just walking along a sunny beach. Now it's back to the real world (well realish) with all its routine and getting there on time. Of course we'll still be coming to Wales, but not as frequently as of late; summer has gone you see. So, see you next year summer, here comes the autumn.

To the beach...

After being told that I should get a job and start living in the real world yesterday, I want to share this thought with you.

My job is to make the world I want and deserve a reality and always has been. 

Fortunately through hard work and good fortune I can live in the real world that I want without having to work long hours and feel stressed any more. It is called planning. You may have heard of it.

So to that idiot who called me on the telephone yesterday to impart such pearls of wisdom I say: thanks for the advice. People such as yourself are full of it but I'm off to the beach instead.

Have a nice day.

A voice…

‘Be a voice and not an echo.’ I don’t know where I read this but it’s stuck with me pretty much all of my life and having my say has become something of a necessity for my well-being. Perhaps that’s why I don’t really do politics or religion; I don’t want to simply echo somebody else’s view without thinking it through from my own unique and, at least to me, precious perspective.

As I child it seems that I was always being told to be quiet, to shut up, to be seen and not heard, and for a while fear kept me quiet. Not for long though, I soon realised that if I didn’t have a voice I’d be nothing more that an echo and echoes fade away quite quickly. So instead I took the blows, as Sinatra would say, and since that time I’ve made it a principle to tell people what I think even though it can be uncomfortable and risky at times. Over the years I’ve lost count of the number of times I have sat in meetings unable to bite my tongue.

These days I mainly voice my thoughts through my blog and Facebook, which can also be a little dangerous. Sometimes I know I appear to be completely off my trolley and I also know that I’ve upset people occasionally with my posts. Whatever I say though I try to make sure that it’s contains some clarity, reflects my beliefs and opinions, and is honest. I even try to include a little humour where I can.

Of course one man’s honesty is another’s insult and truth, as we all know, can be a bitter pill to swallow. But it has become very important to me to be able to say what I feel, believe, and (most importantly) want to say, without someone telling me to be quiet, shut up, stop talking rubbish, or that I’m being insensitive or offensive. Humour is another matter; my funny can be pretty dry, and I can easily understand how a lot of people don’t get it. Although it doesn’t stop Eddie Izzard do it? Maybe I should put a little (h) as a warning when I’m being funny for the humourously challenged out there.

You see one man’s rubbish is another’s wisdom and like truth that can be another bitter pill to accept. Similarly it takes quite a lot for me to take offence and I really don’t believe that you have to say nothing in order to be sensitive. I say what I think, write what I want based around my experience of my world (my real world no less), and won’t shut up when I’m told to. Why should I? I have the right to my voice whether you approve or not, just as you have yours if you care to use it.

Over the years this has got me quite a lot of trouble but at the same time I believe that it has been key to whatever small achievements I may have made. Expressing myself, regardless of what people think, is something I am driven to do. I’d be no good at all in Iraq or North Korea (or alive); even America was a little bit of a struggle. I have to have my say; it’s a kind Tourettes, except I’m controlling it and not the other way around – at least sometimes.

Thank God I live in a country where freedom of speech is still given at least a passing nod, although I worry that increasingly the government and police try to dumb us all down and make our views as vanilla as possible. Or is that simply paranoia?

Well, it does run in the family.

Without wishing to offend anybody in particular: at least I’ve had my say and you can lump it or like it, I really don’t care. If you don’t like what I say then feel free not to read or unfriend me if you want, I’ll survive. You see you can only change my mind by presenting me with new information that I agree with – and if you can’t do that, then I really don’t need you to listen and I don’t have to fucking listen to you (h).

Oh dear, call the police, I swore again. See, I told you that I had a form of Tourettes.

Bad pennies…

Here it is empty and abandoned, the rot eating away its wooden structure, the paint peeling and flaked. Yes, here it is; my trusty old kiosk on Bangor Pier. I used to come here to play at shops, although halfway across the Menai Straits is a funny place for a shop. The wind was always blowing a gale, but me being me I only really remember the sunny days. I used to enjoy sitting in my very own miniature pavilion like a pretend George IV. I filled it with windchimes and handmade gifts, and occasionally I’d even sell something. Looking at it so unloved and unwanted on a grey September day - the sea lapping at the pier stanchions below - I felt quite sad; like I’d lost something.

Which of course I had.

Alan, the chap who sells wooden gifts from the kiosk at the front of the pier, told me that there are plans to refurbish my old friend. They’ve already repaired and patched up a few of the others and at some time it will be my kiosk’s turn. He didn’t know when, but it was ‘on the cards’ he told me.

On the cards…

For a moment I thought about contacting the council and asking to rent it all over again, maybe even buying that big terraced house overlooking the pier that the estate agent’s window described as having development potential. From my house on the hill I could look down on my tiny empire and in the mornings - come rain, shine, grey, or even snow - walk the boards to open my mended and polished kiosk of delights. Just a fleeting thought, that’s all it was. But it made me smile for a moment or two.

Of course, there’s never really any going back and to be honest my time on the pier ended quite badly. But then, anything involving my parents always does. After they’d muscled in there was nothing left for me in my kiosk but frustration and argument, and that was why it took me so many years to pluck up the courage to return.

So, last Monday I returned without fanfare and on a whim. I didn’t stay long, just time to walk the length of the pier and back and have a chat about old times with Alan and his wife Wendy. It seems I missed a lot of fun after I left, a kind of pier kiosk price war concerning crabbing apparatus and bait. Afterwards we went into Bangor Town itself, the first time in three years or more, and who should I see in the Carphone Warehouse, like grey clouds on a sunny day, but the dream thieves themselves - not quite Mr and Mrs Shouty, they are figments of my imagination and bear no resemblance to any persons living or dead. Maybe that proves that coincidence is always just around the corner and that what they say about bad pennies is true. Anyway, that night I dreamed about the pier. I won’t go into the details, but I did buy that house and rent my kiosk again and again it ended badly. In the morning when I awoke I decided that it would remain a dream.

Mind you... I have been known to change my mind.

Not quite a Dali giraffe...

Hell’s Mouth once again, my first visit this year, and not as much wash-up on the beach which is unusual and, for me, a little disappointing.

The weather was glorious and I’d planned to build my Dali giraffe as a last act in a wonderful summer. My Dali giraffe a dream come true. I could almost smell it burning as I stepped onto the beach.

I looked around… What was going on? Where was all the usual rubbish that washed up on this magnificent beach? Hell’s Mouth without a tumble of flotsam and a tangle of jetsam - it simply wasn’t right.

Maybe it was because of the great summer weather and the lack of high winds that came with it. Either way, there were hardly any beach animal building materials to be seen. Sometimes after a storm you can’t move for washed up planks, plastic bottles, oil drums, and the odd bright orange rubber glove or twenty. But with no storms for a quite a while  now, the beach was practically detritus free.

‘Drat’, or something very much like it, I thought as I searched for the makings of the fabled giraffe. If I could only find five decent lengths of plank and an oil-drum my giraffe would soon become a reality. Even four lengths might have done, I’m sure I could have fashioned a neck from six or seven plastic bottles and a length of pipe.

After twenty minutes of combing all I’d found was a long steel spike and a motley array of twiggy branches. Not a single oil drum, no plastic bottles, not even a rubber glove was in evidence. Perhaps the beach fairy had come one evening and made the beach all sparkly clean.

Not to be defeated I decided that if there was to be no giraffe this time then the least I could do was try and make some sort of animal sculpture. So I did the least I could do and managed to contrive this rather pathetic fellow. His legs are twigs tied together with twine, his rather droopy neck a length of bendy pipe and his body some old washed up string. I call him ‘not quite Dali’s giraffe.’  The best that I could do in the circumstances I’m afraid.

I reached into my pocket for my lighter and then decided that he was too sad to burn. I could wait for the full giraffe to see my dream realised and a giraffe a la Dali blazing away on the beach. So I left him to his water bucket and walked away.