Who do you think you are?

This is one of those posts were I have no idea where it’s going, one of many. It’s such an obvious idea, but I find it really interesting. It’s the idea of family, heritage, race, ancestors and national culture.

I was watching a program a while ago called “Who do you think you are?” When celebs track their family tree - it’s a surprisingly interesting program. This week it was Barbra Windsor, the arcatypical East Londoner. Sure enough her parents and grandparents had been born and bred within the sound of the bow bells, but what struck me was when she went back a generation more and found that they have come from County Cork and Scandinavia.

I don’t know much about my family tree, but I can go back to my great grandparents on one side as County Longford shop keepers, and on the other side as county Down farmers. The interesting thing is, anything further back than that, I have no idea - for all I know they could all be Russian, Italian, Polish.

With that thought in my mind it strikes me as strange for anyone to have a over inflated sense of nationalism. Seeing themselves as ‘true’ English or ‘true’ Irish or whatever - even Babs Windsor is quarter Irish/Scandinavian. After a generation or two an immigrants family can be truly integrated to the point where they can even find themselves being jingoistic about their ‘adopted’ country.

I have a Czech friend who lives near me and it strikes me that in 100+ years our respective great great grand kids will probably just see themselves as English and maybe not even know our original nationality - and maybe complain about the Paddys and Poles coming in and taking all the jobs etc.

Were it is different I suppose is with skin colour. If I was literally green, with green skin then my great great grand kids would know that they weren’t originally anglo-saxons, and more importantly others would see them as ‘different’. If Obama’s parents came from Albania rather than Africa he might just assume that he could trace his linage back to the Mayflower - and it wouldn’t mater either way.

There is a nugget of something worth saying here.

Daddys can’t be trusted

A moving tale was regaled to me around the table at a wedding over the Christmas period. You know how it goes, no one at the table knows each other but there’s the one guy who’s willing to be the chatty one - everyone else lets him fulfill that role because it’s easier than trying to think of our own conversation. He did though weigh in with a story about his niece which left us all close to tears.

His brother was very worried about his eight year old daughter’s performance in school, she was good at English and reading but was continually failing maths. He struck upon an idea to inspire her, she loved Harry Potter above anything else so he wrote out a fake letter from Dumbledore to his daughter saying that she had been chosen to attend Hogwarts next term, all she had to do was to get a C in maths. He rubbed some butter on the letter and put it under the grill for a minute or two, then ruffled it up, put it in a fancy calligraphy envelope and sealed it with some wax.

When his daughter got the letter she was overwhelmed with excitement, running around the house ‘daddy daddy, guess what!? Guess what!?’ he advised her not to tell her friends in school because they would be jealous, but to just try her best to do better at maths, this of course, she did, studying every night to get better grades. Her dad kept the letters coming, from Dumbledore telling her that she was doing well and to keep it up, the problem was that she was improving so well that the implications started to register with daddy.

He’d no idea what to do, he knew his daughter would be gutted when she found out that she wasn’t going to Hogwarts. He decided to stop sending the letters in the hope that she would just forget about it, a forlorn hope as it was all she ever talked about. He started to subtly cast doubt on the validity of the letters saying that she should get her hopes up too much, and that it might actually be better if she didn’t go to Hogwarts. One evening she came out with it… ‘Daddy, did you write the letters from Dumbledore?’ so there he was faced with lying to his daughter, right to her face, the alternative was terrible too but he had no choice… he said ‘yes, but only….’ . It was no use, she ran up to her room in floods of tears.

Days went by and she had stopped crying but she refused to even look her daddy in the eye. She had told her closest friends about the letters who hadn’t really believed her and now she had to tell them that they were right. There was nothing daddy could do or say, she wouldn’t engage with him. After a week or so as they were having breakfast her mum asked… ‘Darling, are you alright? Daddy is really sorry, I think you should be friends again’.

She replied in a very adult voice… ‘Mummy, I think we have learned something… daddys can’t always be trusted’.

Barely a dry eye around the wedding table.

Mass Child Poverty?

A hundred thousand children in Northern Ireland are living in poverty, it emerged today. New figures published by the Northern Ireland Assembly also revealed that 44,000 of them are living in “severe poverty”. Committee chairman Danny Kennedy MLA said: “There can be little doubt that having more than 100,000 children in Northern Ireland living in poverty and 44,000 children living in severe poverty is unacceptable in the 21st century.

Not that I don’t want to believe the Bele Tele or indeed our esteemed assembly but, seriously? That can’t be true unless the meaning to the word poverty has been seriously degraded. To me poverty means the possibility of not having enough food today, no clean drinking water, living in a cold disease ridden squat, living on the streets picking a pocket or two, leaving school at 10, working down coal mines by the age of 12, parents dead from aids and your infected, life expectancy under 40 etc etc etc etc.

If any of these kids own an Xbox or can afford to buy McDonalds or have a myspace account… then as far as grumpy old me is concerned, they aren’t in poverty! Not because I don’t think the lives of people should be continually bettered, just that it completely downgrades the real poverty of children in Darfur, Brazil, Bangladesh, Angola etc .. it leaves people thinking aww those poor Brazilian street kids, they’re just like Jonty in Andersonstown who’s ma can’t afford to buy him a new iPod.

Relative poverty should be called something else, because I’m relativly poor compared to Bill Gates.

I wanna be like you hoo hoo

I’m not really a ‘Mr Angry’ character, if I was I would probably be a better and opinionated blogger. I tend to give celebs and people in newspapers the benefit of the doubt - saying things like. I don’t really know Peter Andre, who am I to have an opinion on him, likewise Jade Goody or Prince Philip. I say this as cover for the fact that once in a while a someone says something, or a story emerges that really gets to me and makes me into ‘Mr Angry from Bristol’.

My local infant school recently made the local Points West news over a teacher racism scandal. Click here to read the story on BBC.

I’ll paraphrase it. The school was putting on production for parents of Jungle Book, when the teacher was apportioning out roles, she asked the 7 year olds, who wants to be a monkey? Of course, every hand was pushed high in the air, and the teacher chose 5 kids. Two of the kids were black brothers (I mean they WERE actually brothers).

That’s pretty much the story. When the they got home they excitedly told their mum and step father (indecently their step father is white). At this point the parents hit the roof, and demanded an explanation from the school, and the suspension of the teacher. Why? Because it was racist to cast the black kids as monkeys.

There was a massive hoopla with BBC Points West covering the story for a couple of days and newspaper interviews from teachers and parents at the school.

It made me really sad. What on earth did these parents think they were doing. What exactly did they want the teacher to say… “sorry kids you can’t be monkeys because some idiots in the 1970s used to use monkey as a derogatory term for blacks”.

My son will quite likely go to this school in a few years, and it really annoys me the idea that he would come home from school asking why his friend Billy wasn’t allowed to be a monkey because he’s black.

The MOST annoying thing is, that the school seemed to pander to the parents, instead of laughing them out the school… or maybe make them attend some basic classes!

What’s that they say, political correctness gone mad.
There you go… once you’ve typed that phrase in a blog, you really ARE “Mr Angry”.

Celebrity Encounter: Rolf Harris

It was circa 1991, Harris was at his height, and Rolf’s Cartoon Club was required watching on a Sunday evening.

My sister and I were on a family holiday with our parents, waiting at the baggage carousel at Heathrow, when one of us noticed the bearded one. My mum at this time was in a wheelchair, and as you’d expect from grumpy teenagers, neither of us wanted to do the pushing – until that was, we noticed Rolf. I grabbed for the handles and pushed mums chair at break neck speed, the long way round the carousel to where he was standing. I tried not to look directly at him, lest I turn to a pillar of salt (or whatever), but deliberately steered the wheelchair at him.

Then he spoke. I will remember these words till the day I forget them. Wheel on through there mate, wheel on through.

yes,   wheel on through

Tuesday lunchtime’s alright for fightin’

A conversation stirred up recently about fighting as a kid, and whether I’d ever been in a decent fight. I’m not sure if it was an lead-in to try and convert me to some Fight Club esque underground cult or more of a general conversation starter - can never be too sure . I was transported back to high school, it was circa 1987, the Dukes of Hazard was on telly every Saturday evening, Aha were all the rage and Liverpool FC still won things.

I wouldn’t describe my self as a bully or a bullyee, I was one of the middle ground kids, not a complete sado and not in the really cool groups. Ok, I did play the flute in the school band… and ok you’ve forced it out of me, i was in the computer club, and ok I did… nope, enough!

There was one guy who decided to have a pop at me, take me out for a spin as it were, see what I was made of… he decided to concentrate on one thing, and stick to his game plan. I have/had a bit of a stammer so he just kept calling me M-m-m-monkey (substitute monkey for my real second name - I bet you’re shocked that I’m not Mr Q Monkey). He kept at it… all the time.

Lets be clear, even then, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass, but you know how these things work, he was taking a liberty and I couldn’t have that now… could i? So I went for a few counter punches… the you’re sad head shake and tut …. the boooooring jibe… the ignoring and pretending I didn’t hear him… even the your ma’s your da! (only makes sense in N Ireland - in fact, it doesn’t even there) … I then dealt out the pièce de résistance I know you are but what am I routine …. I kept this up for about a day - even though it made no sense in the context.

Then he escalated maters, in retrospect he probably regrets it, just as those Serbs who assassinated Archduke Ferdinand in 1913 probably… anyway… sorry … he stabed me in the arse with a compass. I jumped to my feet in second period English to deliver a soliloquy worthy or the great bard himself, im gonna kick your head in at lunch time! That was it, I was tied in, he was tied in , neither of us wanted to be, but there it was. Next stop Somme, Ypres, Paschendale (ok, I’ll ill leave the poor WW1 metaphors).

To set the scene, the bully in question (yes, bully! Lets call evil by it’s name!) was reasonably well built and I knew for a fact he been in a few rumbles before. I had no delusions that this was gonna end with anything other than me being beaten up - my only hope was that the dinner ladies steped in and saved me and I could summon up a look of phew, you’re lucky they were here or you’d have been in trouble.

When lunch time came I tried my best to play it all down, fight? What fight? I’m just having my lunch   was my line. But to no avail. A crowd was gathering in expectation and they wanted action. I was pushed to the middle of the circle as was he, strutting around looking relaxed like Ali in Zaire, I was more like rabbit in headlights. I figured one thing out - I needed to get out of there with at least one good thing to talk about, one good ‘did you see when I ….’ story even if I’m telling the story from my hospital bed. I resolved to get in one decent punch in his face, if I could mark him I could claim victory quickly before I was pounded to the floor… maybe even claim ‘fight over’ and run like flip! (rules like this DID sometimes apply).

First up we were pushed together, the crowd roared in excitement… come on , hit him… then the lull when they realised we were really just engaged in close hugging the occasional dead arm and nip. Then we broke up, I had my chance, I took a swing and caught him right on the nose, really, really well. He fell down and the crowd feel slightly silent. I don’t think there was any blood but I’d obviously really hurt him. It was great! But then, it all got weird, out of defeat he managed to successfully scramble for the moral high ground saying awww, what you do that for, flip sake we were only mucking about… then his friends joined in, then everyone did, tutting at me saying… what a physco, can’t even take a joke. To this day, I don’t get it, but sometimes it’s only fair to look at ones opponent with respect and say, I may have landed the only punch but he won the battle for hearts and minds.   A good lesson learned.

The husband people dream of

There’s never a tape recorder around when you need it most. This morning would have been a good time to have one, or at least some witnesses.

I was on baby duty this morning from 7am, leaving the mrs to lie in (she had done likewise for me yesteday morning). At about 9am i went out for a walk with him in the pram, got the Observer, then decided to walk a further 5 minutes to the local Zest cafe/bar. The wee man was being good, playing with his rattle and intermittnetly sleeping, so i ordered the Full English/Ulster Fry! The French (or possibly Polish) lady asked me where my wife was (we’re regulars), i said she was in bed, and i was letting her lie in. She replied, “aww, you must be ze husband people dream of”. Yes, yes i am.

I decided to leave it at that, and bask in the warm glow, rather than telling her that the Mrs had been up about 3 times in the night feeding and calming him down, while i rolled over and pretended to be asleep. I felt that would rob me of the moment a little.

NB: Picture is indicative, and may not represent actuality

Babies are a tough crowd

I’ve been given a wake up call on the merits of my comic performance recently… the more ‘gold’ I dish out to my 3 month old the less he seems to appreciate it.

Neither my lampooning of Mr Doggys wiggly eyes or my skit about the identity of his giraffe/cow mutant cuddly toy raises much of a smile. It’s like he’s saying to me… hey, HEY! Enough with that… make with the funny faces and the song about the moo moo cow.

I’m happy to refine my material

The Long awaited Simpsons Movie review

Yeah, was pretty good… as good as a good episode – ie really funny.

Not sure it was particularly enhanced by being on the big screen – but it didn’t detract.

Women and children first?

Something which annoys my better half (she doesn’t get annoyed by very much)… is when news reports of tragedies or wars go out of their way to talk about how many women and children were killed.

She finds this quite offensive that it’s somehow more sad or notable when women are killed than men, and that women are lumped in with children.

I never really thought about it – but does she have a point?

The anatomy of a swear word

Something that’s always confused me, was what public body decides what words are swear words and what aren’t?

I think its another one of those things, that when you have a child and you are getting yourself ready for some questions - you realise you don’t actually know why you know what you know. Swear words fall in to this category.

[warning: I'm going just type the full words rather than messing around with $%&£ etc]

When I was young, fart was a swear word, the correct colloquial term for flatulence was poof (poof is probably more of a swear word these days ironically). But now, when my son lets rip his mum says ‘ooh, was that mr farty pants’, but we wouldn’t dream of describing his poo poo as shit!

Why? But even shit has been downgraded, I hear my dad sometimes say it these days, but when I were a lad I’d have been in big trouble. Even crap was borderline.

I have a confession to make, I don’t think im offended by any word. By that I mean, by the word it self. I’m offended just as much if someone calls me a absolute idiot than if im called a fucking idiot. Further to that, im not sure I want to teach my children to be offended by particular words. Of course I want to teach them to be polite and respectful but do I really want to punish them for exclaiming Oh Fuck! when then stub their toe rather than Oh crap?

First of all, Oh Fuck! is a more expressive phrase, im minded to say its better use of the English language. I’m loathed to teach them that there is such a thing as ‘bad’ language - language is a wonderful expressive, beautiful and powerful tool. It would be like telling Picasso to keep painting, but don’t use a certain offensive palette of colours, or telling Mozart to compose, but never use the key of B minor,because it’s a swear key.

(i feel myself brewing up an other post on the nature of ‘offence’)

Suddenly, im a prolific songwriter!

Suddenly, im a prolific songwriter!

My son is only a few months old, and after trying numerous methods and voodoos to try to get him to sleep at night, I did the unthinkable, reached for the guitar.

It turns out I can improvise a fun, informative tuneful ditty at the drop of a hat – the early reviews have been positive!

At this stage most of the lyrics revolve around a farmyard theme, There once was a cow who went moo, his friend was a cat who went meaow….

You get the idea. An album may soon be on the way

Bustin’ wit the b-boys

In my school, like many others circa 1987 there was a corner of the green and pleasant land that was forever Break-Dance Alley! Every lunch time about 10-20 boys (all white as Jacko and Prod as Paisley) would congregate to show their skills. Some one would break out the, way too big to be practical, ghetto blaster and let loose some Run DMC (for ghetto read affluent and leafy south-east Belfast).

The real hard core would always wear light-weight grey and black Adidas jackets - and they were the ones everyone looked to get the party popping.

The more junior members would kick of first and it would usually involve, I shit you not, body popping. After the entrée was complete the real b-boys were pushed forward to the mat (bunch of coats) and encouraged to get out their bag of tricks. It mostly involved that thing where you do a bit of a crabs bend and spin around on your hands as quick as you can. It seemed to me that the amount of applause you got at the end was directly proportional to the aggression you put into your bad boy gangsta hand thrust.

The occasional nut-case would try to do the head spin thing. I honestly don’t think I ever saw anyone do it, and not really injure themselves. Some people would pretend to have done it, but actually they had kept their hands on the ground - but again, as long as they did a good gangsta sign off, they got some whoops and applause.

I myself, was frankly not cool enough to do it, I was more of a watcher. Still a vital cog in the whole performance I like to think.