Blogs

I was sent a youtube video by someone I know who works in a school. It took me a while to view it being busy busy but I am glad I did. It was a speech by Sir Ken Robinson called "Do Schools Kill Creativity" and Sir Robinson has earned himself a place under Billy Childish in my very short list of creativity / expression supporters.

Do you think you cant draw, write, sing, dance because you have no talent or is it that your teacher said you couldnt when you were at school? It is a great lecture with plently of spashings of humour.

From my own experience, I took art at 15 and got an F. Why? I was never given the opportunity to explore the materials, the brushes, the colours, given an open subject etc. Everything had to fit in a box. If you can't draw a an apple well, you can't draw. If you can't paint a skyline, you can't paint, etc.

When I decided to try to paint when I was thirty, I threw all this "knowledge" out the window and started over. I found I could paint and enjoy it. Found the narrow tip brushes like the ones we used at school didn't suit me but large flat brushes and large canvasses did.

Creativity does not live in a box. It is a free flowing form. Everyone can paint, sing, write, dance or whatever the only thing which holds us back is teachers or critics voices saying "No you can't", which cripples us with the fear of failure.

I am pleased to say I fail as I succeed. I am not perfect nor do I wish my creativity to be prefect for it is a reflection of life. I do not live in boxes, my art is free, imperfect and true on the same line which drove primitive man to express creativity.

Never fear failure, embrace it for it is a success in it's own right.

I was not awake yesterday or maybe I was but wasn't paying attention. I say this for two very good reasons which only became evident when I got home on the night.


One
I got home from work, took off my jacket, tie, shirt and undid the belt on my trousers.

Then undid a second belt on auto pilot.

I paused.

A second belt? Eh? Maybe I was turning into the Karate Kid with two black belts... My belly making a break for it in it's newly found freedom put an end to that idea.

The last Stag night I went on featured a little mystery. We ended up in the Rocket Club (<- careful how you click that one..)

The mystery occurred when I went to the bar to order another drink.

"Bottle of Becks, please", I said wondering if I was slurring yet but no I was fine. I felt drunk but the world wasn't spinning.

A few months a go, Mr Spammer hit one of our email accounts at work with a message a second for about 2 hours. Rather than the user get bombared with junkmail notifications, the offending email account was taken outside and shot, then replaced with a nice sparkling new one.

Now having installed spamfiltering levels akin to an overzealous bouncer on crack who thinks you have been sleeping with his girlfriend, mother and pet dog, the old email address has been ressurected from the dead with IT Voodoo and reinstated to the user.

I completed an update yesterday or rather I delegated it to Monkey, who negotated a suitable fee in bananas and visits to the local monkey house at the zoo for what Monkey called recreational purposes...

After buying 300lbs of bananas and fielding calls to Monkey from Madame OooOs Boutique at Dudley Zoo, Monkey completed the work, "popped out for a bit" and then returned earlier with a very big grin.

However, in true Monkey stylee, I realised this lunchtime that Monkey hadn't turned the website back on after completing the upgrade. When asked, the explanation from Monkey was "the batteries in the website had failed"..

I am blaming Monkey, Monkey is blaming Microsoft, well until their lawyers phone.

A penguin controls our email at work and like all good penguins from time to time it needs opening up so upgrades, patches and offensive weapons like machine guns can be added. (Well okay not the guns). I am of course talking about a Linux server rather than a penguin although the bosses probably wouldn't notice the difference.

Now Friday the 13th is known to have people hiding under the coffee table, refusing to move house, wash-up and visit the mother in law. Me? I don't care.

Women's knickers come in a variety of shapes, sizes and qualities. For example, you have the patch of a material held on by bum crack string, sensible knickers because I'm not a tart and knickers made from the undercarriage of a Vulcan bomber.

This is true of men’s underwear too, from the sensible but pouting briefs, to steel re-enforced bullet proof y-fronts to the I might be chubby but I still feel athletic boxer shorts and I look good - yes I do.

The Devil apparently lives in Hell, which is a hot or cold place depending on how your "evil" points get converted into torturous entertainment benefits.

This of course is not true. Hell is a mythological and a religiously theoretical place made up from the minds of men in an effort to keep us from being bored on Sundays.

However, I can confirm the Devil does exist and currently works for numerous flat packed furniture designers and in particular the production of their construction manuals.

I went to bed at 1am this morning and at 9am I was woken by a bolt of electricity.

The bell for the front door.

My parcel! Sleeping in the buff I sprang out of bed, hurriedly grabbed hold of a Nike fleece, tried to fit my head through the sleeve hole before starting to panic as the bell had been pressed again.

Quickly I whipped on a pair of tracksuit bottoms with visions of the parcel delivery man trundling off in his van as I opened the front door.