The Sun Has Got His Knife Crime Hat On

 In the period of July to September in 2007, England and Wales saw an anomalous drop in assaults and knife crime, whilst simultaneously experiencing one of the wettest summers on record.

Following on from this, it was hypothesised that the rate of knife crime in the UK is inversely proportional to the annual rainfall.

 Naturally, muggers and madmen are unlikely to want to hang around in drizzle.

 So for that reason you could think that the typically uninspiring British climate stands as a grand example for the saying “every cloud has a silver lining”.

 However, if we were to apply Newton’s third law of motion to metaphor, in that every metaphor has an equal but opposite folk-saying, a darker trend emerges; in the brightest light there is darkness, the brightest hour comes just before dusk, we are more likely to be murdered on a sunny day.

 And it’s with that in mind that I’m cautiously enjoying the glorious weather recently lighting up the lives of millions across the UK. Everyone is rushing outside to enjoy barbeques, play sports and potentially kill me.

  Are the parks and shopping streets now full of witnesses or hidden assassins? I know you can stab someone unnoticed in a crowd. I’ve seen it in at least three films and done it myself on the X-box.

 Would I be safer at a barbeque thanks to the company of a trusted group and a healthy supply of our own sharp knives and cutlery?

 In fact, if we were to ignore all other variables and research on the matter it could be considered evident that the increase in knife crime is caused by the abundance of small gangs of people, drinking outside while carrying sharp metal objects.

 Meat is murder. Barbeques are a killing spree waiting to happen.

 Whilst I could hypothesise how and when we’ll be murdered until the cows leave home, rest assure that if you live in the UK, within a week or two the rain will make a welcome return and all potential man-slaughterers will be back inside watching television like the rest of us.

 So enjoy it while it lasts. By which I mean the sun as well as the following respite from crime and\or your doomed, doomed existence.

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Somewhere a tribe of Native American people don't do Rain Dances. They do Statistically-Lower-Violent-Crime-Rate Dances.

The Sinister Underbelly of Shaking Hands

Strong handshakes frighten me. And that’s nothing to do with fearing anyone’s physical strength in itself but rather a fairly sensible mistrust of anyone who’d want to begin an introduction by showing me how physically strong their hand is.

I’ll accept that in a multitude of careers and situations a strong handshake would be a welcome first impression; if we were to be working together on a fishing boat or standing on the doors of a nightclub for example. In short; situations whereby a person’s grip strength may have something to say about their aptitude for the job.

But when you’re a freelance creative meeting an estate agent?

A strong handshake on this occasion can only mean one of three things:

1. The shaker is trying to convince me that we’re both real masculine folk of the hardy, hands dirty workforce of the world; which we aren’t.
2. The shaker wants me to be aware of his physical power for purely personal reasons; maybe I’ll respect him more if I think he can climb a rope.
3. He is of the school whereby a ritualistic activity is given far too much practice and consideration to be natural.

We’re both clearly soft young men of the sort whose regular lives require all the physical prowess of a five year old so I’m always taken aback by the classic “step. Turn shoulder. Shake. Shake. Nod. Step back” approach precisely because of how aware I am that it is something cultivated solely for creating the initial illusion that we are both trustworthy, diligent men who have grown strong through labour.

Which we aren’t.

It’s not the relaxed handshake of a good friend of a friend’s you met in the pub. It’s not the handshake that demonstrates trust between yourself and your girlfriend’s father. It’s the handshake that purports a professional persona that doesn’t quite fit. When the first thing I learn about a person is that every wink, smile and comment is being lifted directly from a company manual, I unsurprisingly trust them less.

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It’s quite frankly bizarre to think how unnatural a custom dating back to the 5th century B.C can seem. So much so in fact that people not only read but get paid to write articles and books about how to successfully shake hands with another human being. It should be a pleasant, brief show of trust that all too often becomes dirtied by egotism and bland, corporation prescribed methodology.

In any sane world we wouldn’t need to be told how to shake hands, let alone win at it.

Next Week: How to Win at Shaking Hands.

Will include:

• Analysis of likely opponents.
• Step by step instructions.
• A reference to one of the greatest martial arts films ever made.

The Abrupt Waiter Silence

Why do we stop talking when a waiter comes over? Certainly it makes sense to give one’s full attention if the waiter is asking a question or taking orders but for the sake of putting down plates it seems an oddly lengthy and forced silence. Barring the obligatory thanks for any service rendered, I’m relatively certain that the abrupt arrival of silence at restaurant tables is encouraging paranoia in serving staff.

In everyday life, the only reason that I’d usually have for stopping a conversation dead upon the arrival of another person would be if the subject had been obscene gossip about said person of if I was planning a terrorist attack.

Would I plan a terrorist attack over the sea food balti in Akbars? Perhaps not; the hulking naan bread and wooden plates don’t allow enough space for sketched blueprints to be lain out and the adjacent table is often too close for privacy. However, there’s nothing to say that atrocity cannot be planned in the midst of a public meal. Just look at little chef; it’s out on the motorway and they have paper and pencils. God knows no one’s in there for the food.

Returning to the more pressing matter, which is being inadvertently rude to restaurant staff as opposed to the planning of mass murder, I have become increasingly aware of the point at which the speech ceases and the point at which it was being overheard. During one restaurant outing I was listening to the vivid accounts of recent gaming convert Kate who, after 27 years of deprivation and productive living, had discovered and then spent the last 78 hours playing Call of Duty online.

As a long time nerd myself, I’m quite used to anecdotes from the analogue controller and thought nothing of it as she recounted her latest killing spree, shaking all the while like a cold, toy dog that has accidentally sniffed cocaine:

“ I noticed this guy was following me so I… just walked around behind this tree and got my knife out and as soon as I saw him I just stabbed him until he fell down and… there was no one else around so even though he was already dead I stabbed him again…”

At this point she noticed the waiter and snapped her mouth shut. The side effects of being socially self-conscious were readily apparent as she averted her gaze and tried to look casual by taking a sip of water (she failed.)

My only hope is that constant exposure to this sort of incident had suitably desensitized our waiter so that he was fazed neither by this nor by my later contribution when he brought the deserts; at the time I was talking about coming home as a teenager after my mother rang to tell me that one of the dogs had bitten the other’s ear and it wouldn’t stop bleeding.

“…so I came and it was all over her face so I tried to wipe it off but she was freaking out and whining so loudly that my mum came in the room to check on us and the sight of it almost made her cry.”

Next Week; I fix my printer\scanner and return to delivering five star art work alongside 2 star prose.

Riots as Language and Illiteracy

Ever since we entered “the technology age” it has become increasingly apparent that the youth will always be ten steps ahead of the last generation. Never has there been a better example than last week, when hundreds of young people made a pre-emptive strike by practicing large scale smoke signals and communicating through semantically charged street theatre even before David Cameron publicly announced the possibility of a social media crackdown. Never mind the fact that Iran and Libya have already proved the futility of attempting to block modern communications and that David Cameron himself declared all that freedom of speech and the internet were “the entitlement of people everywhere; of people in Tahrir Square as much as Trafalgar Square” (although perhaps he meant this in the reverse of the sense we took it at the time) these admirable youngsters have taken things a step further by showing that they are prepared to organise themselves even if an EMP takes out all the electrical appliances in England.

For example, setting fire to car generates a particularly thick black plume that warns others that petrol has become too expensive to make personal car ownership a reasonable expectation. Stripping random people naked not only warns us about incoming hot weather (or possibly just warmth from nearby fires) but it suggests a recommendation for the removal of an unnatural, puritan modesty as forceful as its imposition; the deeper symbolic meaning suggesting that none of us should be ashamed of whom we are. Stealing large screen televisions is an outcry against our wasteful use of energy and its role to play in global warming; by hiding and stock piling these items Britain’s looters hope to save the planet. Or at the very least counter balance the green house effect of burning all those cars.

Dr. King is famously quoted as having said that the “riot is the language of the unheard”. Whilst throughout history acts of mass public disobedience have been read as powerful denouncements of oppressive regimes and demonstrations of a community’s refusal to accept injustice, I hope he’d agree that in any theoretical language the ransacking and burning a small local grocery store is a clear media attention grabbing method of informing the nation that you are a cunt.

NOTW As Free Press (if we ignore the prison metaphore.)

A lot has been said about the News of the World debacle. Although during the discussion some very important angles of the situation have been too widely ignored.  Sure. I’d concede that they may have committed “a few” illegal acts (possibly over 4,000) but in the rush to dish in on the righteous outrage\juicy gossip, I feel that we’ve forgotten about the real victim here: freedom. Both freedom to and freedom from.

 I’m talking about the freedom of journalists to report matters of public interest, such as whether the parents of missing children are worried, or if people feel sad when their loved ones die in terrorist attacks. Possibly the sudden rise in anti-freedom of the press sentiment is a backlash of the post-wikileaks era. A paranoia brought on by the uncertain legal world of electronic communication.

 To those bearing such sentiment I would demand that they think back to the good old days of reporting when, with police approval, members of the tabloid press would have to break into the homes of victim’s families and rifle through drawers for letters, study the placement of family portraits and smell pillows in case some salty residue might betray a mother crying herself to sleep the previous night. That was real journalism; a vast array of maverick semi-private investigators funded by advertisers and people who like to read slosh over toast. In this case, journalism is just another facet of life being made easier by emerging technology.

This brings me to the other side of the magnanimous coin of liberty; freedom from. I’m quite certain you’d agree that many people suffering personal tragedy don’t want to be hounded by more than 60 million people they don’t know to explain all the details. Surely then it’s better that these people are left alone whilst we pay someone to illegally access their personal information and relay it to us in print. Done properly this will be accompanied by a pixelated photo of them taken from behind a hedge.

 Much like Kenneth Clarke’s proposal to reduce rape charges for an early plea of guilty; we cut out the suffering of the victims by cutting down on all the other troublesome parts of the equation that cause them to be actively involved in the legal procedures concerning them and the tribulations they have endured.

 Laws, much like anything else, are a matter of balance. If you’re willing to break the law and risk prison to find out whether a pop singer is happy with her new boyfriend then by all means you’ve clearly earned that private information and should be supported. If you’re caught in the act you will even have access to legal aid.

This can only be right; legal or otherwise, you need help.

An Experiment

 Once in a while I like to do something crazy.  With so much thought and planning going into every cross-person encounter, I do every so often have to vent by indulging a whim that will:

1.)    Make any other quasi-crimes to social decency relatively harmless by comparison therefore assuring me that I am, on most days, indistinguishable from “a normal.”

2.)    Appease the one armed bandit of whims before I end up picking one like “spin the wheel; maybe the car will just do a full roll and keep on going like in the films.”

3.)    Satisfy my morbid curiosity.

 Chosen well it’s quite harmless as I’d otherwise just lose sleep over something else. (Was saying “hi” too forward whereas a “hey” (debatable whether or not to pronounce “’ey”) be too relaxed; almost too forward in the manner that it seems to demand a relaxed attitude? Who wants to be implicitly told to relax? I’m pretty certain it would’ve infuriated the poor woman at the supermarket counter who acknowledged me with “hi.”)

 I was in a supermarket once more purchasing the supply of chicken and red bull substitutes that keeps me alive when a girl of about 17 dropped her bag, spilling books, pens and other props across the aisle. Unfortunately, no one else was around to reach her before me so I couldn’t rely on moving just slowly enough to be unnecessary.

 Instead I stood my ground. Folded my arms. Shook my head with disapproval.

She dropped to the floor, sent me a questing glance. For a second I thought she was shocked at my carelessness. Indifferently she went about picking up her goods.

 I watched her pick up her items one by one, fully expecting at least a muttered “prick” to escape her lips. She never said a word. Never seemed especially surprised that I didn’t help. She didn’t even seem that insulted when I tutted and stepped over her outstretched arm to get past. The purpose hadn’t been to hurt her in anyway of cause; I can get enough Schadenfreude anytime I want by watching train station platforms from a balcony.

 And yet, I’ve since been mildly fascinated by her lack of reaction to what an apathetic bastard I’d been.

 Had she just been in a car crash or had a mugger wrestling her to the ground I could understand. But to idly stand by and watch whilst she pick up the contents of her bag and not even call for help?

 Perhaps in theUK, 2011, I’m expecting too much compassion.

Dying Children Sell Better Than Sex

The UK held a referendum last week to decide whether or not we should make a minor adjustment to our voting system. The “no to change” won the referendum by an astonishing 68%.

 What makes this most surprising is that one of the primary campaign angles was “Vote No or a Child Will Die.”

 Seriously; 

 I’ve often attempted to come up with the most ridiculous and offensive marketing campaign imaginable (on the off chance I ever had enough money to rent advertising space nation wide and enough indifference to neglect the amount of homeless children who’d have to look at it.) However, this Prime Minister backed, serious political campaign had only previously occurred in my early drafts and was quickly dismissed as “too crude.”

 I’ve decided that for once, perhaps I should humbly accept that I was wrong.

 Claiming that a child will die unless you follow an order, irrespective of the veracity of that claim, just might be the solution to all of our problems.

 I’ve made a few examples below:

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Unfortunately, it appears that veracity is the Achilles heel of the dead child argument. Oxfam has had to up its game to “these children will get nice clothes and be well educated” rather than just “survive”.

 Some day they might grow up to be business people.

 Some day they might address the imbalance that has left third world children slaving away to make trainers for less money than I might stop to pick up off the floor.

 Some day they will own global corporations and the advertising posters will look like this:

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Beware of Becoming Passingly Acquainted With a Busker.

 The next time you’re introduced to someone at a party, the next time you speak to someone at a bus stop or any number of socially acceptable locations, it is vital that you are aware of the risk that they may be a busker.

 If this is the case then you are at war with the world and the high street is your war zone.

 It won’t be easy… buskers are the elite shock troopers of the army of passing social acquaintances.

 I’ll assume that most people are aware of the typical pitfalls of coming across a casual acquaintance in the street. Do you wave? Nod? Stop and talk? There are a multitude of variables to consider. (listed below) I’ve attempted to formulate a flow chart for such interactions that I can laminate and keep in my pocket. Unfortunately every second counts in such situations and during the use of prototypes I typically found myself reading the flow chart as a means of politely failing to notice said acquaintance.

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 I’ve since then scrapped it; the risk of the flow chart being discovered is too great.

 Regardless, the flowchart would’ve been powerless against a musical street performer.

 Firstly, they’re likely to be the only person on the street singing and playing music. This immediately rules out any “oh sorry I was looking at a passing bird and didn’t notice you wave” type response.

 However, they are working and working publicly. Is their on (metaphorical) stage persona suited to acknowledging a particular member of the crowd? Can you give a shout out during “Hallelujah”?

 On the subject of crowds, should you join the crowd? I’m sure whenever I meet one I’d be loathed to tell them I don’t like their music but passing by without pause to listen may seem to suggest that that’s the case.

 If I pause, how long do I pause for? Waiting for a break seems a bit groupie-esque when I’m only aiming for polite affability. As any mid-song removal might seem like a deliberate snuff on that particular tune (stopping also suggests that I have no where else to go and therefore I’m deciding to waste my time elsewhere) so we can effectively rule out any stopping scenario. True or not, I’ll have places to be and I cannot be kept waiting.

 Persona and tone aside, the last time I passed a busker I’d met at least twice, I thought I’d finally nailed an acceptable “quick, busy walk with a warm smile and nod” but I was wrong.

 The particular acoustic guitar playing lady I had to pass by has a twin habits of:

1)      Looking to her left when she sings.

2)      Closing her eyes intermittently.

As I was passing her on my left that meant a narrow gap of plausible nodding could be expected. Once past the full frontal angle I was certainly not going to turn back to nod. Passing acquaintance. Passing. Turning back is far from part of the deal.

 She was singing facing to her left (away). I was attempting to surreptitiously watch for the head turn whilst pretending I was walking somewhere important and not being too obvious that I was watching out for a head turn for fear of too-much-looking in a pre-nod scenario (seems overly calculated.)

 She turned, I lifted a casual grin and fired the nod.

 But her eyes were closed.

 I’m sure someone had seen me. I couldn’t double nod. What’d they think? Would they think that I needed a nod back from a busker that, from their perspective, I might not even know?

 I took a gamble that her eyes would remained closed long enough for me to pass. She’ll know she sings with her eyes closed. She’ll know it was her fault.

 If she’d seen me. If the regret of not acknowledging me had crushed her artistic soul I’ll never know. I’ll admittedly doubt that she or anyone else in the world has ever noticed, nor worried about, 90% of the minute social details that I have but there’s always an outside chance.

 Perhaps next time I’ll try the stop and listen approach. Perhaps I’ll see pain in her eyes or a glint of relief that I, person she had met twice, didn’t hate her.

 I was so busy mentally working out an extended flow chart for the situation that I barely managed to acknowledge Old Joe, the homeless man I’ve nicknamed who sits by the tunnel near my house.

Fight the Power. Save the Planet.

   I’m all for peaceful protest. However, whenever people gather en masse for a well intentioned exercise in making their voices heard, inevitably the enemy of all rational civilisation rears its ugly head;

 Litter.

 When most people look at angry mobs they probably look at the people. Personally I can’t help but notice the ground covered in abandoned signs and dropped sandwich wrappers; concluding that the world isn’t coming to an end through human violence or war but through relentless litter-buggery.

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 I once watched a climate change protest, which advertised a “save the trees, save the planet” philosophy by printing and displaying several thousand square feet of paper and cardboard before dropping them across the city streets as if the sight of a forest’s worth of flattened dead trees was some kind of modern art instalment. It’s more likely that someone prepared to travel 200 miles and sleep on the streets for a climate change rally is still as much of an inconsiderate prick as the next person.

 It’s like campaigning to “save the whales” atop a parade float made out of whale skin and powered by porpoise fat.

 I’m sure these people have carried the damn placards from miles around so surely another thirty feet to a bin wouldn’t hurt?

 Perhaps the police could be ordered to “kettle” protesters into an area with a favourable person\rubbish receptacle ratio and refuse to allow protestors to leave until everything gets cleaned up… like the time you were caught having a party in your preteens.

 This is one of many reasons why my spirit was so greatly lifted by the uprising in Egypt; after fighting for their personal freedoms, people chipped in to pick up the litter. Why? Because as one protestor put it; “this is our city now.”

 So whether you’re a passionate group of citizens or a potentially violent oppressor, whether you’re marching, rioting or burning a city, do try and clean up.

 We’ve only got one world; please take care of it.

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How Slowly Can You Move When an Old Woman is in Pain?

How slowly can you move when an old woman is in pain?

 This is one of the few questions that doesn’t haunt my daily struggle to look like a normal human being. It doesn’t worry me at all. I’ve got it down to an art.

 Moving slowly in times of need is a skill any sensible person begins cultivating in primary school:

 “Who wants to be my special helper and carry the register today?” a teacher would ask.

 Any child who would genuinely enjoy carrying books for someone older, larger and clearly better suited to the task than them is a narcissist at best, idiot at probable.

 But everyone in the class throws up their hands because it represents a form of competition. To not engage at all would be to betray an utter lack of ambition.

 The answer is simple; looking like you’re eager to help but curbing it in just enough to ensure that someone else gets there first.

 Does this seem like a useful skill to you?

 Next time an elderly woman falls and hurts herself it will.

 Let’s face it, I genuinely don’t want to stoop to the floor and pick up someone’s dropped coins, fallen shopping or grandmother. If no one else was around I’d do it but seeing as it is actually a chore and not something I’d do “for fun” it seems reasonable enough that having someone else do it for me would be even better.

 “But wait!” I imagine you might say (or at least would if you wanted to be a dear and cue my explanation.)

 “But wait! When people see you not even trying to help they’ll realise that you lack goodwill to your fellow man!”

 Well, this is clearly not so. Not only am I assured that the problem gets taken care of, but I instinctively move to help at just the right speed so as to become superfluous before exerting myself in the slightest. Often I’m thanked as if I’d actually helped.

 It’s a good feeling and I encourage you to try it. Next time something falls, next time something breaks, next time a war breaks out or the government removes several important freedoms enshrined in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights…

 Just show some visible surprise\remorse, convince people that you’re going to do something and then hope that someone else takes care of it and saves you the effort.

  Nine times out of ten it works a treat. The final tenth time happens when everyone else is playing the same game and we all end up doing our best Chariots of Fire impression whilst someone lies squirming, possibly dying at our feet.

Walking Past A Homeless Person More Than Once

  Homeless people scare me.  Whilst I’m naturally aware of the horrific social injustices and utterly unnecessary hardships of the homeless and agree that action must be taken, my more immediate worry is the Pandora’s box of social faux pas that a stationary homeless person will present.

 I was particularly aware of this the last time I went up the road to restock the supply of chicken and cheap red bull substitutes that keeps me alive. Having walked past a seated man asking me for change I responded, as is my custom, “Nah sorry mate.”

 As I’ve perfected over time, this strategy makes it obvious to the man in question that I am at least in the top 10% of considerate passersby because I acknowledged him and apologised but I also deliver it with a kind of earthy non-R.P tone that distances me from “the man” who, typified by money, perfect enunciation and all other such breaks in life, represents the embodiment of benefits I presume he never had and would therefore draw some level of resentment. “Mate”; the greatest weapon of pacification the middle class, heterosexual, white man has ever got his hands on.

Whilst, as you may have guessed, I’ve spent quite a lot of time and effort polishing this strategy to ensure homeless people I’m unlikely to ever see again think I’m a slightly better human being than the million other people walking past that I’m unlikely to see again either, it has a crucial flaw; if I DO see that man again he will remember me, and the odds of me having had change and lied to him are at the least doubled and we both know it.

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 I was tired and hungry, which is the modern equivalent of being young and foolish, and came back from the shop with bags only to see the same man in my path.

 He sees me coming. I think I see in his eyes a pain worse than life on the streets; for now he knows the suffering it is to be betrayed.

 In actually I never had change on me, like any sensible person I pay by card and as a result very rarely have any physical money on my person. I consider stopping to explain this to him but fear it would only make things worse. I could’ve bought him a sandwich surely. There’s a sandwich in my bag now which, being semi transparent under the weight of goods inside it, would easily give away how uncharitable I’m actually being in this situation.

 I surreptitiously try to time it so that as I pass him a third party will be between us but I’m sure he knows this trick. I’m sure Old Joe (as I’ve arbitrarily named him) knows every trick in the book and for the purposes of this metaphor you can safely assume that he’s completely literate.

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 I’m tempted to look back and say something, even just a glance so that he knows I’m thinking about him. I decide against it, I can’t bear to look back and see the powerful cocktail of pain and anger that must be seething across his face as he watches me and my sandwich walk away from him.

 Maybe he’ll remember me.

 Maybe he’ll tell other homeless people about me and they’ll orchestrate some way to “get” me.

 Maybe homeless people are in fact extremely well organised and, due to their uncertain lives, keep a closely guarded list of people who are deserving of vengeance for their poor poverty relations etiquette. Should this man fall, another will take his place, and he’ll know what I’ve done.

 My breathing tightens up for a moment as I realise that I may have condemned myself to an eternity of having to watch my back in case The Guild of The Shelterless comes to reap some vague idea of revenge.

 But then I relax. This is nonsense. If they were that well organised I’m sure they wouldn’t be homeless to begin with. Almost every secret organisation will at least have a sheltered hideout.

 I get inside, open my sandwich and pull up Google maps to plan my alternate routes around Old Joe.