Pope wedding

A young boy bored with his life becomes obssessed with a man who
lives in a shack .The man might be Sid Barrett .
The Lotus Eaters , a group of students who sit around all day
smoking themselves incapable . When the revolution comes , they
will be the first ones up against the wall , slouching against it.
There was a choice . Down to the youth club for a game of pool and
if he was lucky , a few mouthfulls of merrydown round the back .
Or , an evening in front of the television with his parents , and
if he was lucky , a diatribe on the state of English football from
his father . The cider would be a slightly more effective sedetive
to his brain , so the youth club won a narrow victory .
Four years ago , the leading members of the community decided to do
something about the ‘youth problem’ in the village . The ‘youth’
were just hanging about , talking drinking and breaking the
occasional window . So these noble people decided to provide a
place for them to go , a place where the ‘youth’ could pass their
time more constructively . The drama sessions and football clubs
soon fell by the wayside , and settles down into a location where
they hung about , that kept them off the streets .

The Gene Genie

The nature versus nurture debate. Do our bodies have everything at birth, or are we a blank slate which learns everything from experience? The reality is that it appears to be a sublte blend of both of these seemingly seperate ideologies.

We are both a generating and degenerating life-form. We grow and deteriorate, often simultaneously. Hair is dead cells. Whole cultures rise and fall in our bodies; sometimes one or two go full circle before breakfast. Bill Hicks used to talk of wiping whole civilisations off his chest with a grey gym sock.

We are an incredibly disposible life-form. We end up gently decaying in the ground, or melted down. At least in this instance we take more care of our bodies than our cars, which we are quite happy to leave rusting in so many locations.

There are so many parts of our bodies that are working away, not just as parts of a whole, but as entities, almost beings in their own right. They too are created, grow, learn, make mistakes, deteriorate and die, sometimes in their own right entirely seperately from our actual cells. I mean, you can wipe out vast tracts of brain cells just by watching say, a Police Academy film. Or what about that morning-after hangover you get from a serious night out. Is that down to your body soting out what made it through the night, assessing the damage, and reporting back with any difficulties?

Even at the cellular level we find all sorts of independant activity. I never wake up on a morning and decide that I’m going to get my cells to fight that throat infection. Of course they do it all on their own, part of your bodie’s untouchable conciousness.

Now addled with a useful combination of stimulants, the writer returns for another crack.

Let’s find the music , the music that will produce the appropriate rythmn for this next piece.

I hope for the reality where I can control this urge I have for writing, and do it properly.

Looking for the germ of a idea, the learning to fly, the sea, the revolution.

The freedom of the fast bike ride, the sensation and danger of even a fairly gentle off-road trip. Returning to the road trip.

I would venture out infrequently in relation to the amount of pleasure that a good ride brought me. The feeling of freedom, motion through soley your efforts, a satisfaction that the car could never bring. Being able to go virtually anywhere you chose. To be honest, it often wasn’t about the great outdoors, being at one with nature and all that sort of stuff. It was the battle. The war against me I loved. Fighting the unwilling body, the lazy mind, the dispirited soul. I felt that when I conquered all those elements, I could do anything.

The key to gears. I always used to attack climbs the wrong way. I would build up speed on the flat in my biggest gear, and then attack it. The bike would always slow, and quicker than I could change down, the pedals became huge blocks of stone for my feet to move.

Then one day someone explained how it worked. You get into a low gear at the foot of the climb. And stay with it. Churn and churn in that tiny gear. Your lungs burn and pierce your chest. You have to find the rythmn, stay on the one or you’ve lost it.

The ultimate skill in cycling is to change up on a climb. On a real climb, like Alpe D’Huze. Start the mountain with a group of climbers, the worlds best. Wait for the heat and the doubt to set in. Wait until the last of your opponents is about to break. They are all churning awaiting the noise they dread. That click of the gear-change, like a starting pistol, metal straining against metal. The true climber shoots away, leaving the others floundering in his wake.

The best I’ve ever seen this done was in the 1996 Tour, where Riis tortured his opponents for miles. A small group of about twenty riders were on the ascent of Alpe D’huez when he made his move. But this was no simple break-away. He left the group with devestating speed, then slowed up. It looked as if he had blown it, as he was caught and fell to the back of the pack. What he was doing though, was trying to break each and every one of them. He scanned each face as they passed him, looking for the fear. After a brief respite he launched himself off again. Three times he did this, each cause more opponents to drop off the lead group until finally, no-one had any spirit left. He left them all far behind and won the stage.

So tell me about yourself

Well, I was an only child. Not many friends in the neighbourhood. Spent a lot of time in my room, imagining. Thinking of my future. Playing games for England, kissing the girl across the street. Funnily enough I never once imagined that data input would be my future.

I used to watch World of Sport, it is my first cognitive memory. I can remember the drag racing, the lumberjack championships, the exotic american typefaces. I wish I had been allowed to bet at five years old, because I had a pretty good eye for horses form at that age, a gift which has diminished with time. I can still recall that Sea Pigeon and Nightnurse were pretty safe bets. And Dickie Davies. Thinking back I am sure I saw him more than my father until I was twelve. My father was more of a Fred Dinage character in my life.

I can remember showing my affection towards girls by cycling. The more times you went past their house, the more you wanted them. Someone you really liked would be on a once every couple of days route. Claire Johnson was a twice a night, really worth making the out and return route pass through the same street for. Cute little nose. Never once came out of her house though. Ahhh, the life of a pubescent stalker.

Later of course, it was vodka. Never understood how I could drink the filthy stuff, neat, maybe half a bottle at a time. Think I was just warming up for acid frankly. With whisky, there is a point of extreme purity of thought before you get to the pissing in your pants stage. Not vodka, you just get the colours, the room swirls, you throw up on the cat, and your best mate tells you the next evening how you announced to the world you thought you might be gay before collapsing face down on the floor.

Now whisky I could really drink, neat doubles, the odd quadruple on cheap nights. I know for a fact, indisputable fact that I once had an hour-long conversation with a Welsh speaker, and we both made perfect sense, at least to each other. I wanted to be Jim Morrison, but lacking looks, three fellow travellers on the road to success and enlightenment and a good voice, I settled for his alcoholism and a ropey biker jacket. The only miracle is that I actually got laid in this period at all. Now I just want to be Noel Gallagher with less facial hair. Time teaches you to reign back on your ambition.