“Good Evening.

I stole an idea and now I’ve won an Oscar.

The biggest night of my life.

And I feel oblivious to it all.

I am sat next to the pool, looking out at the world down the hill from me and staring at the shiny new object that will come to define me when I am dead.

I should be happy, basking in its glory but I can’t.

I wrote, compromised, sold myself, for this so I could direct, edit this thing and gave more of myself than ever I had known. All for this feeling of bemused nothingness.

I was 18. We were friends enjoying creativity and hoping that potentially, possibly our dreams would come true.

Well mine did and his didn’t. Maybe they did for him but I don’t know.

For a spell we were tighter than brothers.

We did everything together, I full of admiration for world weary confidence and he happy to have someone who hung on his every word.

I was quiet as he talked and raved about everything.

And I was the one who kept a mental note at his crazed thoughts at the end of the night to be relived in the morning.

And the moments of clarity, moments of genius, them too.

The ones I shared anyway.

My wife has gone to bed, she was tired of the after parties, the megawatt dentures, the boob jobs and paper-thin waists, the fanning of ego, I just swam through them.

Not quite there but aware enough to be polite, charming, witty, bashful, humble, man-in-charge to all who approached so as not to ruin a perfectly cultivated reputation.

For that is the most important thing.

To keep everyone on side.

I am still sitting wondering what would happen if they knew what I had done.

I can’t be the only one.

I have half a mind to retire myself, to disappear from view. That was the dream for a while, my tortured artist phase to light up the world for a nanosecond and then vanish.

What a selfish, self-important cunt I was.

Or just young.

I won’t be doing that.

I have meeting tomorrow.

I can do what I want for my next idea. A bigger budget, maybe. Gosling or Ali to star, maybe. Or even bring someone out of retirement, an old bull wanting a crack at regeneration in a new era, they may have liked the last film and want to see if I can shit gold again or if I was a fluke and I will go to the scrap heap of once promising but now eternally limited to indie films that sail under the radar. Always defined by the brief moment of adulation that this sexless golden object brings.

I hope it works out. For my family, friends. And myself.

You always want more don’t you.

I think of my friend and wonder what he thought about it all.

If he saw the film and something clicked in his mind like he’d been in the world that I had etched out for the audience. He’d been there before technicolor, an earlier iteration. Still rough and loose and verveless.

Like Le Corbusier’s early vision of Rio. The one that hangs in my front room. My wife doesn’t like it, thinks it makes no sense.

I hope he smiled and was proud of his old friend.

Something to talk about in the pub that night.

An old friend of mine won an Oscar last night.

Almost as good as his mate John’s tale of cutting David Beckham’s rose bushes, top bloke he was.

I was the one who put it all together, I must remind myself.

We could both have done it and we’d have created thousands of versions before we’d have had anything similar.

If anyone says anything, that’s my defence.

I stand up, it’s still very dark but I can see the outline of my wife tucked up in the glass house.

I follow the light of the statue in my hand to her.

Thank you, the Academy. Thanks to my loved ones and those at home who enjoyed the film and I hope to see you again soon.”

It’s been a hard day so I’m going to take my shoes off. I may be standing on a London Overground service, surrounded by strangers, but I no longer care. I am not comfortable and any one put out by it can suck a big one. That’s it. The shoe pops off and my feet unwrinkle, toes cracking in the freedom of the air-conditioned surroundings. I’m going to just let them hang, let them feel free and the toe jam to marinade. It’s great and no one seems to care. People are obviously too preoccupied with their anger at the breakdown of the fast train. They finger wagged with such aplomb and shouted obscenities at the driver. It’s not the driver’s fault I thought and I hope to think I would have got in between and halted the escalation of an altercation. Defending this man in the face of a horde. A horde of likely lads and salary men; who want to be angry at something but don’t quite know what that thing is. They’ll be angry at a man who is doing his best for the safety of his passengers but will remain nonplussed by the train service who consistently raise fares year after year. And whose lack of investment in the maintenance and upkeep of the trains has led us all to this exact point, somewhere approaching Hatch End. It seems a bit weird to me. But I guess one should never challenge the deeper issues of society, better to shout and scream and stamp at the smallest alteration to one’s daily routine. Life, I guess. My toe jam looks quite pretty as it catches the last bit of light and the smell still hasn’t reached me or any of my neighbours. I’m content and can’t wait for the re-run of this tomorrow.

 

I think I love Antoine Griezmann. To reiterate, I love him. I don’t quite know the boundaries of these feelings, like I don’t think I’d want to have sex with him but there is a serious man crush there. It stems from FIFA career modes that I am definitely sure of. Given a reasonable budget at any mid-to-high European super club, barring the top 4 Bayern, Real, Barcelona and Juventus, Griezmann, or the style of play he embodies would be the first order of business. I don’t like pure finishers, they tend to be laborious in their movement, the game slows to accommodate them or in the opposite case they are so quick that their footballing ability, link up play et all lacks. Granted, they have a place in the squad, a useful substitute, the big man up top, playing off him in the disorder he creates, but never a bonafide starter. So, I’ve seen Harry Kane depart, replaced by the waspish Son, Aubameyang sold for his mate Lacazette to reign supreme, Nabil Fekir, Lorenzo Insigne, Bojan Krkic, Nolito, Dybala. And of course, lovely Antoine with his cute curls. Centre Forwards, very different to strikers. All over the place, pressers, first time passers, allowing me to play a 4-3-3, with both 3’s able to interchange, attacking and defending as an organism. I may miss out on some goals due to a lack of expertise but it makes it far more enjoyable. To be a manager in a virtual world. Why did I decide the grandiose gesture of cutting the game up would be a good idea? I love you Antoine.

Have you seen Mbappé’s goal against Iceland? It’s quite remarkable. In the sense that from the outset it looks so unlikely that anything will happen.  He receives the ball from Griezmann and immediately it appears as if his leg and the ball resemble an at odds couple, the ball drawn to something elsewhere, displaying its displeasure at a lack of attention, as Mbappé stretches and strains to keep his plates spinning all at once, trying to keep his house in order with the hopes of a hyper-extended leg. He’s surrounded by a desperate and woozy defence awoken by the imminence of danger and hope of boosting their stats in time for the unfriendly post-match debrief. Yet, for all their presence they seem unable to do anything. This is not through a lack of trying, they huffed and puffed quite nobly, they are just a step out of time, a pinch of luck missing when needed. So when, for all the fracas of this scene, Mbappé in a truly uncouth way hooks the temptuous ball past a collapsing keeper and into the net, it left me to wonder. Was this luck? Did that see him through these obstacles. Or was it a touch of composure amidst a flash of brain, movement, action, ball, a supremely gifted individual flexing his wings and showing all what he is capable of.

On occasion, it can look infantile. The touch absent, a loss of connection to the nexus of the match playing around him. Especially when you compare him to those on the same plateau, the calibre of the Messi’s, Modric’s, Hazard’s, De Bruyne’s, Silva’s et all. The real world’s best. Those who find the ball concomitant, a play thing, a physical extension of their personality that act’s as they act. But, then I remember fickily, my jealousy subsided, Mbappé is just 20 years old. One must be reminded of that now and again. What were you doing then, I ask myself. Pining, drinking VKs, living in a room that looked like a shoebox with a single bed and chest of drawers for company. Mbappé has won a World Cup.

And whilst watching Mbappé you still feel there is still a slither of innocence, an inviolable child’s smile thatched across his face that here he is, living out his dream, in contrast to the fixed concentration and sweaty faced focus of those around him. That the enjoyment to play is there which allows him to express himself.  Not yet been sucked and fucked out of him. We have heard this tragic story before, the golden child who becomes the L’Enfant Terrible, those who promised the world by the curve of their shot, the drop of a shoulder, the tricks and flicks, the easiness, the enhanced beings always 0.0001 seconds in front of the rest, bending the planes of dimensions with a nonplussed grin, oblivious to what they had just accomplished. The praise will come swiftly, two games, two goals, an out of this world assist, the National Team need them, there’s interest from Manchester United, sign him for 79 million! Lauded as the second coming, salivated over by the hyena pack of the sports media and if they’re really cocksure the front page brigade. But just as quickly as you become the darling of a nation, pissing gold and saving kittens wherever you may go, it becomes evident that talent can only take you so far, you are no longer the hot new thing and someone else is now receiving the plaudits that used to ring around your head, and now with all that money and all that fame the allure of life starts to take hold and the love of the game that gave you all these opportunities will wander and this is where your faults will be found. You’ll be lambasted, ridiculed, abused, name more closely associated to dependency issues, foolish behaviour and an affiliation for hippy crack than Ballon D’Ors and titles. Your name a running joke, as you go from catastrophe to catastrophe until the image of the footballer with the golden touch is no more. And once  your carcass has been picked and the distant image of your later stage renaissance as Alan Pardew’s muse, his project, has faded in our nanosecond memories they’ll wonder and sigh with regret how you never quite reached your potential, discarded amongst the could-have-beens, the I saw him at 21 and he could have been a contender, the manager’s greatest disappointment. You got your money, you live comfortably, why should you care? You say to your mates. You can burn £100 and not give a shit. But deep down you do care and will always wonder what could have been different.

I hope this will not be the case for Mbappé and don’t think it will be. So I’m willing to be patient, glad that he isn’t the finished article and accept technical mishaps, sophistication and poise sometimes running adrift with a brain where actions and awareness of the ball and his surroundings can be discombobulated. An individual who is blessed like few before him, achieving and performing magic to a baying audience. A frisson of disbelief at how one can run so fast and look so at ease with a ball two steps ahead, a defence stuck somewhere in the hinterland, trying to keep up in the slipstream where they must be wishing they had just blocked his running line as soon as they saw Mbappé manoeuvring for an angle. Kylian Mbappé will mature and we will be faced with a monster. So, until then, we must enjoy the fledgling steps of an era-defining gift honing and perfecting his craft.

We all use the same train, sit in the same shit seats, stand in the same slim aisles, use the same toilets, yet some amongst our faceless brethren are held in higher regard than the rest of us poor bastards. Man in suit, no tie, people stop to chat with him or shake his hand before leaving swiftly to try and get a seat closer to the front. The most important thing for these aspiring privates and lieutenants is to be seen, to be within proximity of this Captain in order to boost their own standing. His companion today is younger, on the cusp but still a tad wet behind the ears. We all wish to stand and converse with the Captain but not many are extended the silent permission to journey with him. Age is not seen as a hindrance, rather the Captain only sees potential. The Captain holds a newspaper, the younger a fantasy novel, they both occasionally dip into them but are brought back to one another with a new line of enquiry. They chat about the industry, the comings and goings, the gossip. Who’s leaving, where to, how much, what are they like to work with, methods, are they tame, a nause on a night out or do they let it all hang out? All these insignificant tit-bits to a curious bystander but to them and the way in which they bristle, heave, eyebrows arch and tense and relax, it is everything. All stored internally, a growing fact file on any and each individual that may cross their path, because everyone will do eventually. The train arrives at its destination, they shake hands as they disembark and go forth unto the world.

I’m late for my train. As a result, I am stuck. I’m caught behind the sleepyheads, those who choose the extra 5 in bed over premium seating on the nation’s most expensive 20 minute train journey. There’s so many of them. It doesn’t feel very British, us all being so late. I guess we’re all taking on new characteristics in these shedding times, creating our new image to be boomed around the world. An unhappy, isolated lot who move ever so slow. It’s as if we are rehearsing our dramatic final paces to the electric chair. No confidence in embracing the unknown, we bumble and dawdle in our last moments of oxygen or single market stability. Thus, it feels like I’m caged. Unable to do anything, boxed in against the wall, waiting for others to allow me to walk. I rely on the good grace of others for everything. What a depressing consideration.

I shan’t be late again.

As I got off the train at London Euston and started the walk that would take me from platform 17 to King’s Cross Saint Pancras Underground Station, I encounter the smell of shit perfume. It reminded me of school and of underdeveloped palates whom are of the persuasion that saturation trumps moderation. I walk past a Vape store. The open door in search of new habits to procure, new customers to indoctrinate, makes me feel poisoned. I wander past a nail shop where a woman wearing Beats is speaking loudly into her phone and a man is playing with her toes. He is familiar to these crevices yet not to the person. The door is crookedly ajar and from this I feel my lungs receiving an industrial bleaching.

I walk past Highbury and Islington Crown Court everyday. I see the shuffling of the prison trucks being taken downtown. Sometimes alone, nondescript, they may as well be taking horses to fayre. Others, the fanfare, halting life on this long road to let everyone know that this naughty person in their little cage is very important so we should be scared. Some questions I thought about as one sped past:

Who’s in there? What did they do? Why the blacked out windows? Why do they have two drivers up front? Why is one looking cagey? What is SERCO? Have they talked to their cargo? Or is it like Steve Buscemi in “Con Air”?

It is a freakish February day. Blue sky, full parks, shorts, sunglasses attached to body or blouse. I am sat underneath a tree with black orbs hanging tenderly from the ends of over-burdened branches. The orbs are furry or spiky and appear browner upon inspection. A black bird loosens its tail feathers, dropping excrement non-indiscriminately, luck of the draw upon whom it lands on. My day feels brighter from sitting on this bench, in this park, it’s a welcome pause, a chance to refresh and declare oneself as neutral for an hour of the day, wielding the right to self-determination to how this island state is ran.

This apple is fantastic. Not quite the challenge of eating one the size of Anthony Joshua’s fist as in Japan, but quite small in height, compensated by its girth, predominately red befitting the season. Boys not comfortable to relinquish hold of their backpacks even as they take an excursion outside of the confines of school.

 

Cassava. It’s a root vegetable and resembles something like a potato or tuber.

A third of sub-Saharan Africans rely on this for more than half of their calorific intake.

An issue however, it is nutrient poor. Consequentially, iron and zinc deficiencies are common in Africa as well as health troubles such as anaemia, diarrohea and impaired cognitive development. Those hoping to breed better varieties are plagued with difficulty due to the lack of genetic diversity.

Introduce Biotech.

The USDA have genetically modified cassava to contain much higher zinc and iron by using genes from thale cress. Using IRT1 encodes an iron transport protein and FER1 an iron storage protein.They estimate that this cassava could provide up to 50% of dietary requirements of iron and up to 70% of zinc in kids aged 1-6, as well as non-lactating, non-pregnant women.

Let’s hope that this gets brought through.

LINK

Aminé- REEL IT IN (Remix feat. Gucci Mane)

Link to music video.

Irrepressible. What is it about modern Hip Hop’s fascination with wind instruments? As well as a well-utilised harp section. Catchy, fun, short and sweet. I wish I had 13K on my finger.

Tirzah- Gladly

Link to music video.

This is off her fantastic album ‘Devotion’. Hypnotic, wooing  beat, punchy delivery, feels  like an accusation.

Amen Dunes- Lonely Richard

Link to music video.

My favourite artist as of the beginning of 2019. I wonder what that says about my state of mind? Processional guitar. I find it difficult to make out the words. It feels very dream-like, as if he is not fixed within reality and as a result there is no need to enunciate.

p-rallel- Signs (feat. Yiigaa & Finn Foxell)

Link to music video.

An amalgamation of styles very popular within British music today. A jazzy feel with a spoken word delivery, grounded in actuality, a real-life lyricist, plus a female airy voice dragging in the metaphysical, dealing in possibility, linked together by a softly spoken male who naturally fits in with the bop of the bassline and delivers you to each segment.

And with that, that final push, that unkempt, hasty stroke in search of ecstasy, sex between this man and this woman had finished. Her upper torso gives up its rigidity, her back reclined at 90 degrees crumples to Earth where she finds sweaty, fatigued solace in the spoon of his chest. He does not want to move as he loves this new, post-intimacy position. He lies flat, eyes towards the sky, enjoying the tickle of her hair on his exposed body, his breathing is slowly returning to its normal rate of business, he wraps his arms around her waist. There is silence and both enjoy this. Both he and she enjoy just being close to another, particularly in this moment as everything just feels clear, refreshed, anew, emptied. No distractions from life or motions, just them with their heartbeats. He plays with her mid-length blonde-brown hair, he tries to make bunches.

You won’t let this school girl thing go, will you? She’s poking for a reaction.

He responds. Just got to get that uniform dry cleaned and we will be away.

We never wore any. Matter of factly, very Hermione Grainger esque.

You Europeans, so very laissez faire about social etiquette.

She likes when he is silly.

No, she giggles.

She looks up at him, her gorgeous eyes, wide eyed and bushy tailed. She looks up at him. The world begins and ends for him when he sees that smile and her eyes all bright and curious and steel-like. He can only offer a goofy smile in response.

No, of course not, that wouldn’t be proper.

So, you wore your own clothes?

Yes. She is absent mindedly curling the wispy spread of chest hair between her fingers. Always ready to expel an unfriendly grey from the flock.

I’m jealous. We were not allowed. I’d have loved the fashion show.

I can imagine you in your blazer and jumper and striped tie. So cute. So, fucking British. She laughs. I swear you are all stuck in this time warp, stuck somewhere in the 1800s.

Nothing wrong with tradition. It’s what this great nation was built upon. That and slavery.

She looks stern for a moment, boring holes that would melt the polar ice caps in his direction. Leave the serious, stupid talk for the serious, stupid time that is the rest of the time.

I’m hungry. He says as he attempts to subtlety stroke the outline of her back.

What would you eat? She says anticipating the imaginative answers they could come up with.

Mm, a flæskesteg sandwich.

Ha ha. She laughs and as she does, the chest vibrations tighten their bond.

Serious?

No. Peanut butter, some grapes. And just lay here.

Oh yes, that would be so great.

Eventually we would get uncomfortable.

She looked at him solemnly. No, never.

I love you. I love you too.

Jeg elsker dig. jeg elsker også dig.

They lay and try to bring each other closer even though it is physically impossible.She looks up at him, mischievious and impish.

I think I need a wee though now.

Ha ha. Okay, leave me.

Don’t be a drama king, you aren’t Timothée Chalamet.

Oh, I’d bet you’d like that, he’s only 178 cm…

Mmm, I just want him and that peach…

Right, off you get!

No! He he he.

Up she goes, leaving a present. Return to sender.

I’m sorry. As she walks bowlegged to the toilet.

It’s fine, just need a wet wipe.

I swear you can’t go anywhere without them.

They are practical and useful in every situation.

She lifts her eyes in mock disgust and plonks down on the toilet.

He is looking at her.She is looking at him.Silence but for the liquid passing loudly underneath her.

He laughs. She laughs.

 

 

 

I’ve been doing some reading and found something that I found really interesting. Something that showed me how good technology can be and how it can better people’s lives. This development can be found in Nairobi, Kenya. In a city of 4.2 million people, which has doubled its population in the last 20 years, there has been a serious need for improvements to their ageing, inadequate infrastructure . In particular within the emergency services. The city had no centralized system to act as coordinator for any emergencies the public may have. At one point, they had 50 different numbers to call for assistance. This is compounded with the lack of any  guarantee in regards to when or whether an ambulance will arrive. Normally this saw waiting time for an ambulance estimated at around 2 hours. 2 hours. Imagine being in a life or death situation and you are being forced to wait that length of time for medical assistance? It’s disgraceful. So, what has been done to deal with this pressing issue? Enter Flare. It’s like an Uber for hospitals if that makes sense. This App does the work of a centralized emergency service, compiling real time data and connecting patients in need with available ambulances, with those closest directed to the situation to prevent any delay, as well as linking them to the correct hospital and health care provider for their issue. In providing efficient help to people in serious need, Flare is doing a fantastic job of saving people’s lives. And for that, bravo.

 

Source.

Mr. Bird in the Acasia tree. Remonstrating with the world around him, devoid of life and food. He flies to wherever he can detect movement amidst the malformed rocks, but often he returns to the Acasia tree empty-clawed and with a stomach still rumbling. It is windy under the Acasia tree and there are other birds lurking whom also long for a tasty morsel. Some are bigger than Mr. Bird, so he grants them a wide berth in this silent valley. There is a bounty of space for all who are hungry, Mr. Bird thinks compassionately, but he often has to hide his contempt at those who find the worms wriggling away obliviously under the gasping ravine bed. It’s a difficult life, Mr. Bird contests to the Universe. The Universe shrugs and tells him to get on with it.