I was Bloggered yesterday and for some inexplicable reason, could not post on my own blog but I could post comments on other blogs. Perhaps it was my turn to have all my electronic communications and data surfed by the NSA and GCHQ using PRISM to find out if I am, in fact, The Angolan Connection.
I coined a term a few posts ago, 'Gogglers', those who use Google Glasses and deserve a kick in the googlies. The latest term I shall use from now on is being 'Bloggered'. I think it neatly sums up some of our experiences with Blogger and yesterday I was well and truly Bloggered so the post I really wanted to go up yesterday, only appears today, If Blogger were half decent and had a sense of humour, they would dispense with the enormous variety of truly uninformative error messages, useless in that they only tell you what you already know and not how to resolve the problem, with a far simpler one: 'You've been Bloggered.' Right this second, as I type, a message has popped up (or should I coin another term and say 'Pooped up') telling me that there was an error saving or publishing my post and that I should please try again before giving me an option to 'Ignore Warning'. Guess which button I clicked on.
Just recently, I have been complaining about disturbed sleep patterns. Once again this morning I was wide awake before 5 am. Now this is very irritating given that the amount of weight I am putting on due to enforced inactivity clearly means I am still a growing boy and, as we all know, growing boys need their sleep. I am then faced with a choice. Sit in the jango so I do not wake Marcia and Alex and be eaten by mosquitoes or just lie quietly in bed with a racing mind? Why is it that I can't concentrate on the nice things of my life? Why is it that the only files my mental search engine can find are unpleasant ones? Everything from excruciatingly embarrassing moments to the howling mistakes I made, such as leaving the Army for love; my first wife hated being an Army wife but nevertheless ran off with another bloke two years after I resigned my commission, taking my SL Mercedes along with her. I know which I miss the most but such an admission would upset the feminists.
For the last week, however, floating there in the semi-conscious zone between sleep and wakefulness every morning, I have dreamt of my father. Vivid dreams in full Tecnicolor. I have never, ever, been able to recall dreams with such clarity. He is evidently not particularly impressed with me but, rather than dress me down as an employer would an unsatisfactory employee, he talks to me as a father counseling a son in grave danger of severely disappointing him. It is a pretty bloody sobering way to start the day but I think that's his intention. Still, I am so pleased to see the Old Man again, and looking so good for a man long dead and buried, even if the nice bits of our increasingly regular morning conversations are laced with acerbic wit at my expense. Dad, if you're reading this, if you want me to pay attention, then at least offer me a decent coffee at that Godawful time of the morning.
Everyone, and I mean Everyone, knows that God is an Englishman. But I have my doubts. Unless my father has scored the celestial nightshift (and who knows how long a hevenly apprenticeship might be when one has all of eternity to play with), heaven must be on a different time zone. If it wasn't, why doesn't he contact me during normal office hours? If heaven, God's HQ, is on a different time zone, it can't be in England, can it? Unless, of course, God is also an expatriate escapee... Since my last employers, based in Dubai, used to call me at 4 am, I can only assume that Heaven is somewhere around the UAE. Imagine the reaction when the locals discover that the top Christian has been living and operating undiscovered in their midst for two millennia? They should not feel too bad about it though, as I have it on good authority (Sky News) the UK Border Agency is just as efficient.
I am sure heaven is not in Angola. God would never have had his residency visa application approved. I mean, what would his criminal record sheet look like? Encouraging incest (Adam, Eve, two sons, one murdered; where did the rest come from?). Criminal damage and mass murder by flooding the World. The subjugation of women. The destruction of several cities and all their inhabitants (Sodom, Gomorra, Jericho et al). Plagues in Egypt and the ever trendy slaughter of first born sons. Turning water into wine thereby evading alcohol duties. The Crusades. The list is endless. Which country with even half decent border control would let a homicidal religious maniac like that get past immigration in the first place, much less let him stay?
Anyway, I digress. My father would have been 85 yesterday, the 7th of June. Instead he died young of a massive heart attack (Yeah, thanks for the genes, Dad. I'd sooner have had a pair of Levi 501's) and I miss him terribly.
|Father dressed for the beach|
About the only time I ever saw him not wearing a tie.
And yes, he was a Real Man, he wore a vest under his shirt.
I'm sorry Dad, I did remember your birthday, it was just that I was Bloggered. If there is a heaven, do me a favour and put a word in so that when a Blogger encoder arrives there, you can send him straight to hell.
I don't know either when 'Heaven' is supposed to be, but I do know where 'The Garden of Eden' was; it was in Sussex. Its central point is still marked by a ring of trees known as Chantonbury Ring. Not a lot of people know that!ReplyDelete
'Where' Heaven is...Delete
I scored that one. Typos and auto correct, Microsoft demons.Delete
So it now reads, 'I don't know EITHER where heaven is supposed to be...
Or what? You offer us a tantilising alternative to, 'to be'.
Millions and millions of the Faithful are hanging on for your revelation. His Eminence, the Holy Father has just Tweeted me. Please don't let me down by saying you just missed off, 'or whether it even exists'
Like you, I have trouble sleeping through the night. Lots of weird dreams but not about my dad who I haven't seen for over 40 years, his choice, not mine. A mistake I wont make with my kids. Have you considered the old scented candles and/or a net you could sit under to counter the mosies?ReplyDelete
As for the God question, I want to believe and would certainly have a few questions for him.
Hope all is otherwise well your end.
I tried that but I kept setting fire to the mossie net with the candles so since the jango is thatch, Marcia has banned that option to me.Delete
Apparently when we dream, all other characters in the dream are extensions of ourselves, so your father is the bit of him you want to be. A wistful post (even if you were bloggered) and at times made me smile too.ReplyDelete
Now THAT really worries me. You should see some of my other dreams.Delete
My dear sweet bumbling Tom: Fathers will die. As, no doubt, both Dominic and Alex will discover one day. My own is still alive. So much so, and myself ever the optimist, I put the phone down on him yesterday saying that we can continue conversation once he has gained composure. Within hours a friend, my dearest dearest dearest (think sandpit), calls me and I learn his youngest brother (51) has just snuffed it. No, not kissing a truck whilst crossing a road. Blood clot. The one we all dread. And a golden boy he was too.ReplyDelete
Forget blogger. Switch to wordpress and other woes will beset you.
As to dreams: The Angel discovered the other day (not necessarily to his pleasure) that if you let off the beer for a couple of nights you will remember dreams you wish you'd never had.
A truly wonderful, uplifiting comment, I'm off to find my razor. Just tell me, to cut the radial artery should it be a longitudinal or lateral cut across the wrist?Delete
Tom, if I'd wanted to go into haulage business I would have done so. Hot tip of the day: Don't spit into the wind.Delete
Reflection and honest feelingsReplyDelete
But oh so nicely human ......
He's hoping you sleep well tonight my friend
I did actually. It was brilliant and I have achieved so much today and have only drunk about four fingers, including the neck, of a bottle of whisky. So you keep hoping for me John, it is obviously doing the trick!Delete
I ought to say now Tom, I do fall in love on a regular basis, and yes it is usually gay men...ReplyDelete
however on this occasion I'm making an exception. My only worry is I've fallen for you in a Mumsie way, gawd I never thought I ever hear myself say that... must be getting really old. Your roughty-toughty mask is slipping revealing the little boy lost underneath.
Mumsie is bad. Reading into this I realise that outrageous uninhibited sex with you is not on the cards so how about you considering me as your errant younger brother?Delete
Then, like incest, we can just keep it within the family. Sorry, I couldn't resist that last bit.
The little boy you refer to is, sadly, long since dead but I am hoping what's left of the man can still do some good.
You're one helluva man Hip... Regardless of what you say, we all know the truth! Has done good, is doing good, will carry on doing good. Without over-egging the pudding... A good man!Delete
I can but agree with LL. A good man.Delete
Two ex-wives and a few ex-girlfriends might beg to differ.Delete
I wish you sleep. I wish you health. I wish you contentment.ReplyDelete
Girl you are GOOOD! I went to bed at eleven last night and woke up at TEN this morning feeling great! I'm pretty contented about that. Now, any chance of you doing me some wealth for me, please?Delete
I like that neither awake nor asleep sensation...but I can understand that waking at 5 every morning is rather tiresome. Anyway, I was at an Eddie Izzard show last night and he was ADAMANT that God was not English...actually I think his point was that even if he is English, he would probably be speaking French; he also mentioned that God's first name is SteveReplyDelete
Eddie Izzard is ADAM ANT!!!Delete
I knew car dealer called Steve, Steve Quick. He used to think he was God.
....days before my birthday.....after a heart attack on a plate in a Manchester M6 motorway caf with an ever wishing..when can you come home son.....left me after waving good bye to him ..speeding for my next appointment with international travel.....upon coming home..to a wife´s face and look ..it´s your father !...the daunting task of calling Tom and telling him of dad´s passing.....collecting first a younger brother left sleeping..to collecting him fresh out of bed in Heidelberg the next morning..for the long drive home...stopping on the way to pick up Tom..to arriving at the house Tom Senior and (editor) the very junior built ....to realise he is gone...for ever...ReplyDelete
...he funnily never left my dreams...he is my dad!
A neighbour of mine was killed in an airplane crash on 7 June. It was 1971, and i've never forgotten. I don't usually see him in my dreams. Last night i had a vivid dream where i spoke with someone from my hometown. In the dream, we were so happy to meet up and chat, being able to remininsce about hometown things. She's been dead nearly 10 years, and i have no idea why she popped into my head or dreams. Still, it was nice to see her.ReplyDelete
I don't usually dream of my parents. I miss them, but they stay away from my slumber.