Suspicious

The word ‘suspect’ has certain connotations, and they are almost always negative. “I loved the hotel, but the food was suspect.” “The salesman’s behaviour aroused much suspicion.” “The woman has been declared a suspect in the inquiry.”

There is a very high-profile missing-person enquiry unfolding on all channels of our media at the moment. It is now assumed, in the minds of most people following the story, that the person in question is almost certainly dead. Strangely, in these cases, evidence is very thin on the ground. A family holiday resort without CCTV?

What I find most interesting is that the country in which these events are unfolding has a system whereby certain legal rights are not granted to anyone involved in the case unless they agree to be labelled as a ‘suspect’ in the case. It couldn’t happen in the UK. Our papers are only too keen to hang, draw and quarter any self-declared suspect in such a grizzly affair. Perhaps there is cause for re-think of this use of language? 2 people are already branded, and another will almost certainly follow towards the end of today.

Prepare the gallows.

Motivation

Laziness is a very ugly characteristic to have. When I look at it objectively, I have probably been guilty of it over the last few months. Buying ready-made sandwiches instead of making my own. Getting out of bed at the last possible moment. Not actively seeking places to play my guitar. Leaving songs lyric-less.

Over the last few days, I’ve started to rectify this. I played a gig last night, will represent a 5-a-side team tonight after booking a holiday, will write some lyrics tomorrow and jet over to Reading to record them on Saturday. This is a far more entertaining schedule.

It looks like Sheffield could be my next port of call in terms of places to live. Having spent extended periods in Bolton, Newcastle, Gifu and London, it seems right that there should be a move on the cards, and Sheffield is looking likely. There’s a course in journalism for graduates based there, and it could fit the bill very nicely. I just need to stop being so lazy and get the application process under way.

Home?

This weekend I went back to my home town. I’ve lived in London for the past year and it’s a great place to be. Comparing London to my hometown would be similar to setting up a boxing bout between Mike Tyson and Cliff Richard. There’s only going to be one winner on paper.

Having said that, some people like Cliff Richard. Don’t ask me why- it’s almost certainly impossible to fathom- but they do. Similarly, I like my hometown. It’s the people there, mainly, but also the reassuring stability of the place; nothing really seems to change, and that’s nice.

I may be leaving London soon. Not back to my hometown, but certainly in its direction. I think I like the fact that nothing seems to change back home because I never seem to stay in the same place, mentally or physically, for more than a year at a time. It’s comforting to know that some things do.

Decades

Ten years ago I was running very late in what was my first media job. I was in the newspaper business. Grass-roots level. I was a paper boy.

I know I was running late because I got to work to find that the papers had not yet arrived at the newsagent because they had all been re-called. Apparently when a princess dies, you don’t want your front page to be focussing on the misdemeanours of Jason Donovan (or whoever else was the tabloid fodder of the day in 1997).

Many of the people on my round greeted me angrily- their Sunday morning apparently ruined by my late appearance with their newly re-printed Mail on Sunday. I had the unenviable duty of informing them that their papers were late not because of my over-sleeping (as most presumed), but as a result of a drink-driving accident in Paris. The reactions to the news ranged from stunned, shocked and sceptical through to intrigue and occasionally a continued state of anger at me for being late.

I also remember mis-informing my parents that she had killed herself, having heard this from a member of the public who passed me while I was returning to my house to wait for the newspapers to arrive. Never trust strangers. They are a very unreliable source of news.

RSI RSI RSI RSI RSI RSI RSI RSI RSI

It’s not healthy to do the same thing again and again.

Physically speaking it causes Repetitive Strain Injury, which affects the muscles, tendons and nerves. I worry about it, since it can be cause by any number of things; using a computer keyboard, using a piano keyboard, playing the guitar and so on.

I do all of the above on a daily basis. My poor nerves must be torn to shreds.

Mentally, however, this repetitiveness is becoming much more apparent to me. I wake at the same time, make the same journey to work, do the same job each day (which involves saying the same things to huge numbers of people, or ‘clients’) and then walk home again. Can you get mental RSI?

Being in sales involves repeating the same facts over and over. I think I may say these things while I sleep. It is most disconcerting.

Yob

At what point do some people feel that it’s ok to drink to the extent that they can’t remember what they’ve done, and what they have actually done is smash up someone’s flat and cause them to call the police to stop them from fighting?Surely they must be aware that drinking is not something that they should be legally allowed to partake in?

To clarify, I went to a friend’s house party at the weekend. My girlfriend and I went to a restaurant for a meal and then headed across to the flat where the party was. With views over all of London (we were in the southeast and Wembley was visible), the flat itself was pretty remarkable. We arrived about 9 o’clock, stayed for a few hours and then left, which was fine.

Apparently, after we left some idiots took it upon themselves to get into a fight and throw things at each other. They can’t remember doing it, and seem to feel that this is ample excuse for their actions. “Sorry copper, I know I must have beaten the crap out of this guy and proceeded to smash this flat to bits, but I was drunk, you see? So it ain’t my fault.”
Absolute cretins.

My Quest.

Hello.

At 11:30pm last night there was a shooting at Tulse Hill station in South London. A hot-bed for gang activity, it would be fair to assume that the incident itself and the local gang climate were somehow linked, although that hasn't been confirmed yet. What has been confirmed is that a 24 year-old is now in a critical condition and could become the latest in a string of killings to hit London since I moved down here around 1 year ago.

Unsettling to say the least, the shootings continue to be blamed on anything from a lack of social authority to the lyrics of the rap music scene. It all seems like we're looking for a simple solution to me, but then why bother looking into the bigger picture when there's a quick-fix to be had?

I'm a 24 year-old who lives in Tulse Hill. At approximately 11:30pm last night I decided I would start writing a blog again, as part of my big idea to break into the world of written media. It starts here.