Olympic musings

Is it just me, or are athletes winning medals at London 2012 breaking down in tears more than any Olympics I have seen before?

I have a feeling the global state of affairs right now – totally screwed – is responsible.

The Olympics have come at a time when the world was badly in need of a pep-up.

Economy, environment, morality, life - all in the toilet.

So, the Olympics do give much hope.

Not just to us watching, but to those competing as well.

Cue the tears.

For a telling post on Michael Phelps from Beijing 2008, click here: http://www.ninety9words.blogspot.com/2008/08/lezak-can-phelp-it.html

AB + BA = AA

Five late warning signs of alcoholism that will now only save you from AA:

1) Alcohol Binges (AB) have turned in to Binge Alcoholism (BA).

2) You’re acute sense of BA is so honed that you easily stay sober during the week.

3) The day you drink becomes hallowed time – its anticipation motivating and inspiring you through the week.

4) Any time after 11am is good to start a BA session. Chasing is order of the day.

5) The hangover: Old AB sessions made you go, ‘Wow, that was some session’.
Now you go, ‘Why am I still alive’?

On the Boyle, but is that UK?

Being dazzled by laser light spectacles at opening ceremonies, is a bit like getting turned on by the first pair of tits at a strip bar.

You haven’t been around a lot.

Once past the razzle and dazzle of Danny Boyle’s London gig what I was left with was this: Mary Poppins in a black dress.

That is the heart of Boyle’s artisanship - juxtaposition of hope with the macabre.

The opening represented Boyle’s vision of Britain.

But, was it Britain’s vision of itself?

Beijing was spectacular.

London was Boyle, not the UK… but Ok.

Funny, dark and Ok.

I found 'em...

Millions of people who follow this blog will know by now, how important having a soundtrack to your life is.

Sometimes you choose the tracks, sometimes the tracks choose you.

One genre that must accompany whatever else is on your playlist is reggae.

Bob Marley always. After the Wailers, it was UB40. Then cameos by Aswad, Big Mountain… and when I spoke with Shaggy a few years ago, he thought Sean Paul as well.

But really there is only Marley and UB40.

I believe I have found the next big reggae band.

The Gentleman’s Dub Club.

Check them out. http://bit.ly/yQjHCi

My world, Brand calls it

So you win some and you’re winsome.
Then, it’s all a bit ‘Shameless’ and you’re Frank the Plank.
Got a call from Russell Brand. This is how he called it:
“What I’ve learnt, to my cost, is that people will put up with all manner of bad behaviour so long as you’re giving them what they want.
“They will laugh and get into it and enjoy the anecdotes and the craziness and the mayhem, as long as you’re doing your job well.
“But, the minute you’re not, you’re fucked.
“They’ll wipe their hands of you without a second glance.”

From the Preacher to the Teacher

Karol Wojtyla was sheepdog when I first entered into a radical following of the Shepherd.

He was a preacher with a charisma that could transcend time and space.

Of all the parables in the Book, I decided to live out The Prodigal Son.

Now, as I make my way back from the pig-sty to the flock, the sheepdog is Josef Ratzinger.

He is a teacher (with as much charisma as a doorknob).

Most Catholics can quote Dan Brown far easier than the Bible.

But, for those who care, or dare, read his ‘Jesus of Nazareth’.

Insightful, challenging, honest, inspiring.

Middle what!?... Nah, once groovers now gravers

Middle age does not creep up on you.
It taps you on the shoulder at the gym and says, “Uncle, are you done with this machine.”
Luckily for me midlife crisis started early, probably around the 32-33 mark.
Sadly, it was more like an era, than a crisis.
When you’re 18 and behave like 18, it’s forgiven.
When you’re 28 and behave like 18, it’s kinda cool.
So, if it’s embarrassing seeing a 40-year old behave like 18, what will it be like at 60?
They call us gravers. Jack, Al, Bobby… me.
From the rave to the grave.

Hope less

Notice how babies have no hope. They don’t need to. They have it all right here and now. Hope is the air that believers breathe. Hope is the luxury the rich afford others. Hope is the name parents from Texas, Anglo Indians and some Goans give their children. Of all the human emotions that can be denied to man, surely it is the loss of hope that must rank as the embodiment of hell. So, for one to deny one’s self hope, well, you have be pretty messed up. Or, have to have messed up pretty badly. Hope less.