“Do you love me because I’m beautiful or am I beautiful because you love me?” Cinderella

He ain’t poor,

His knowledge is his wealth.

But today he needs much more-

Today he’s searching for a cure.

Cos today

He’s living in a rubix cube

Trying to wake from the coloured fumes.

A dreamer, who continues

To walk among shadows-

As if they could fill his hole.

That emptiness he has always known

Emerges through the cracks

To make up the mosaic of memories

which fragment amongst fantasies.

And this is

His reality, fused with shots of insanity.

And this is

His way, of crying the truth from his eyes.

Cos when he’s alone,

secret flashbacks

Slice like flickering knives-

Drawn on liquored nights.

And again,

He’s drinking with friends

Who remain no more than first names.

Laughing over echoes of empty conversation-

Which always sound the same.

And again,

It doesn’t matter, that he takes

Another sip

Cos he can’t ruin what’s already wrecked.

Just as he can’t love what he can’t respect.

All he can do now,

Is regret-

Over the lessons he had to learn.

“Little boys don’t cry”

“Loved ones don’t lie”

Yet fears became too familiar

And started to burn

His essence, needing comfort

He put down his trusting defenses-

Which gave rise to dangerous strangers,

Who never healed-

But taught him the reasons for fallen angels.

The Emperors’ New Clothes

Early Monday morning, The Emperor sat on the top floor of Café Nero in Bayswater looking out onto the busy crowds below him, focusing on nothing particular. The Emperor was remembering another Monday 18 years ago. This was the day when he realised he was too square to fit into his circle of friends, the day he became very rich and they continued to remain comfortable, the day his tireless 18 hour shifts paid off and he was willingly propelled into one of the most powerful positions in the City. This was the day he would lose most human interaction with his friends, with the exception, years later of being one of their numerous facebook contacts who would be once again accepted and then forgotten.

Now, after having “made it” he was surrounded by accomplices and business partners, colleagues and advisors – all of whom knew his work and even his bank balance intimately, but none who could recount his personal qualities on their fingers. It’s not that he was disliked; it’s just that over the years he had become unknown. His presence was acknowledged so long as his work productivity and income remained high, when that dropped people forgot him- even his features, smells and habits, nothing about him was distinct. The Emperors’ cultivated normality had made him invisible.

“You’re married to your work” she had written one Monday in the days before email, and then she left to pursue her own addictions. Hearts, trust and liquor glasses; these were the broken fragments of the Emperors’ past. And folding that tear and spirit stained letter into the inside slit of his leather case, (where it remained to this day) he resolved to go back to the office more dedicated than ever- love was just too much hard work.  He recalled how she told him she loved his hands, which were soft and broad on account of his privileged childhood. He looked at them now, still pink and wide and soft. But in the last couple of years patted veins had fast started to appear on the back. She wasn’t around to see them now. However, the Emperor knew his grip was still strong. He could still reach for his dreams, but he noticed how his fingers now trembled, he could never hold onto what he grabbed long enough without shaking. So he usually let go before it began to hurt him.

He put down his cocoa mug and looking around, he noticed the flyers which were stained with coffee rims and left in unkempt piles on the tables and counters. They invited him to attend a salsa themed basement club, or join a gym membership with 30% off-what other incentive did he need to start melting away his belly fat it asked? Another questioned if he had recently thought about the existence of God, because if not, an upcoming “street artist” would gladly think for him and he could purchase these works on creation for the same as the annual expenditure of the average British family. However, the one that caught his eye talked about plans to mobilise in protest of the situation in Tibet, against the Olympic torch on its travels through Europe. He remembered the contentious journey this weekend which the flame had had through London; at one point being forced to mount the bus like any lay passenger in order to continue the journey from Fleet Street to St Pauls, since the protesters became too numerous and unruly. Knowing the Mayors’ previous controversial political stances, (for example charging Bush’s entourage congestion charge for their vehicles during official state visits) the Emperor amused himself with the idea of the torch bearer having to use an oyster card before being allowed on for the bus ride. He paused at this moment and realised that it was a great convenience that he himself never had to use the bus as he was provided with a chauffeur. The torch then had its path lit by fluorescent jackets which held back angry, passionate and bored people all the way to Number 10.

The flyer really was very impressive, visually impacting and solid production quality. The Emperor pressed it between his thumbs and moved it so the glossy leaflet reflected the light from the sun, which was fast rising from the east. He wondered if the same printing company was used by the pro-China supporters who waved placards and distributed just as impressive publications calling for support of “one China” along the routes. Certainly, he would suggest this printing company to members of the London Olympic committee for production of their promotional material when he met with them later on this week. He tucked this flyer into his work case, noting to himself that he would ask his assistant to research where this flyer was produced when he got into the office. As he walked out of the café checking his Blackberry for the days’ schedule the faux-graffitied slogan of the leaflet peeped from the leather fold inviting readers to “Be part of the change on Monday in Paris” The Emperor had missed this during his examination of the leaflet. Many Mondays ago he had already locked himself in when he began to feel left out.

Oompa, Loompa, doom-pa-dee-do
I have another puzzle for you
Oompa, Loompa, doom-pa-da-dee
If you are wise, you’ll listen to me”

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

Every organisation has its own Machiavelli; an individual distinguished by their plastic charm and sycophantic gestures deployed in copious quantities to reach their career peak at middle management level. Whilst I am not suggesting all middle management has resorted to such dirty politics, nonetheless, there does exist enough of these individuals for almost everyone to know of one. 

The Omoopa Loompa is one such person whom I have had the misfortune of knowing. This 4’9 blonde, imp-like creature is almost 40, although she goes to great lengths to depict herself to the world as a vulnerable 8 year old blossomed from the bud of the last blue-bell in the middle of winter. Her strenuous efforts to remain in her childlike shell range from wearing plastic hearts in her hair, to starving herself systematically for the past three decades in order to ensure her hips resemble that of a pre-teen androgynous child. Such actions cumulatively create an air of fragility about her which effectively deters anybody from legitimately questioning her work in the fear that she may have a full blown public breakdown Hilary Clinton-style. It also helps that while she is on an eternal diet; she brings chocolates and tubs of M&S mini-bites for her co-workers in order to sugar coat her own incompetencies. 

Whilst her china-doll-wrapped-in-cotton-wool persona coupled with her ability to bawl out in tears at any given moment elicits a certain amount of sympathy, any inkling of likeability is soon reversed when you really look into the blackness of her heart.

Her back stabbing inclinations are so sly and unpredictable one is tempted to take tips from Harriet Harman’s stylist and kit out in a stab-proof vest on all work days.  For example, the Oompa Loompas’ advisory colleague who holds post in a lateral position complementing the Oompa Loompas’ own role (and therefore her potentional rival in her warped mind) had been absent from work for a while due to health complications. The Oompa Loompa text her colleague everyday to ask after her wellbeing, sent flowers and a get well card signed off with “XX”, and then quickly followed this up by hacking into her emails and forwarding the particularly controversial ones to eyes they were never meant for, forever ruining the professional integrity of her colleague. Another time when an young student joined the office and began to attract the attentions of some of the male staff, the Oompa Loompa made sure she was well introduced by oozing compliments about the students’ “beautiful hair and such pretty eyes” before deliberately-by-mistake-oh-so-innocently spilling coffee on the designer shirt dress the girl wore. This incident just happened to occur before a departmental meeting, and the girl had to sit there in front of a number of staff with a brown wet stain on her chest thereby being portrayed as clumsy and unprofessional klutz. Of course, reciting these occurrences leaves out the everyday snide remarks and patronising back handed compliments (“I’d love to be able to stretch a size 12 skirt like that-your curves are really something!”) 

If Mugabe had appointed her minister he would’ve won by a land slide. She would advise him to dress him up in a pink smock and sent him out with a fluffy chihuahua to meet the voters of the opposition in order to kiss their babies and offer them candy floss before ordering a mass cull by his goons in the military. “Ah well, at least they would’ve died on a sugar high,” she would reason. And should the international community have the audacity to condemn this, Mugabe would be advised to stamp his foot and throw a tantrum and snivel as he recalled in a coochie-coo voice the trauma of how that “howwibble, mean man” Ban Ki Moon spoke to him in a raised voice. If that doesn’t get him off the hook, the African dictator should promptly follow it up with a threat to slash his own wrists.

It really does take remarkable will power to restrain oneself from unleashing a triad of abuse at this woman. If it wasn’t for her permanent aura of immaturity and feigned vulnerability one would point out the unhealthy pettiness of her office politics. But then again, nobody wants to be responsible for Thumbelinas’ suicide attempt.     

“Farewell, warrior! ever brave,

Drifting onward to thy grave.”

The Brave Tin Soldier

Rolo the Soldier speaks to people who walk through him everyday. During the Falklands war he had been trained in the best camouflage methods to be elusive and remain unobservable in the most testing of scenarios. Since his return he stands as living testimony to the first class standards of MoD training as he rarely shows up on anybodys social radar anymore. 

He asked if I wanted to purchase a magazine so he could have enough to find dry shelter and buy a can of strong beer that night. I was 40 pence short for the publication, but bought him tea in a polystyrene cup from the stall behind us as I continued to wait at the bus shelter on a bitter afternoon in Camden. 

Rolo the Soldier didn’t sustain any long term physical injuries during his time as a combatant, so he had bullet holes tattooed on his neck upon his return- a representation he said, of the “scars in my mind.” Before I could ask about the nature of these scars and how Rolo came to be homeless as he is today, he turned to a city worker walking aggressively towards him- “Big Issue, sir?” The city worker raised his newspaper up to face level as if to create an editorial shield against having to acknowledge the existence of Rolo the Soldier and continued to walk. Whilst I’m sure the city worker didn’t know of the vendors’ background, this must’ve none the less been like a slap in the face for Rolo the Solider, because on the back of that raised paper (which was now flapping sharply and disappearing into the distance along with its well dressed owner) was a full page advert for the Army- complete with a short punchy slogan, exciting Desert-Storm animation, and smiling faces of token ethnics.  

As the Army launches a slick marketing drive on the fifth anniversary of the invasion of Iraq, it has come under heavy scrutiny by teachers for encouraging youngsters to “Be the Best” in schools. I’m guessing this isn’t because teachers are sitting around the biscuit tin in the staff room wondering if their jobs are being outsourced to the MoD, with Mrs Robinson the Head of Geography, saying to the Chemistry teacher “ Well George, we can’t have those meatheads from the Fifth Battalion telling my year 9’s to dream, that’s our job dammit!” followed by Mr Pritchards’ reply -“ Exactly Martha, just because they’ve been to Iraq doesn’t mean a thing, I bet they haven’t even done their PGC training.” Professional rivalries aside, one cannot help but side with the teachers in questioning the ethics of such recruitment tactics aimed at luring young people who are not yet old enough, or tall enough to even purchase a top-shelf magazine, into the battlefield.

The MoDs mouth piece, Shadow Defence Secretary Liam Fox retorted back that The National Union of Teachers should “concentrate on improving the education for British children instead of undermining British forces” and such action was tantamount to a “kick in the teeth for British soldiers”. Mr Foxs’ conclusions are so absurd and illogical I imagine him pitching his ideas to Des Browne- the top man in British State Defence, must be a ridiculously surreal affair indeed; 

Des: “So, Fox, you know resources are stretched and our numbers are low in Iraq and Afghanistan since they selfishly keep dying on us. We need fresh blood, and fast man!” 

Liam: “Yes, well I outsourced a market research division located in Bangalore to call our youngsters at inconvenient times and find out what is it that they really want and how best we can seduce them into the ranks” 

Des: “And…?” 

Liam “ They like MTV, and  play stations, and such, so then right, imagine it – I got Saatchi and Saatchi to do these slick posters that look like a scene from an online gaming website….And, no wait there’s more- I have this DVD with urban music and …before you ask-yes, I have a distribution strategy figured…I thought, right, the best way would be to go to schools in areas of high unemployment and low income and tell them all about travelling albeit with bullet proof vests on …and it would be exactly like a Gap year for working class kids, they would learn so much –language skills, team work, how to amputate your own arm….I mean sure there is a small chance you might get blown up by a roadside bomb, but hey, you could just as well get knocked down by a bus in Islington ….” 

Des: “Brilliant, Fox, old chap…you’ve out done yourself this time, so what’s the problem?” 

Liam: “Well it’s these darn geriatric hippy school teachers, I mean how dare they show concern for their pupils by pointing out the realities of state sponsored pro-war propaganda?” 

Des : “Traitors, absolutely, we could teach these kids so much!” 

Liam: “Oh, but I have this new idea in order to divert more resources our way. It involves launching a firing squad to take out those treacherous Samaritans for their part in talking hundreds of depressives out of suicide…after all don’t they know the nation is rapidly expanding and we need all the resources we can get to fund the front line in Basra? Gosh, I wish they would zip it with their airy-fairy anxieties for vulnerable members of society, and show more support for our boys in the Military.” 

I got out my travel pass as I saw the number 31 approaching.

As I got on the bus I heard Rolo the Soldier say his well rehearsed lines to the passengers getting off; “Big Issue, mate?” These words never reached the attention of whomever he spoke to, but Rolo the Soldier continued to repeat them over, and over, and over, even when the doors had closed. Perseverance, patience, resilience, the list goes on -the lessons you learn from the Forces are indeed indisputable.

“Begin at the beginning,’ the King said gravely, ‘and go on till you come to the end: then stop.”

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

So let me begin by telling you how all this began from the beginning.  

The seeds for this blog were sown over a cup of chai, in the warm virtual company of my fairy godmother; Mr Hibiscus. 

“A warm hug for you,” he typed his customary and sincere greeting from across the time zones.  Mr Hibiscus is an expat Londoner, (in fact he is from the same town as me) and is currently in India. He is so knowledgeable, yet modest and mellow, I am pretty sure he must be accepted as an honorary Indian even amongst the most die-hard nationalists.   

“oh!!! I’m NOT happy today” I declared. I promptly followed this statement up with several melodramatic crying-faced smilies, and withered flowers and all of the other frivolous paraphernalia available to me in MSN messenger.  

“So what makes you happy?” he asked. I thought this to be an odd question for what he should have asked was “why?” I was ready to answer this but not the former, which caught me off-guard. I was all fired up to recite the long list of well rehearsed miseries including the daily chain of rejection letters for employment, the financial worries, the bad hair day, the weight gain, the unruly flamingo and of course in the British tradition, I wanted to deliver a tragic yet eloquent soliloquy despairing about the weather. 

***CYBER SILENCE***  

“Well you should do what makes you happy” the little green man was finally blinking. 

In my moronic silence I saw the simple beauty of this statement. So much of my daily energy had been expended bitching, even the mere act of reciting my list of woes was preventing me from getting on with the things I love doing, things which would make me happy. 

“So what makes you happy?” my flowery friend rhetorically asked again.  

You see, before I continue I really must pause to tell you about Mr Hibiscus. He is so called, as he possesses an unsymmetrical beauty about him which does not boast, but cannot be ignored for his character is truly striking. His soul is solid, and comfortable, and calm like the patient oak but tender with the innocence of a pregnant spring blossom. He is truly the best fairy godmother one could hope for. 

“WRITE” he instructed simply. 

I looked into my cup of golden brown liquid and a face I knew well smiled back. 

“Ok” I answered.