Speak Up!!

Someone sent me this series of adverts as they were printed in The New York Times... So here is my take on the message to the British Journalists:

ASK YOURSELVES...
WHAT KIND OF MESSAGE ARE YOU SENDING?

ASK YOURSELVES..
WHAT ARE YOU ACHEIVING?

SPEAK OUT!!!

Boycotts are Bullshit... I've been boycotting the BBC for years, and they are still there!

So why don't you stop whinging and get back to work... or change your career maybe. Thank you! :)

The Demise of a Wanton Harlot

As a child you do not acknowledge the romance of the cherry blossom tree. You see it. It is pretty. You reach out for it as you swing high on your multi-coloured swing set, jumping out in the hope that you might catch a bunch before you fall to floor and bruise your arm. You sit at the trunk for hours and look upwards to a sky of pink and wonder if it tastes as much like candyfloss as it looks. You ask yourself why it is called cherry blossom when no cherries grow from it. But you never see the romance of the blossom as it buds and blooms and then ultimately falls seductively from the tree and cover the brown ground with its delicate colour.

I would gaze for months on end at my sad and lonely tree shivering in the harsh winds of the cruel English autumn and only wish the snow would come soon to blanket her bare branches. Weeks would pass and I would wait with the patience of the child I was for any sign of her re-growth. And then one day the sun would come out and with trepidation I would gaze out of my window and find her blushing pink and shouting out to the world… “the Spring is here!”

But with Spring follows the Summer, the unbearable heat weighing us down, temperatures and tempers rising and only the Winter to look forward to. And I sit under my tree and watch all the blossom falling off and wonder why Spring sprung off so soon… could I not hold the coil for any longer?

Time to cool off and jump back in the sea.

Good Mourning

I fell asleep last night with a tear held fast in the well of my eye, a pain in my chest and a heart out of beat and waited for the dreams to begin. After three nights of dream filled sleep minus the grey foxes that run through my legs, I saw myself walking in the city. Every face that passed me was the same and the tears could no longer be held in. I found refuge in an old stairway with a yellow bike blocking my route and tried to regain my composure and breath. But I could not breath. The grey fox was staring at me, shaking his head.

“What do you want from me? I have nothing more to hide. I am not concealing anything.”

He carried on staring at me, unfazed by my words and sat on the ground and licked his wounds.

I stood to walk back out into the street. The fox jumped to attention and followed my every step. I walked down tree filled boulevards, in between the familiar faces, avoiding the cyclists and the eyes of those faces staring at me. The fox ran in between and around my legs as I walked and under the purple blossomed tree he stopped blocking my path. Forced to stop I looked up and the face was staring back at me with a smile.

“Why?”

No answer

“I miss you”

No response. Just a smile

“I hate you.”

The face turned grey and cried and I cried, and we stood staring at each other, crying. There was a hug somewhere between us, but we could not reach it; a kiss somewhere in the void, but our mouths were tight shut. I tried to run away, but I could not move. I looked down at the fox and he looked up at me and mouthed the words “I love you”.