Not angry just really disappointed.

I used to work as a disability carer because for a while there I was all heart and no education.  I enjoyed my time and met a lot of inspiring people & a few annoying ones.  On the positive, I once saw a lady with one arm and no legs pull herself out of bed, slide into a wheel chair, roll into the kitchen and make herself toast with jam. My first thought was ‘She’s doing her own condiments, I might be out of a job here.’ We’re talking lids, knives, undoing that plastic bread clip. It was an impressive display of chin work.  My second thought was, ‘Why isn’t this woman running the country? Clearly she’s a problem solver.’ Initially it was a wise crack for my mind only, but now I’m certain it will be asked en mass by those of us tired by the current heightened state of affairs.

We seem intent on getting tall able-bodied men to lead us, somehow believing height equals intelligence and strength. Every time it’s a tall guy sprouting the same rubbish. He gets ousted and we get another tall guy. I’m six foot three and I’m telling you, it’s bullshit, we’re morons. I’m basing that on no scientific evidence. Why? I’m a tall moron and that’s what we do. But as a tall man I will suggest that we put our prejudices aside and start allowing space for the more oddly shaped movers and shakers of the world, because they’d make fine leaders. 

First up, Minister for Communication: Someone with a heavy dose of cerebral palsy. I’ve met several folks with this condition and they’ve all been as smart as a whip. Talking to them is a pleasure as when you finally understand what they’re saying you realise it’s never rubbish. Every word counts. And wouldn’t we love to see journalists (I use that word like they still exist) have to pause and listen before realising they’re being told to bugger off.

 I’d like to see a legless man run finances. When your economy has no legs who better to run it? Actually anyone who can survive and prosper on a disability pension would be more than qualified for the position.

Minister for Policing: Someone with just enough autism to get the job done. I once had to help out a young man who was on the spectrum and wheel chair bound. Nothing got past this guy. You don’t know guilt until someone wheels up to you and says, ‘Adam, I know you steal biscuits.’ How did he know? The pantry door was shut! There was no noisy wrapping. I chewed with my mouth closed & covered it with a scarf. I was muffled! ‘I’m not angry I’m just really disappointed.’ As he wheeled himself out of the kitchen with his head shaking from side to side, I genuinely wanted to call my mum. There’d be no sweeping corruption under the carpet with this guy in your cabinet.  

I’d like to see the Minister for Defence be someone who has stepped on a landmine and survived. Our troops might not be sent to troubled zones if the person doing the sending is at least experiencing phantom pain.

The big job: I’d like to see a party leader who appreciates freedom, demonstrates compassion, someone who knows how to overcome adversity, a person who takes what they’re given and makes the most of it. Now I’m sure many people qualify for this position but I want the person most qualified and even a moron knows, they are probably not tall. 

Memory is a funny thing.

I was reminded last night by the very funny Robert White that back in '04 I did a gig holding a pool cue and waving it around at the out of control audience who, if my memory serves me correctly, didn't know comedy was on and didn't like that I was blocking the view of the cigarette machine. I vaguely remember grabbing the pool cue and shaking it whilst doing my gags because I was legitimately scared. Who knows maybe I thought the night needed it. I needed it.
The gig was so poorly promoted & run that, in hindsight, this made it the funniest aspect of the night.  The humour of which must have only be appreciated on the train home. Surely? I even remember hearing later that the headliner decided not to get up as the gig was such a shambles. It was no lights, no microphone bad. I like to think that the headliner was Lewis Schaffer but it may not have been. It's cooler if it was. It's all very vague. What I didn't remember, because up until last night I didn't know, was that the gig was held at a BNP pub!  Robert, who has aspergers and a memory for these things, suggests the gig may have been a lot worse and more dangerous than my memory lets me believe. How did this conversation come about? After not seeing each other for 8 years we met at a gig & had that moment of recognition before Robert smiled and said, 'Pool Cue.' What I like about this story is that my memory of Robert involves a gig in Crouch End where afterwards, we were both standing by the side of the road watching an old man drive his car up a hill completely unaware that one tyre was missing and sparks were showering the traffic behind. The poor guy kept driving with two hands on the wheel, eyes forward, wonderfully oblivious to the lack of tyre and the fact that his night time visual would be trumped by an obscured cigarette machine. 

Resurrection in the park.

I tell Boy Son that they’re simply called “Trees” knowing that greater men have walked this path and reeled off names like Almus Hybrid and Snowdrop and Flatspine Prickly*. I bet they had excellent posture and puffed on pipes whilst quoting Kipling. The leaves however, they’re just leaves & I take comfort in knowing that any man who deviated from this easiest of descriptions must’ve been an absolute wibberwasher**.  We push on. The yelling and thrilling of molly coddled children plays softly in the foreground as my boots squelch to the rhythm of avoiding puddles. I’m the forgotten warrior of the park, the man whose DNA once punched out a Yak but I’ve boiled down to sipping lattes whilst side stepping my own reflection. My DNA’s latest resurrection is having none of this and decides to chant at the nameless trees, throwing dirt into their face before running around each one, three times apiece. I secretly hope this crowd gathering ritual will unlock a tree Genie who’s been waiting for this exact pattern to unfold. ‘Finally I’m free! Thank you little boy. I thought the spell was broken last week but the little fucker only ran around twice… Not to worry, I’m yours forever. Lets grab dad and head to India. I’ve got a score to settle. To the spices!’ I squinted my eyes and crossed my fingers, hoping against hope that the oncoming floppy eared fuzz ball was in fact Mr Tree Genie himself. This was stupid and I had to unpack my mind bags. India would have to wait. Embarrassingly the futility of my squinting was highlighted by the sound of steamed up piss falling on my pram. But oh how we all laughed… ‘The dog pissed on the man’s pram… the inappropriateness of it all, that’s what makes it so amusing. Wibber, wibber wibber.’ I shot them all with my mind vibes and they vaporised into the kind of dust that only gathers onto broken dreams. Suckers. I sipped my latte and pushed on.

Boy Son opened the gate and stood mesmerised as fragments of the future ran around shooting each other with sticks. I laughed at the realities of playground war; A twenty second ban if you’re wounded, thirty if you die, forty if you die near family. These rules played underneath a far more depressing conversation, ‘Darling not too close to the edge you might fall.’ My parents would introduce me to the weekend by firing me out of a cannon with half an apple and a slap on the arse yet still, I’m a pale reflection of a Yak Puncher. Today’s darlings are shot well before they can strap on their boots.

Up he climbed and down he slid for long enough so that I might be considered a decent father. It’s 12 parts love and adoration, 3 parts stifling boredom and 6 parts hiding the 3 parts. Today I did it well. Tomorrow I don’t know? He may want details.

*Derived solely from Google; may not be the trees in my park.

** Wibberwashers are jowly grown ups possessing no sense of humour and often they sound like overly serious washing machines.