John Martyn Is Dead

Anyone who has seen John Martyn over the last few years knew that he would probably shuffle off this mortal coil earlier than had he lived the life of a trappist monk. And there is the irony of so many great artists: the disolution, the hedonism - call it what you will - is what gave the edge to the art.

The other side of it for me is that John Martyn has been the sound track to so many bits of my life. His variety of his styles has meant there has never been a time or mood without a song to suit it. In fact his many metamorphoses have often coincided with my own.

He has never been an apologist for his life alcohol abuse and in fact in a recent, not yet aired, interview was positively ebullient about his suspicion that his body was running out of its capacity to contain him. You can't help but smile when you listen to his matter of fact irascible good-humouredness.

I'm not one for mawkish sentimentality, nor wearing my heart on my sleeve. Whenever I feel like that I slip a John Martyn record on - he's far too good at doing it for me. But if blogging is about anything, it is about jotting down a note or two about those moments that matter. And John Martyn's dying matters to me.

If you are not familiar with his music have a look at this 2007 interview and then work backwards from there - I couldn't begin to recommend a favourite track - I have so many, just go and explore.

Has the BBC Lost Its Way?

It started with the furore over the BBC's refusal to air the Disasters Emergency Committee appeal for people suffering in Gaza - the BBC fell over itself to avoid the slightest whiff of bias. The only thing is they did what many bureacracy bound organisations end up doing - tied themselves in so tight a knot that they do nothing. So the suffering continues.

Then, last night the Beeb broadcast A ShortStay in Switzerland the moving true story of Dr Ann Turner who, in 2006, took her own life in a Switzerland clinic, before a cruel degenerative disease left her trapped, unable to carry out the act for herself.

For millions of people Julie Walters' performance resonated deeply sending waves of conflicting emotion crashing into each other. It certainly did for us. Then at the end of the programme when people felt at their most emotionally raw and exposed the Beeb offered a helpline.

Here is the list of people who may have been affected by the issues raised in the programme:

- anyone caring for someone with a degenerative disease
- anyone caring for someone with a terminal illness
- anyone who has cared for someone with a terminal illness until they died
- anyone suffering from any of the above and considering suicide as an option
- anyone suffering from any of the above and unable to face suicide as an option.

To meet the needs of all those people, the BBC offered only one helpline. It related to the single rare condition that Ann Turner suffered from: Progressive Supranuclear Palsy.

Were the BBC frightened that they might be seen to support the case of suicide? Were they paralysed into, again, doing nothing to help people in need? Has the BBC lost its balls?

If you are affected by any of the above, this organisation gives a view on ending life voluntarily, or if you just want to talk to someone about your situation click here.

That's all it needed, BBC.

Too Much Porn?

Have you seen Wordle? It's a superb way of seeing the most common words in a piece of text expressed graphically. But no matter which way I configure my Wordle there's one word that is far too prominent - Porn. So this is my last porn related post until it looks smaller.

In fact this won't last long - it's quite a small one.

At Christmas lots of people in our office had a Wii, so the office talk is about Wii Fit, Wii Guitar Hero and Wii Movie Maker. With my temporary focus on the porn world I had a big flash today. And one that caused me to laugh out loud as myriad images appeared before my eyes.

I leave the rest to your imagination as you think of all those middle aged, slightly overweight people playing....wait for it....

Wii Porn

The Home For Retired Porn Stars

I couldn't help but repeat 'Should Be in Bed, he's Rambling's' comment on my last post. It made me laugh out loud. You may recall that I was drawing a parallel between the attempts of the porn industry to make themselves seem more innocuous and the world of greyhound racing with its by-product of unwanted greyhounds needing re-homing.

'Should Be' wrote the following:

'I kinda like the idea of rehoming aged pornstsrs though, purely as some sort of moral duty for the entertainment they have given before the teeth sagged and the implants fell out. It can be such a clinical decision when selecting a rescue dog: not that one - too big: Nope - he'd eat the cat: she doesn't match the curtains.... How would one decide which retiree of the pornographic industry met the unique domestic requirements of each household?
Well she's still housetrained but we can't have Miss Leopardskin 1973, we'd never find her on the sofa...'

I laughed almost as much as when I discovered that some aged (male) porn stars actually find work as 'stunt-cocks' to carry out the ejaculatory act when the worn out real stars can't manage it.

But as for what really happens to retired porn stars, I wonder whether they wouldn't find a welcome home at the Gimcrack Hospital under the gentle ministrations of Nurse Myra. Or perhaps there are already homes for them, perhaps there is one near you subtly disguised as a common or garden retirement home...only it's not bingo they play in the afternoons.

What would it be called though? St Jude is the patron saint of lost causes, or what about good old St Nicholas, the patron saint of sex workers?

In any case you can click here if you can rehome one....err, sorry a greyhound I mean.

Sex and Money

Oh what joy. Finally the day has arrived when I can write a post that truly justifies the two key words most likely to get a raft of hits to my blog: sex and money.

And what a delightfully astute move by the US porn industry to demand, in the manner of the US car industry, a government injection to shore up its limp prospects (oh, there's more to come). Astute, not because porn stars are likely to receive a hand job, sorry, hand-out from sympathetic government sponsors but because where else could they get pan-global marketing coverage like they have received.

I mean, they've been begging for it - the chance to claim a useful role for society: cheering people up when things are going down. Albeit, in the manner of drugs or alcohol, the cheeriness is only short-lived (or perhaps short lasting). So here it was, on a plate, a golden opportunity to market an industry that otherwise struggles to advertise in the mass media.

Did they want or expect a multi-billion dollar? Did they heck. What they wanted was the opportunity for top porn artistes to talk about their art in mock serious terms to con the public at large that actually the industry has professional standards. Would you have believed that so called respectable papers would publish the fact that for only $19.95 a month you could have unfettered access to watch people 'doing it' live.

So, what's the harm in a few sad sods spending hard earned dollars sitting with spunky tissues before their screens?

Well perhaps there is a rather more sinister motive behind this marketing coup. Whilst the world's mass media raises a rueful smile and chuckles over the fun to be had with puns, the rather darker underbelly of this exploitative industry sits smugly in the knowledge that the public at large sees their business as a little more benign than they did yesterday .

For they do have something to hide. A bit like how a night at the dogs - greyhound racing - doesn't display the cruel fate of the unsuccessful hounds. The champagne face of porn doesn't broadcast the cheaper end of the market where age and/or consent is less important.

Sarah Policelady Is Back Again

Some of you may remember my friend Sarah - a UK Police Officer who, for a while, had a blog over at Word Press. I was in their house last week and persuaded her that we, the public, are genuinely interested in what it is like dealing with life at its edges.

Here is her most recent post on the blog that I am looking after for her.

I commend it to you.

Crofty's New Year Message - The Song Remains The Same

Hootenanny's finished and it's time for bed. There's only one thing left to do: the Crofty New Year Message, same as it ever was...

Try telling anyone, as they are liberally splashing Hugo Boss over their manly chest or donning a posh frock (not necessarily the same person you understand) that New Year is a stupid celebration and they look at you like you have just told them you are off to join a commune of some strange religious sect. Now that it's all over I will explain why I have never quite understood the need to draw an arbitrary line in the sand of time and call it a new year. For that is all it is: an administrative necessity to have a beginning and an end of the so called year. I understand why it is convenient to have one but why celebrate it?.. nothing changes.

At least Christmas, Eid or Divali have some sort of symbolism, even if you don't believe the in the spirituality that goes with them; but new year is a nothing. If we are going to celebrate it we might as well celebrate it in April when at least the accountants have something to be pleased about.

For many people this idea of taking stock of the previous twelve months and looking forward to the next is anathema. The time to take stock is when it is right for you. That is why so many new year resolutions fail: people are forced into resolving when their hearts are not in it. When you really want to do something do it; make a plan, find your motivation for achieving it and go for it. Away with this clap trap.

And by way of a cheery note on which to end; did you know that the early hours of new year morning are the most common time for suicide. Surprised? You shouldn't be when thousands of people who have had a shit year and another shit one to come are forced to reflect on the fact.

Happy New Year!