‘The Non-Flying Dutchman’

Sweeping, soaring on takeoff,

Turbines roaring soundlessly,

Glacial touches sculpt the scene

to your grand design,

Gliding in cool, vapour jets

over Highbury lawn in winter,

Delicate strokes

of nimble limbs

Like ballet on felt.

Hovering suspended,

Mastering gravity and space

inside your ice palace,

as opposition 
like bad henchmen,

falter all around, 
sinking,

as you ski

steadily by,

Runways and channels,

Rising on tectonic waves.

The ball seeks you out

and you offer welcome,

Embracing smoothly,

this familiar acquaintance;

A deceptive warmth-

That solitary vein,

pulsing at the temple,

betrays your nonchalance.

Tundra eyes survey,

in slow-motion pirouette,

The sprawling panorama,

Pitch drawn up in geography,

as you map and conquer,

all routes opening with

satellite navigation,

Cruise control powers up,

Huge silence-

Lifting 

Skating to a standstill,

Clock End ticking silently,

A single frosted breath

escapes the pilot,

The sphere elevating,

curving high above.

  The homing missile dips

hits the net and surges,

Launching your passengers like flares,

red and white into the rafters

(Inspired by Dennis Bergkamp)

Big Brother is not watching you

From time to time we all like to indulge the misconception that our daily lives are special and fascinating and wholly worthy of extended viewing. Channel 4’s Big Brother pandered to this growing modern conceit, allowing the chronically idiotic and the terminally inane to flaunt their soul destroying selves on national television for all to see. Facebook and Twitter have continued this trend with people validating themselves by how many ‘followers’ they have or how many ‘like’ that photo of them impishly pouting in a glitter encrusted mirror. Since God got found out, the absence of a voyeuristic audience to watch us shower, shop and shite has seemingly left us feeling pretty useless. The greedy vacuum has been neatly filled by the most postmodern of sicknesses- what could be called, ‘Big Brother’ syndrome. This strange affliction leads us to conjure omnipresent watchers to make us feel oh-so special. Subsequently, hide and go seek becomes a popular pastime for fully grown adults seeking to shield their intriguing and endlessly exciting lives from starving eyes.  My aunt has recently refused to shop with bank cards, only cash, for fear of ‘the powers that be’ compiling data on her. Correct me if I’m wrong but I’d be inclined to reckon that the AIB, struggling against global recession, has better things to be doing than sending petty hate mail berating my aunt for grabbing that multi-pack of Maltesers the day after she picked up a new treadmill.

In 2008 in Suffolk, attempts to bring in CCTV cameras to trace stolen or criminal vehicles were met with fierce and self-righteous outcries against police surveillance from village folk. It truly begs the question, why would any Orwellian eyes waste their time watching your average, law-abiding 30Kmph motorist as they extract ear wax from their dull ears? Seemingly, Mr. and Mrs. Jones felt the route they took to their ginger beer soaked family picnic was a detail that should only be released following the gradual removal of all their finger nails. It’s depressing but many people now appear to feel entitled to the spotlight, every single minute of their stinking lives. Society’s wildest fantasies are now epitomised in ‘The Truman Show’, veritable masturbation material for the masses. People can’t even step out their front door without alerting their gran, girlfriend and Gary the goldfish via Facebook that they are ‘@in the porch’. Jim Corr, possibly irked about looking like a two year olds Magna Doodle scribble, has cried of omniscient dark forces carefully tracking his every move. His attention seeking antics are a classic case of BB syndrome- a lunatic who spent most his career invisible in the shadow cast by his sisters’ breasts and could’ve walked into any pub in Ireland with ‘I AM JIM CORR FROM THE CORRS’ perfectly scrawled across his chest in his own excrement and barely provoked a glance.

It is of course smugly satisfying to imagine now and then that you’re worthy of such ‘Big Brother’ attention. In all-too-frequent moments of narcissism, my own watcher fantasies are fuelled by the sight of the Russian Embassy standing imperiously on the other side of my street.  On overcast Monday mornings I like to imagine two ex-KGB hitmen perfectly camouflaged in garden shrubbery, meticulously counting each and every sultana in my soggy bowl of cereal and recording the details in a mink lined notepad with a pen that doubles as a lethal radium dart. Or when I pass the Embassy gates on windy nights I revel in vain delight imagining the grainy black-and-white shots of yours truly stashed so very carefully in a wax sealed envelope marked ‘Counter Intelligence- Highly Confidential’. These notions are as deluded as they are fanciful however. In reality we’re mostly cringingly painful to watch, like a nudist octogenarian with a penchant for jumping jacks and baby oil rubs.