K.P. Webster's Blog, page 22

Happy Christmas One and All

Why I Love London and How I Became a Jew

After spending the majority of the past couple of years in rural places, I have to say, it’s good to be back in London again. Although really, it could probably be any city. Any city except Sunderland. For what is a city, if not, quite simply, a large gathering of disparate people squished up together, surrounded in all directions by concrete and tarmac and glass. Personally I much prefer trees and lakes and wild boar to concrete and tarmac and glass, so really, the only good thing about cities, as far as I’m concerned, is the people. People are such glorious creatures. Even the hateful hurtful terrified minority are pretty glorious, once you scrape away the nonsense.

So anyway, what made my second week in London more interesting than it might otherwise have been was the two days’ work that fell into my lap. The work was helping to refurbish a tawdry gambling den in the heart of the West End by filling it with sparkly stuff and fake skyscrapers and the Perspex silhouettes of international landmarks. It was fun physical work and the people I met were cool and in some cases, utterly adorable.

Then after the work was done on Thursday night, a few of us went for a drink on the Charing Cross Road and before very long – due to a combination of enjoyable work, adorable people, alcohol and a couple of crafty joints – I was in one of those sublimely sociable, indomitably blithe moods where every trip to the bar or the loo inevitably includes warm conversation and easy unforced laughter.

Plus there was the hubbub of the street – the rickshaws, the sirens, the endless stream of distressed people stopping to ask for money. That night I was loving it all.

Then it was home-time and on the way to the bus – which the driver let me board for free because my Oyster card was empty, and for which I kind of loved him – I saw this:

A second before I took the above picture, in order to get the attention of the guys on the pavement, I gave a small shout of ‘Oy!’ Then, photo in the bag, I made my way past the van and one of the two behatted young men blocked my path and said, ‘Are you Jewish?’

I answered as one always must when that question is posed, with a waggle of a flat right hand and the words, ‘Well, I’m Jewish.’

‘Was your mother Jewish?’

‘My grandmother was Jewish,’ I told him, although that isn’t strictly true.

‘Your grandmother on your mother’s side?’

We were standing quite close, face to face, and it was clear from his shining, staring, insatiable eyes – like a rabbi caught in the headlights – that he so wanted me to say yes, so it didn’t feel like lying at all. It felt like breaking down barriers, like making another baby step on the road to unification, revolution, evolution. ‘YES!’ I cried.

‘Then you are Jewish!’ he replied.

‘YES!’ I repeated. ‘I am!’

Then he placed something on my head – I guess it was a yarmulke but it seemed when glimpsed briefly more like a small, slightly sexy tea-towel – and he said something to me, a single word that I did not recognise. Automatically, I repeated it. Then, before I had time to wonder if I’d been a fool to repeat it, he said another word. I repeated that too. And on it went, this delicious catechism, this sonorous senseless incantation, flowing into my ears and out of my mouth.

‘Barukh.’

‘Barukh.’

‘Eloheinu.’

‘Eloheinu.’

‘Bechamel.’

‘Bechamel.’

‘Meshugenah….’

I don’t actually recall the exact words. I had only been a Jew for a matter of seconds at that point and my knowledge of the liturgy was scant. But I could repeat. And it felt good. It also reminded me very much of Larry David’s attempts to convince the head of the kidney consortium that he was an Orthodox Jew…

Oy.

So anyway, when I’d repeated the last phrase, which may or may not have been ‘Mazel tov!’, my rabbi said, ‘Now eat this!’ and handed me a sticky doughnut (sufganiyah). Then he gave me a Hanukkah kit containing menorah, candles and dreidel.

And then it was all over and I was left feeling pretty much exactly how Saul must have felt after the Damascene conversion. Saul on the road to Damascus, me on the road to Charing Cross station; Saul amazed by a bright light flashed from heaven, me amazed by the sweet, sticky loveliness of a free doughnut; Saul blinded by Jesus, me blinded by whoever it is we Jews believe in. I’ve still got a lot to learn. I recognise that.

Then when I’d more or less recovered, I noticed a Jesus Army van parked up across the street. Sadly, they offered no doughnuts. I shook my head and muttered something in Yiddish. It may have been ‘beheymes’.

So there we have it. Religion isn’t all bad. But don’t let it confuse you. There is no God. It’s just a distraction.

Happy Hanukkah, fellow Jews, and fellow Gentiles alike.

May sweet softling kisses rain down upon you all.

x

 

'It Ain't Complicated…' :: An Interview With Russell Brand

This is, I believe, the most exciting interview I have ever seen. I know we tend to only really admire the people with whom we agree, and that is certainly the case here. There’s no doubt that the reason this interview excited and moved me as much as it did was because I do agree wholeheartedly with everything that Russell Brand says in it, and I don’t believe I’ve ever heard anyone express these opinions so passionately, so eloquently and so uncompromisingly.

If you haven’t seen it, and you feel like you need a little lift, a litte tiramisu, a little reminder of the interconnectivity of all consciousness and the ultimate futility of greed and profit and separateness, then you could do a lot worse than watch this interview. Plus, it is very funny. He’s like Chomsky with cussing, jokes and shiny trainers.

I hope you are well.

We’ll speak of more trivial things soon, I’m sure.

 

Filed under: BLOG

‘It Ain’t Complicated…’ :: An Interview With Russell Brand

This is, I believe, the most exciting interview I have ever seen. I know we tend to only really admire the people with whom we agree, and that is certainly the case here. There’s no doubt that the reason this interview excited and moved me as much as it did was because I do agree wholeheartedly with everything that Russell Brand says in it, and I don’t believe I’ve ever heard anyone express these opinions so passionately, so eloquently and so uncompromisingly.

If you haven’t seen it, and you feel like you need a little lift, a litte tiramisu, a little reminder of the interconnectivity of all consciousness and the ultimate futility of greed and profit and separateness, then you could do a lot worse than watch this interview. Plus, it is very funny. He’s like Chomsky with cussing, jokes and shiny trainers.

I hope you are well.

We’ll speak of more trivial things soon, I’m sure.

 

How Do You Like Them Apples?

The apple-picking is over and I’m back at Cyrus and Ruby’s after a few days reading, writing and relaxing at The Shack. In order to best describe the running buffet of emotions that is apple-picking, I would like to offer the following, the minutes of a typical day on the pommes…

7am Silence alarm clock and lie in dark room, preparing, mentally

7.20 Get out of bed, eat stale pain au chocolat and drink tea

7.35 Pull on waterproof trousers and place dry-socked feet in fresh plastic bags in wet boots

7.40 Drive to orchard complaining about darkness, weather and apple-picking in general, but agreeing that it could be worse, and at least we’re not working down a mine

8am Begin picking apples.

8.05 Continue picking apples. Essentially, pick one apple after another – two simultaneously when conditions are optimum – until all you really want to do is sell your soul to Satan in exchange for a life wherein you will never have to pick another apple again as long as you live

8.17 Continue picking apples

8.20 Receive first rough handling warning from hawk-eyed supervisor and orchardess, Madame du Pommes – “doucement, doucement” – despite being the most gentle, tender apple-handler since Eve

8.30 Realise that the security of the plastic bags has once again been breached. Curse cold, sad, soaking wet feet. Regret leaving wellies in Le Buis

8.40 Curse cold, sad, soaking wet universe as rain begins to fall in earnest

8.45 Weep involuntarily as chemicals from apples find their way into eyes with rainwater

9.15-11.50 Weep voluntarily as rain continues unabated. Begin eventually to fantasise about working down a mine

11.55 Realise that you are nothing but hands, eyes and feet and that you only exist to serve an apparently widespread addiction to Golden Delicious apples; feel insignificant

12pm Stop for lunch

1.30 Resume the picking of apples

1.45 Attempt to surf the tsunami of anger and bitter, bitter apple-hatred to a happier place, a place without apples, a place with waterfalls and endless, soothing sun and time, lots of glorious, empty time; fail to do so

3pm Rejoice as sun finally comes out

3.30 Begin to think that, you know, really, when all is said and one, there are actually worse things that one could do with one’s time, to earn nine euros an hour, minus tax

4.30 Do a little dance because there is only one hour to go

4.35 Receive rhythm warning from Madame du Pommes

4.40 Realise rhythm warning was in one’s imagination and that the pommes – and the ceaseless, mindless repetition of their picking – has made of one’s brain a sad, simmering compote

5.30 Pick last pomme. Eat it. Worry about the chemicals. Scarper.

But you know what? It was fun. On the whole. Even at the worst times, the strictly finite nature of the task gave me the wherewithal to continue in relative blitheness. At times it did feel like the worst job I’ve ever had – bar calling up pensioners and trying to get them to give their life-savings to New Labour – but at other times it wasn’t so bad. And I’m convinced it’s good to do something mind-numbing once in a while. It really is character-building. Mostly, it reminded me how incredibly lucky I am that I don’t have a proper job. And most probably never will have.

Phew.

Here’s to jobs one can do at a computer, preferably in bed with a White Russian to hand.

Now I’ve got to write a couple of pitches. Wish me luck. And have a smashing weekend.

Oh, and I hope that thing works out for you. You know. That thing. You deserve it.

x

Turn and Face the Strange

Hello, you lovely, lovely bastard.

I haven’t blogged for a while. You may have noticed.

This is because – aside from fixing up a partially flood-damaged house in Bellac – I’ve been moving from one thing to another. In my head. And I think I was waiting for the next thing to properly ferment before I spoke of the last thing turning slightly sour and passing into the past. I wanted to make things a little more positive before I spoke of something which I was feeling – despite myself – was a tad negative. Are you with me?

Last time we spoke I was somewhere in Italy, working on some farm or other and feeling a little disappointed with the WWOOFing experience as a whole. In retrospect, I realise that my expectations were all wrong and that I should have been more prepared for periods in which, essentially, there was no fun. I also realise that WWOOFing was simply not for me at this point in my life. There were some glorious moments that I will never forget and it was a wonderful experience that I don’t regret for a second, but after two months, I confess that I was feeling discouraged, under-appreciated and increasingly lonely and broke.

At which point a Skype conversation with Cyrus and Ruby threw up the opportunity of paid work in France. It wasn’t definite as yet, but Cyrus and Ruby wanted to know why I didn’t just come back to France anyway? Why would I continue to do something that wasn’t making me happy? I explained that I had commitments – another two farms in another four weeks. It was as simple as that. I had given my word.

When I woke up the next morning, the decision had somehow been made. I explained to my hosts in Lazio that I had paid work opportunities in France that I could not afford to pass up. My hosts were variously understanding and wholly indifferent. I also wrote emails to my hosts-to-be and, with sincere sadness and heartfelt apologies, I took back my word. Then my out-of-date Italian ID card got me on an overnight bus back to France and I was lost again. I mean free. I was free again. Freeeeeee.

But also feeling a little lost, I can’t deny it. I had tried another thing – and it had come to nothing. It was a thing for which I had had high hopes too: in my head the WWOOFing adventure would take me around Italy for a year, then on to South America, with best-selling travel-adventure books popping out of me like magic corn. I even spent a weekend learning how to make myself make it happen with Jamie Catto and a roomful of other stifled creatives.

One of things you do in Jamie’s ‘What About You?‘ workshop is write up an outrageously flattering interview with yourself, from the future, but from a fantastic and wholly fulfilling future in which your creative project has come to delirious fruition. I had myself saving children in Paraguay and opening orphanages whilst my books were made into films and I eventually became the only person to be awarded Nobel Prizes for both Peace and Literature. I think I won an Oscar too. I really got into it. So when it didn’t work out that way, when WWOOFing didn’t lead directly to commercial and critical acclaim on a genuinely unprecedented level, a part of me was naturally inclined to feel a little down about it.

And I’ve been working through that.

Another of the things that stayed with me from the Jamie Catto weekend – which I would wholeheartedly recommend if you think you need help connecting with life again, or would just like to pass a couple of days with a highly eloquent and charismatic person playing games and thinking about important things – was the idea of  changing one’s instinctive reaction to  one’s fuck-ups. Essentially forcing oneself to laugh where one would more commonly cringe and recoil and call oneself a c-word. (Cunt.) This stuck with me because I do that a lot, or have tended to in the past.

I can be having a lovely day, strolling through a glade maybe, taking the sun and feeling every bit the deliciously unique miracle I most certainly am, when my mind will wander to some past humiliation, making me cry out and cringe simultaneously, then I will curse myself and feel awash with negative emotions. This is something I have managed to partially modify. It’s not as bad as it used to be. Laughing at my gaucheness and inappropriacy is becoming, with practice, a natural response. I’m giving myself a break. You know why? Because I’m worth it.

WWOOFing wasn’t a fuck-up of the cringe-and-cry-out kind by any stretch of the imagination. It just wasn’t for me. And it’s taken me longer than I would have preferred to finally feel perfectly fine with that.

The fact is, WWOOFing was the thing that I most wanted to do in the world, and I did it. The fact that it didn’t work out how I’d hoped is largely irrelevant, and the fact that I tried it is something to celebrate. So I renounce any negative feelings I have about my failure to make something more of WWOOFing. I renounce the fuck out of them. Then I give them a playful goose and suggest that they do something more constructive with their time.

So, the new thing. The thing that I now want to do more than anything else in the world. It came when I was lying on the floor, stretching my back.

I have decided to go and live in Thailand.

Yup.

Thailand.

But first, apple-picking.

Apple-picking will last for a maximum of three weeks. I don’t know much else about it at this point. It begins on Thursday. Tomorrow, in fact. I’ll be staying with friends, one of whom will be picking with me. I am looking forward to it.

Soon after that I will return to England, nurse my mum through a major operation, publish a new novel and learn how to drive, whilst simultaneously earning lots of money writing about things that interest me and paying off my debts into the bargain. All before April 2014.

That’s the plan.

But first, apples.

 

Rome Alone

This image – of the beach at Fiumefreddo – is wholly irrelevant…

Catania, 16:18, 25th July, 2013

I’m sitting on a balcony at a friend’s flat in the middle of Catania. The view from the balcony reminds me of Naples inasmuch as it’s a cat-burglar’s paradise. I could easily jump from this balcony to the roof below, shimmy across that railing like a koala, up onto that aircon box – like a meerkat – onto those tiles and through one of those windows at the back of Teatro Massimo, as the locals call it. Once inside the theatre, I suppose I could find a rail of old costumes and prance about in the dark, pretending for a while to be somebody else. Or I could turn on a light. But my point is, Catania feels very intimate, like Naples. I met a woman called Margherita in Naples. I kind of loved her. But she kind of loved someone else. So it goes.

A short while ago, a pigeon landed on the balcony. I christened her Priscilla and then, because she was threatening to go into my friend’s bedroom, I tossed her to a lower roof – gently – hoping she would fly off and be happy. She didn’t. She can’t fly. Now she’s down there, wondering what on earth to do with her life. Poor Priscilla. I kind of love her. But I don’t think she’s going to make it…

 

Morlupo, near Rome, 13:25, 27th July, 2013

I made it to Rome. Now I’m sitting in the living room of the apartment in which I’ll be living for the next 12 days or so. It’s 37 degrees outside. The apartment stinks of long-stale sweat. I worked for about four hours this morning, weeding. Here I am marvelling at a giant cabbage. I am – appropriately – out of focus. In fact, I would go so far as to say I look positively super-imposed. Maybe I am. Maybe that’s the problem…

Che cavolo…

So far the whole WWOOFing experience has not really been that which I was expecting. Don’t get me wrong, it’s mostly fun – although mostly might be pushing it – and even when it isn’t fun, it’s fascinating. What I’m finding though, and this is what I really didn’t expect, is that I frequently feel rather lonely. Thinking about it, I’m not sure why I didn’t expect it, as it’s been a recurring theme in my travels throughout my life. When I haven’t been in a relationship, I mean. And occasionally when I have. It’s like, all roads lead here…

15:15, 29th July, 2013

I just fell into reading about the last time I was in Rome, alone. Even though I was prancing around in the dark pretending to be someone else at the time, it really is amazing how little has changed.

Fuck it. Here’s to the future…

A Thousand Words…

You may have noticed, I have fallen out of the habit of blogging. Or not. Doesn’t matter. The important thing is that I have fallen into the habit of writing every day about what’s happening out here and if there isn’t a best-selling book in it – or at the very least a lousy-selling book – then I’ll eat all of our hats. In the meantime, this photograph – taken by one of these two adorable scamps – is really all you need to know.

 

A WWOOF Guide to Italy :: What is WWOOFing?

I’ve been surprised – since I started banging on about it – by how many people have never heard of WWOOFing. A common response to first hearing the word is a feigned confusion with ‘dogging‘, which, although it has begun to wear a little thin now, was hilarious when I first heard it. Really. I still have a nurse visit me every couple of days to tend the debilitating wounds in my sides.

WWOOFing has nothing to do with dogging. Don’t be silly. Here’s a little video…

WWOOFing was established in England in 1971 when a London secretary called Sue Coppard had the idea of providing city dwellers – such as herself – with the opportunity of getting out into the countryside and becoming involved in the organic movement. At that time WWOOF stood for ‘Working Weekends on Organic Farms’ and it consisted of four people helping out on one bio-dynamic farm at Emerson College in Sussex. As it became more popular and people began to extend their stays, the name was changed to ‘Willing Workers on Organic Farms’. Unfortunately, the word ‘work’ and the fact that no money was actually changing hands caused employment officials in some countries to become confused and angry, and so the meaning changed again to ‘World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms’, which is cheating slightly, as ‘worldwide’ is only one word, no matter what the ‘World Wide Web’ tells you.

So from these very humble beginnings, with four people travelling an hour outside of London, the WWOOF organisation now encompasses tens of thousands of farms in close to 100 countries. Which sounds complicated. But isn’t. It’s actually remarkably simple.

Here’s how it works. You join the WWOOF organisation specific to the country you want to work in and you receive a list of all the farms that have signed up to accept voluntary workers. I paid €25 for the Italian list, which had around 500 farms on it.

Once you have your list, you read through it and find the places that inspire you the most and you write to them.

One thing you should know is that there is a wide range of organisation-types that would like your help. They range from single people with a spare room and a few vegetables in a patch to international movements and spiritual communities. They range from this…

‘Help needed all year in the fields, greenhouses, in the woods, with planting, harvesting, clearing land, building fences and with repairing traditional stone walls. We have 2 donkeys. After work you can relax playing music, singing, dancing, telling stories, spinning wool … we do not have TV!’

…to this…

‘We are primarily a Spiritual Community. We are about 30 people working in different sectors. The existential quest is the most important factor. We are open to a discussion of sharing but we are also aware that there is a True collaboration. If you come here you should not come looking for a holiday but for an opportunity for interior growth. Our lifestyle is KARMA YOGA, the path of action….’

…to this…

‘Il Sogno di un Uomo Ridicolo (in English “The dream of a ridiculous man”) is an ecovillage project. We are a family with four very cheerful, friendly, lively, noisy children. Two dogs, three cats, three goats, geese, ducks, chickens and a tortoise … Our goal is to be able to live simply, in harmony with the countryside, and in a true relationship with nature … to be independent as much as possible, not slaves of a society that embraces getting fat, every day eating away at our our bodies, our minds and our souls. We live without fast technology in a humble and simple way … We want to meet people who help us to grow in this direction … maybe people who then decide to share our project, our dream of a ridiculous man!’

…to this…

‘In the heart of the Tosco Emiliano Apennines at an altitude of 1000m we try to live in harmony with the sky, the sun, the animals, the woods and each other. We are part of the community of the Elves, we are adults and children between 1 and 50 years of age with a grandmother who comes for the summer. We cultivate the land using natural methods and have two donkeys, chickens and cats.’

And a great many things in between.

So you arrange to visit the farm or project of your choice – a period of anything between a few days and a number of years – and you go.

The thing that a lot of people can’t get their head around is that the work you do is unpaid. Shortly before I came away, I met a man on a bus to Chesterfield who said he couldn’t imagine working without getting paid. It just didn’t compute. That’s what work is for many people – indeed that’s what life is for many people – money in exchange for time spent doing something for someone else. I know a lot of people who share this opinion. I don’t share this opinion. Most of the work I have done in my life has been largely unpaid – or at least paid very, very badly. This is why I don’t have enough money to renew my passport. HAHAHA!

But this is also why I am currently lying in the shade of a palm tree in a small town near Lecce sipping a cold beer and considering another swim. If I was still in London, let’s say editing a legal magazine in an air-conditioned office just off Oxford Street, I would be earning fairly decent money, but – and it’s a big but – I would still be in London, editing a legal magazine in an air-conditioned office just off Oxford Street.

Instead, I worked for four hours this morning, weeding, cutting grass and separating peas from stones and whatnot. Now I have the rest of the day to do what I like, and the swimming pool is calling me.

So there you have it.

I am skint. I am aching. I am tanned. I am happy. I am WWOOFing.

The Gift of the Americans

A week or so ago…

I had a bit of a revelation recently. I decided that I no longer had the desire to make money. This was a hell of a revelation actually. Almost blinding. I decided that it wasn’t really important to me; that it was a validation I no longer required. It was enough, I told myself, to know that what I was doing – travelling around, meeting people, working and writing in the sun – was what I most wanted to do in the whole world, that I was free in a way that only a tiny percentage of the world’s population are free, and that I was following my dream and nurturing my bliss.

But in reality, the lack of money has unpleasant and limiting side-effects. The overdraft limit creeping closer with every purchase is making me feel a little less than free. Of course I could forego most of the purchases I am making – the beer, the tobacco, the occasional pizza – but sweet Jesus Christ in heaven, I really don’t want to. Some of the other purchases I have been forced to make, however, have been necessary. You might even say essential, although essential is a big old word. Is sun-cream essential? I guess it depends on how attached you are to your skin.

Fortunately, I have three or four bottles of sun-cream that I collected while I was in France. Unfortunately, they are still in France.

So, given that I contracted some kind of post-plant-allergy heat-related leprosy after my first three days working unprotected in the sun, I decided I’d better be sensible and spend some money on something practical. So I bought a plaster of Paris bagel-and-cream-cheese paperweight. No, I didn’t. I bought some sun-cream (factor 20) and some after-sun-cream. Ten euros and ninety cents it cost me. I would like to have bought some shaving gel too, but I decided that was a luxury too far. I figured I could use handsoap when the moment came.

Anyway, a couple of hours after the sun-cream purchase, I was approached by a couple of lithe Americans sporting generous smiles and a plastic bag. The Americans were guests at the yoga retreat at which I am WWOOFing and it was their last day. As they had very limited space in their luggage, they had decided to offload some of the things that they didn’t really need to take home with them. They asked me if I’d like them. Typically, these things included a couple bottles of sun-cream. There was also a tin of shaving foam, a bottle of antiseptic tea tree oil, some skin moisturiser and some Pepto-Bismol. I accepted them all with alacrity.

On noticing the unfettered joy dancing around my unshaven chops, another American (not so lithe this one, but I do not discriminate) realised that she too could add to my happiness and donated more sun-cream and some mosquito repellent to my stash.

By now, I was close to tears. ‘This is just like Christmas!’ I declared. Then, overflowing with gratitude and overwhelmed by the milk of human kindness, I took the smiling, giving Americans in my arms and held them close, transmitting my thanks through every pore of my being and each beat of my heart, and we began to move together rhythmically to music that existed only in our heads. Slowly we moved without will and beyond meaning, gliding across the terrace and out into the olive groves, swaying together with our eyes closed and our hips touching until eventually our bodies became lighter than air and we floated up, up and away to Valhalla, or Vermont, or some kind of Alaska.

The next morning the Americans all flew home to get on with their lives and I put some tea tree oil on my newly emerging scabs.

It burned.

But in a good way.