Words by me

Last Saturday I was riding my new bike along a sea-front cycle path (in Hove) when a careless pedestrian lurched suddenly into my way. We collided, she went flying, I came to a dead stop.

I was shocked and mildly wounded. She was okay, but similarly shocked. I was expecting a stream of embarrassed apologies, given that she ran into me while I was on a cycle path, but instead she shouted at me for hitting her!

Then, the group of people she was with (some kind of religious assembly that takes place on Hove beach) started berating me for not taking adequate care.

An argument ensued. They wanted me to apologise. I wanted the woman to apologise, or at least accept that she was wrong for not taking due care and attention.

It was not to be. We argued in a circle. They threatened to call the police, which I thought was a great idea. They decided the police were unnecessary. The vicar or leader of their squad came over and told me that I could go. I told him he could go, but we were both free to stay right there.

Eventually I walked away, shouting at them as I went (I think the mild shock made me angry).

For some reason, and to my consternation, this group of people continued milling about in the cycle lane, apparently oblivious to the purpose of that path, or the dangers it brings.

I’m not writing this for any great purpose, but if you happen to walk along Brighton sea front, be careful around the cycle lanes. They’re easy to wander into, but being careless could be painful. Oh, and it’s your responsibility, not the cyclists, so be careful because you’re on their turf. (I checked this with the police after the accident. It’s a bit like walking into a road: you wouldn’t blame a car for hitting you if you stepped into a busy road.)

I’ve been a keen cyclist ever since I was a child. I started with a little red BMX, then went on to a GT Interceptor that I thrashed around the neighbourhood on – skidding the tyres to ribbons and slipping across frozen rivers (this was somewhere in Kansas), until it was stolen from outside Truesdell Middle School. Bastards.

We moved from Wichita to Uckfield, England. I remained bike-less for a while, borrowing my friend’s mum’s Raleigh Lizard mountain bike (thanks Birgit!) for occasional outings. Then, I rediscovered BMX, first with an old chrome Torker that I struggled to fit a Gyro to, then with a GT Performer.

Eventually age and practicality got the better of me, and I bought a Giant Rock SE (mountain bike). And we had such fun! We rode to work, through Buxted Park, over hills and across Ashdown Forest. I bunny-hopped up curbs and flew over mud humps. I completed the London to Brighton on her, in a relatively fast time (considering I was on a mountain bike). Then some git nicked her from outside our flat on Third Avenue, Hove.

Again, I remained bike-less for a while. Then, my thoughtful in-laws gave me a shiny pink mountain bike for my 30th. Although the bike developed some catastrophic faults, it rekindled my interest in cycling.

So I scoured Gumtree and found a Mongoose Rockadile. And what fun we’ve had! Together we’ve explored the South Downs, whizzed through city traffic and travelled to countless meetings.  But all this city riding has made me yearn for more speed, less friction and something sleeker.

Update: some bastard stole the Mongoose.

The Raleigh Record Sprint

So I wanted a road/racing bike, but they’re not cheap. And having never ridden a racing bike, I was reluctant to spend £500 on something I might not like. So I scoured eBay, looking for a clean old racing bike.

It’s not easy to find a reasonably-priced classic racing bike at the moment, because there is a trend for converting these old bikes into fixed-wheel rides. So the prices are higher than they should be.

Anyway, eventually I found her: a 1986 Raleigh Record Sprint, in pristine condition. She’s spent most of the past 23 years in a loft, protected from decay by a coat of grease.

When I collected the bike, the original owner was clearly sad to see her go. He actually said, “bye bike,” and watched us walk up the stairs to the train platform.

I’m reading Father and Son by Edmund Gosse, and want to recommend it to you.

Father and Son is an autobiography that records a boy’s upbringing in a puritanical household.

The father, Philip Gosse, was one of the blindly faithful, a sombre fellow who recorded his son’s birth with this emotionally-vacant entry in his journal:

E. delivered of a son. Received green swallow from Jamaica.

Rejecting Darwin

One of the most fascinating aspects of the book is that Philip Gosse was a prominent marine biologist, and was approached by Darwin and his supporters in search of support for their new theory.

Philip Gosse struggled to reconcile his fundamental faith in the Bible with Darwin’s theory of evolution, so he rejected it and wrote a book that expounded an alternative theory. He believed that his book, his ‘Omphalos’ would ‘bring all the turmoil of scientific speculation to a close’ and ‘fling geology into the arms of Scripture’. But:

…alas! atheists and Christians alike looked at it, and laughed, and threw it away.

Having a baby has done something funny to me.

Fatherhood has made me regress – all I can think about is providing.

I’m the hunter-gatherer. I’m driven to provide, able to think of little else. And I used to be so enlightened.

Dear Caffé Nero,

Can you please explain this?:

Biscuit- or symbol of man's limitless ability to destroy?

Why does a single biscuit need so much packaging?

When people talk about environmental responsibility, social responsibility, global warming, carbon neutrality, peak oil, the melting of the polar ice caps, rising sea levels, changing sea currents and overflowing landfills – where were you? What are you thinking? Does all of this somehow not apply to you? Do you have an exemption because you sell coffee?

Have you been unable to hear, digest, understand and accept that we need to change the way we live? What will it take for you to realise that your biscuits are symbolic of attitudes that are leading our planet to the brink of collapse?

Yours,

Me

I’ve been struggling to write fiction for a while now. Since peak production in 2001, I’ve lacked inspiration.

The bigger problem – bigger than the lack of inspiration – is my feeling that there’s no need for me to write.

• What does writing achieve?
• What do I have to say?
• Who will ever read it?
• Why bother?

As a copywriter, I write all the time. I love writing for my clients because copy always serves a purpose. The words I write explain things, they help people, they sell stuff or entertain. Whatever the project, copy has a purpose.

I have lots of interest in writing non-fiction, but fiction seems very pointless.

And this feeling applies to reading too. I’m constantly reading fascinating non-fiction books, but when I try a novel or short story I just get bored.

Do you ever feel that fiction is pointless?

UPDATE: Nyouse is taking a break. Due to a lack of time to spend on Nyouse, we’ve taken it down.

Short version

Myself and Jonathan Markwell – the industrious and philanthropic mastermind behind Inuda, the Skiff and SocialPlume – have created Nyouse (pronounced “news”).

Nyouse is a system that allows ordinary people to alert the press to news stories. Nyouse is designed to bring attention to unreported stories, by creating a quick and easy system for people to announce their news – a system that is easily scannable by journalists.

Nyouse is a SocialPlume application that sucks up messages from Twitter. So if you want to alert the media to something important, just compose a tweet and include: #nyouse. Your message will appear on Nyouse.com, where journalists will see it.

Long version

If you’ve visited Words By Me before, you might have noticed that while I’m supposed to be sharing short stories, I often end up writing about politics or current events. That’s because I’m a news junkie. I often think about the news, and the way stories find their way onto our front pages.

Anyway, Nyouse started because I was interested in creating a citizen journalism blog. So I created a website called Nyouse (it’s YOU in the NEWS, yeah?). Then Prem told me about Now Public, so I destroyed Nyouse. Then I forgot about it and got busy writing copy for the web. Then I remembered Nyouse and wondered what to do with it.

Then, I realised Nyouse might have a purpose, one that was linked to Twitter.

One problem with citizen journalism is that not everyone enjoys writing. Some people have a story to tell, but they don’t want to write it. If people could use Twitter to highlight their story, professional journalists could pick up their story and do the writing. This would combine the best of both worlds: the ideas  and stories of ordinary people, crafted into professional articles by trained journalists.

So, here you have Nyouse. For Nyouse to succeed, we need two parties to take action.

A Polite Request to Everybody

If you have a story to tell, a whistle to blow or breaking news to share with the world, write a message on Twitter and include: #nyouse.

By adding #nyouse you give your message legs – it will instantly leap beyond the confines of your Twitter stream and the limited eyes of your followers. Including #nyouse means going public, finding an audience, exceeding your potential and changing the way news circulates. So give it a try!

What is Nyouse.com?

Nyouse.com – authentic press releases, from the people to the journalists, on Twitter

From the Guardian this morning:

“We consider the war on drugs a failure because the objectives have never been achieved,” said César Gaviria, Colombia‘s former president and co-chair of the Latin American Commission on Drugs and Democracy.

“Prohibitionist policies based on eradication, interdiction and criminalisation have not yielded the expected results. We are today farther than ever from the goal of eradicating drugs.”

Why do we persist with wars on things? The war on terror has proved to be the best recruitment tool for terrorists, meaning that the war on terror has generated more terror while trying to eradicate it.

But the war on drugs is equally senseless. Prohibition should have taught us that illegalising something does not stop people using it, it just makes those people into criminals.

When will our attitude to drugs be based on dispassionate, rational analysis?

I recently discovered the delights of Spotify, a web application that lets you listen to music for free. The catch is that occasional ads interrupt the music. The ads are infrequent enough to be tolerable, but if you’re really fussy you can pay a monthly fee to have ad-free music.

Lately, I’ve been listening to (as well as lots of embarrassing pop music that I won’t admit to):

• Does it Offend You, Yeah?
• !!!
• Andrew W.K.
• The View

Paul Moore is another hero – a man who perceived that the banks’ irresponsible lending would lead to disaster.

Unfortunately, when Paul Moore spoke up, and tried to warn his bosses of what he could see was inevitable, he was sacked.

What kind of government have we installed that allows such things to happen? What do regulatory bodies like the FSA actually do?

If you would like to celebrate an intelligent act, send me an email with a brief description of your hero and why they should be celebrated – me@wordsby.me – thanks!

“I love you,” he said; soppy, stupid, dumbstruck, loveblind.

“I don’t really care,” she said. She flicked her hair and considered her nails. For a moment, she wondered how much she spent at her salon in an average year. Was she, as she grew older, spending more on cosmetic improvements?

“Ha… but don’t say that, my love. You know I mean this. More than anything. I love you, and want to marry you.”

“I will not marry you.”

Duncan pulled a face like a desperate child. Milky pleading.

“If you had cancer of the spine, and were abandoned by every man, woman and child you know – if the world turned its back on you and you were left to face death alone and miserable, and I felt some smattering of sympathy for you, even then: I WOULD NOT MARRY YOU.”

“Darling!” Duncan looked shocked. What a game. “Why do you say such cruel things? I want to run away with you and marry you. I want to tell the world that I love you and I’m committed to you.”

“Tell the world whatever you like, but keep me out of it.”

“But what happened to our love? What happened to our romance, our… affair?”

“Nonsense. Stop speaking. Go home. Valentine’s Day is over. Stop breathing my air.”

Bernard Madoff is an American businessman who may have perpetrated the largest fraud in history. Madoff lured thousands of investors to trust their money in what they believed was a lucrative investment. Sadly Madoff’s company was nothing but a Ponzi scheme, where the only money returned to investors was other investor’s money. There was no real profit, no real business – just a pyramid scheme.

Clearly, Madoff is not a hero. The hero is Harry Markopolos – the man who detected Madoff’s enormous fraud. Markopolos spent nine years trying to alert the US authorities to the troubles with Madoff. I would love to know the names of the people that received Markopolos’ messages. Why were they ignored?

Garments are sacred. Not just fancy designer garments, but pants too. Mormons have special pants for praying in. It seems the pants are part of their belief system.

Do other religions have special underwear?

I wonder what happens if you pray to Mormo without the special knickers on?

Some religious people go nuts with joy when they worship. It’s not like in England, where people sit very still and wear Laura Ashley.

Step inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, touch a monk and have a piece o’ SMACKDOWN: