It's A Family Affair

Please excuse any typos on this here blog post, for as I write I am currently chugging my way across the notoriously turbulent Irish sea....  Yes, the pipes, the pipes are indeed calling for I am off to the land of my forefathers (and foremothers too natch, lets not be sexist). But why am I returning from the land from whence I came (ok, my grandparents came)? Well it's a 50/50 split really. Primarily because it's time to reenact that age old tradition of The Family Reunion, and secondarily to assist my dear mother with the primary care of my rather aged, much loveable grandma.

Now, ito my recollection it's been near on 34 years since the last family reunion, and since I am a mere 35 years old at time of writing the recollection itself is somewhat shaky, if not impossible. In fact, the only evidence I have of said reunion is a picture of the day taken by my grandmother, of me & my brother sat on my mothers knee. On the reverse of said photo is my grandmother's near indecipherable writing dating the picture to 1978. Those of the mathematical persuasion may by now have figured out that I wasn't even born in 1978 (am an 80s child, as all the best are), so either that baby is an imposter or my nan's maths is way off.  As far as I can gather from that previous reunion, much fun was had and the only scandal to air was that of my 3 year old brother licking the vinegar off all the pickled onions (it was the 80s remember, am sure pineapple and cheese on sticks also made an appearance) just before they were consumed by the haplessly unawares extended members of my family. Fortunately no after effects were experienced, or at least if they were, they haven't as yet made their way into the annals of family history

But pickled onion licking is the least of my worries at this reunion, as I recently stumbled across some FBI figures relating to just how dangerous families can be (don't ask.... my search history is a veritable cornucopia of useless facts). According to said stats, in 2009 as much as 25% of US murders were committed by family members of the victim.  This increases even more when you include murders by spouses/ partners. WOWZERS... 25%? You gotta be kidding me! Families are chuffing lethal! And considering that we appear to have almost 150 members of our family pitching up to this event from as far away as Australia and Canada (we'll have more flags on display than a UN convention), perhaps I ought to be fearing for my life instead of merrily chucking back a pint of Strongbow at the ferry bar in an effort to combat seasickness.  

My only consolation thus far is the person organising this reunion is a detective with the Dublin police force, so if we're not in safe hands then at least our murders have a higher than average chance of being solved.... I hope. And if not, then perhaps I ought to have sent that imposter in my place after all.

Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

I remember at school when I was a kid, I got called a dreamer, I think by my art teacher. And it would be a pretty accurate description, especially as she was at the time examining my recently created clay bowl, with had less of the dream about it, and more of the living nightmare to be honest.... but art is all about interpretation innit?

Who says cats don't like water?

But she’s right, I have always been a dreamer, though perhaps not in the way she intended.  I mean we all are really, we all dream, but after recent discussions with friends, I’ve discovered I might dream vividly more than most, or at least I remember them more them most. Take last night for example, where Tom Cruise ducking exploding cars made an appearance, alongside my mate Alex as we both smoked fags and watched cats diving for fish in the canal, before fast forwarding to my local Breton cider shop (disclaimer, there are no Breton cider shops I know of in both my neighbourhood or the greater London area) where I placed an order for some of their finest, only to be palmed off with a Sussex cider I can get down at my local Sainsburys…. And then I woke up.

And this dream is no different, unusual or vivid than other dreams I’ve had recently. Others include opening a record shop with Noel Gallagher to commemorate the 20th anniversary of the release of Wonderwall. It was a great little shop, packed with squishy sofas which old nanas waiting for the bus would make full use of (much to the annoyance of myself and Noel) as well as a very literal Wonderwall covered in What’s the Story album covers. Or the one where I was having an argument with my mum in a sushi restaurant in California, owned and run by Hollywood actor and Roseanne star John Goodman, who doubled as the local mayor. That was one was so vivid I woke up crying, not at John Goodman's local governing policies, but more at the blazing row I’d had with my mum. I was in such a sobbing state I actually had to ring my mum to talk about it.

Noel doesn't seem to mind
these nanas on his sofa

What the actual F is all of that about? What is the point of any dream, not least ones concerning fish diving cats and Tom Cruise showing off some fab Matrix style manoeuvres?  I have no idea, but there are lots of theories floating about regarding the point of dreams, if indeed they have any point at all.  Perhaps the best known of dream theory is that of Sigmund Freud who basically said our dreams are some kind of wish fulfillment, we dream what we wish for, whether represented literally or symbolically. And goodness knows I do like a French cider so maybe that theory holds water.

There’s another theory which states that dreams are a way of our minds trying to combat our innermost fears, and although I do find Tom Cruise's gurning face somewhat terrifying, I’m a massive fan of sushi and I do love a blast of the ole Oasis now and then, so that one doesn’t fly with me terribly well.  Personally I’m going with the theory proposed by psychiatrist J Allan Hobson, who said that dreams are no more than a by product of our active central nervous system, our circuits in our head firing off memories, recollections and images as we sleep. Quite literally brain farts.

Well that's one way to get elected...

But one thing that seems to run throughout the many and varied dream theories is that of story telling. Whether with any higher purpose or not, our dreams tell us stories. As a lover of stories and storytelling this idea certainly resonates with me, and goodness knows my dreams are more like stories of very little point, rather than symbolically laden messages my subconscious is trying to send me…. That is unless it’s warning me off cider sellers making false promises, Hollywood actors posing as local government officials, swimming cats and nanas stealing sofa space, which on second thoughts is pretty sound advice after all.