You Feel No Pain

The armchair sumptuous, the selected novel beckoning invitingly, the coffee copious, aesthetically presented. The best coffees invariably are, or should be; it's integral to the coffee experience. Long hours stretched out before me. Perfect!

One final glance towards the beverage of choice, steaming patiently upon the occasional table. Audrey Niffenegger's 'Her Fearful Symmetry' perched expectantly upon the right arm of the armchair. I breathed in the heady, coffee-enhanced woody scent of the summer house and raised a hand. But the moment had already been ruptured.

From somewhere without there came an intrusion. I cocked my head and waited, urging the distraction to pass. To pass! To damn well be on its way! But the invasion persisted, drawing me reluctantly from my meticulously prepared cocoon, to drag me, heavy-hearted, through the house to investigate.

The culprit sat, immobile, eyes to the road, perhaps concussed senseless by her ill-conceived choice of volume. The windows were down; why not 'share,' impose upon a whole neighbourhood? I squinted into a right ear, lest I might detect a point of sunlight glinting through.

Now, I love my music. Love it! I've thought about it, agonised about it, meditated upon it. I've clung to it, hung upon the rise and fall, the rhythm, the perfect interplay of the instruments, the raw emotion, the virtuoso brilliance of it. I've marvelled at its complexity, its naked simplicity, its surreal sensitivity. I've allowed the notes to nestle inside my being, to settle, to strengthen the foundations and to resonate within. I've experienced that inexplicable otherworldliness in the pit of my stomach and, in its appreciation, I've cried, cried bucket loads.



Technical competence, bugger all, but emotional investment, it's right up there, chock full!

Yes, I've got friends who are enviably gifted, who compose, who perform, who teach and delight others, that I might stand in awe and marvel. But I was looking in very much the wrong direction when that particular ship set sail, so mine is simply the role of empty vessel, within which the brilliance of others may chance to effervesce.

Music has fed my soul, left me ever nourished, yet always slightly peckish. Shakespeare allegedly said, "If music be the food of love, play on." But, as we all know, some of us to our costs, there's music... and then there's 'music!' And the 'music' that had drawn me, exasperated from my chair, was plucked very much more from the McDonald's or the KFC 'convenience' range, than that of 'The Fat Duck' choice menu, far more indigestion than temptation for the soul.

The brilliance of music may feed yet it never bloats. And, by this measure, the mediocrity of music sits like the very worst polystyrene tray of (in)convenience foods, gnawing irksomely at one's stomach lining. Because music is also very much capable of mediocrity and, like the very worst of KFC joints, the airwaves are bloated with it, as one insensible driver had just painfully reminded me. Much in the same vein that McDonald's shouts its identity at you, from any high street corner, the worst of music may thump at you from many an open window. It's never going to be Bach's Magnificat, far more likely something voted into prominence, via 'The X Factor,' or, just conceivably, something a tad rappish that's going to slam, uninvited, into your eardrums.



"Without music, life would be a mistake," Friedrich Nietzsche once claimed. At the time he couldn't possibly have imagined just how mistake-bloated that music might become, spinning in never-ending pursuit of yet further profits. Why waste time composing when one can simply recycle? Thus much of it is about as pleasing to the senses as the damp card and broken glass corner of many a supermarket car park. How could it be otherwise, given the rabid haste with which it may have been 'produced?' A world in which the Christmas number one might be pre-ordained, as voted into prominence by an audience, hyped into standing ovation at a single strained, oft-missed, note? Really? And we want to celebrate this achievement, do we?

Of course, even the best of musicians, have had their off days. And, being an art form, one listener's perfection is, indeed should be, another's abomination; art is, by definition, subjective.

So, the heft of my contention is really two-fold; firstly that the route towards artistic integrity is never going to be achieved through the majority voting of attention-deficit audiences. Wonderful music is far more likely to be that one glimmering pearl produced from within a sparsely populated oyster-bed, than any and every form from the selection of worm casts extruded from the surrounding sands.

To saturate the airways with mediocrity just creates more noise, within which to obscure those precious gems. I can only speculate as to the chemical enhancements or other inducements to excellence that may have produced my musical choices; I merely thank the heavens that 'public' voting wasn't involved.

And secondly, should we embrace the subjectivity of artistic merit, that my music should not (and will not), uninvited, be permitted to pollute your airspace, and that your's should not corrupt mine. Plato was attributed, amongst his many wonderful insights, with these words; "Music gives a soul to the Universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination." History did not record him muttering, under his breath, "and fatigue to one's integrity," as he shambled off in order to avail himself of some much needed peace and quiet.



The noise that had interrupted my reading had pained me and, as Bob Marley once said, the "One good thing about music (is that), when it hits, you feel no pain." Thus, to my ears, it was just that, noise! Painful noise!

The stern faces of those walking past seemed to, very much, echo my sentiments.

To Whom It Really Should Concern.

Of course, it never does. And, therein, lies the problem- one of the problems. One of the many!

My thoughts were refocused just the other day, whilst queueing to pay for some Coffee Mate at Budgens in Aylsham. My wandering musings, in lazy tow behind the eyes, chanced upon a Norwich Evening News headline; "Judge Praised For Upholding Norfolk Man's Death Crash Driving Ban," (3rd August 2013).

In the time that the short queue took to disperse I was able to wander over to the news stand and to familiarise myself with the details. I was informed that one Jake Riseborough had recently failed in his attempt to have a five year driving ban lifted. His appeal arose as a consequence of Jake not being able use his car in order to avail himself of a job. Such responsibility, I was almost tempted to snap him up myself.


Thank you,  Lee Haywood

Gleaning information entirely from the Evening News I was able to deduce that, in his appeal, young Jake, had not considered the death of Stacy Cutts (18) to be deserving of such a lengthy punishment. Nor had he considered the act of burning rubber in a supermarket car park, whilst still on bail, to be relevant. Nor did he consider the fact that he would effectively only be expected to serve an eighteen month ban to be of any relevance. My God, I thought, let's get this responsible and contrite young man back on 'our' roads as swiftly as is humanly possible.

Jake wasn't alone in the act of causing one family to be plunged into some sort of living Hell. Heavens no, the responsibility was shared by one other heavy-footed youth, the boyfriend to the victim, Tom Wright.

Road Safety Campaigners, Stacy's family and, hopefully, many far more considerate road users will have been heartened by the outcome of Jake's review. But, I was given to wonder whether all culpable parties had been duly brought to justice and fully held to account.


Thank you also, John

I'm prepared to stick my neck out here, and to suggest that Jake's short driving life- he was eighteen at the time of the fatal crash- was largely akin to an aggressive-mobile-accident scouting for a 'suitable' location. I would go as far as to presume that Jake's travels in and around his hometown of Diss had already been cause for some concern, perhaps that some of his fellow residents were quickly learning to recognise the thunderous approach of his, no doubt modified, exhaust, that those who were unfortunate enough to reside within earshot of his regular and over-zealous travels were already growing tired of his antics. I'm guessing also that Jake, prior to his absolute loss of control- assuming that he ever really had any- was far more interested in late night demonstrations of speed and noise than he was in finding any sort of gainful employment.

Highly significant, I'm going to suggest that Jake's woeful ineptness behind the wheel of his car was almost certainly already known to the 'local' police, to whom one or two of his 'fellow' Diss residents had already expressed concerns regarding the safety and legality of his driving. Hands up, I could be wrong, but I don't think so!

I base my assumptions upon- absolutely related- numerous conversations and exchanged correspondences that I've had with Aylsham's 'local' police officers, regarding Aylsham's own 'show' drivers. Certainly, my experiences have confirmed that officers here are fully aware, regarding who does and who does not display aberrant driving tendencies similar to those of the subject's.


And to H.L.I.T.

In Aylsham we are 'blessed' with, amongst others, one child 'motorist' who will daily and nightly over-rev and deliberately misfire his engine in order to create maximum disturbance. Late into the night, well into the early hours of a morning- often in the Bure Valley Railway Station car park- he will spin his shiny red hatchback in tight screeching circles, or gun his modified exhaust, 'cheerfully' disturbing anyone and everyone within earshot. Given, also, his zippy nocturnal excursions through the town's streets this may well often be almost the entire population of the town. I think it would be fair to assume that in excess of a couple of hundred households are more than fully aware of this particular accident-in-waiting.

In fairness, I've not contacted police officers regarding the child, but I know that several others have. My faith in the police 'service' no longer affords me the energy, nor the expectation, to even bother. I find that the sour taste of failure is frequently more dilute should one not have bothered in the first place. This could almost be a running slogan for Twenty-first Century Britain! Sums 'us' up a treat!

Let it suffice to be written that several weeks of uninterrupted nocturnal revelry has thus far gone totally unchallenged. And previous police dismissals, regarding my once 'voiced' concerns, had often alluded to the, "every town has its youth issues," gambit. I don't believe that it's stretching credibility too far to assume that this would necessarily include Diss.



Thank you to jenineabarbanel

Lest you should, mistakenly, believe that the country has recently elected accountable Police Commissioners- what otherwise was the point?- I suggest that you just once- any more will drive you to violence or despair- try to report the next bout of boy-racerish-ineptitude that you witness in your nearest town. And, before you are driven to act further, I would suggest that vigilante solutions really will wake up those sleeping policemen. We can't have people just doling out their own forms of vigilante justice, that's what the police are for- 'justice,' not 'vigilante justice'- isn't it? It might, during our darker moments, be comforting to envisage the masked vigilante winning the day. But, 'vigilante?' imagine the types most likely to take up these particular reigns!

To draw a fair parallel, allow me to conjure up an occasion for you. After an evening dinner party one of your more bull-headed guests has consumed well in excess of a reasonable volume of wine. He- it's invariably going to to be a he- announces his intention to drive home.

What is your role? Where do your responsibilities lie? Are you duty bound to confiscate the keys, or to alert the police to this act of irresponsibility? And, if you do nothing, other than to metaphorically cross your fingers and hope, are you not also, at least in part, culpable? Are you actually partly legally responsible for the potential carnage that your guest might be about to wreak?  And, should the worse happen, if you are a compassionate individual, you'll almost certainly feel culpable.



And finally, thanks to Mark Hillary

And, by the same measure, in the case of Jake Riseborough and many more like him, I believe that the 'knowing' police are also culpable. I wonder if there might not be statistics available, whereby we can see exactly what percentage of crashes and consequent deaths, like the one devised by Jake Riseborough, are caused by known persistent offenders?

Thankfully Budgens is usually well stocked up in Coffee Mate.