Penny for the guy...

Yes, it's time to muster all your anti Catholic hatred; get out your papal effigy and burn it on top of a huge bonfire: it's Guy Fawkes Night again. So, stand by with your rockets, catherine wheels and sparklers to mark the day, over 400 years ago, when a certain Guido Fawkes planned to blow up James I and Parliament and restore a catholic monarch to the throne.

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder treason and plot.
We see no reason
Why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot!

Surprisingly, Ireland has joined in the festivities this year by closing the Vatican Embassy in Dublin. Alternatively, you could stick with a more traditional celebration. But remember kids... Follow the firework code.

Yes, but why...?

Tonight's run of 4.02 km in 21'54" at a pace of 5'27" was a wonderfully moist affair in the Cardiff drizzle. While I ran I thought about last night's post, in which I talked about why I blog. This was in answer to Navid's questions about The Scarperer. I said that it was my way of recording my thoughts, possibly for future reading. It all sounds very noble and very worthy, doesn't it?

There's a line of thinking that states all behaviour is driven by our need to be satisfied at some basic level; the desire for food, shelter, sex, self worth. Even seemingly altruistic behaviour can be explained using this thinking. For example, do people undertake charitable work in order to help people who are less fortunate or to increase their own self worth?

Richard Dawkins wrote a book called The Selfish Gene, where he stated that animal (and human) behaviour could be explained by its effect in enabling that organism to pass on its genes (or, at times, in enabling a relative of that organism to pass on its genes). It's a pretty good model for answering those questions about why certain animals sacrifice themselves for the good of their neighbours. The behaviours of ants and bees are good example of seemingly altruistic behaviours. It seems that self sacrifice can be advantagous in passing on (some of) your genes.

In The Selfish Gene Richard Dawkins coins the term meme as an idea, behaviour or style that spreads from person to person within a culture. He describes the replication of memes in the development of human culture. This brings us neatly full circle with memes being replicated throughout the blogging world. They are the double helix of the blogosphere; they enable blogs to live and develop as they spread throughout the interweb.

So why do I blog? I guess there are a number of benefits I get from blogging but at a basic level it satisfies that need in me for self worth. Selfish, I know but aren't we all...?

But why...?

I bumped into my friend Navid on the way home from work tonight. He said, "I read one of your Scarperer posts the other night". "Oh...?" I said. "What's that about then?" he asked. As we walked through town we talked about blogging. I told him that The Scarperer arose from my need to capture some of the things I think about when I run.

Whilst I ran tonight (4.04 km in 22'23" at a pace of  5'32"), I thought about this further. All Navid was trying to find out, I guess, was why I do it. They say that if you ask why often enough, you'll get to the truth (or if you're a child, you'll get a smack). So why do I blog? Well, as I've said before, when I run or swim I process my day and I wanted to capture the thoughts that blossom during my run or swim.

I used to write a blog a couple of years ago and re-reading some of the posts I wrote between 2002 and 2005 is quite fascinating. It's almost like reading about another person; I'm not him anymore, I've moved on (at least, I hope I have). Undoubtedly, had I not captured some of my thoughts from this period, they would be forgotten; lost like they'd never existed in the first place.

But what is a blog? Well, in Blogger's introduction it describes a blog as:

"A blog is a personal diary. A daily pulpit. A collaborative space. A political soapbox. A breaking-news outlet. A collection of links. Your own private thoughts. Memos to the world. Your blog is whatever you want it to be. There are millions of them, in all shapes and sizes, and there are no real rules."

So, there you have it, Nav. I'm not sure which of those terms best describes The Scarperer; perhaps you can tell me next time I bump into you...?

A new variety of Krispy Kreme...

Tonight's run was brought to you by a distance of 4.09 km, a time of 21'50" resulting in a pace of  5'20". It was an uneventful run, which almost didn't happen because my devious, evil twin, inner voice almost tricked me into not going. My inner voice is very reasonable and has no problem summoning 1001 plausible reasons not to run. I have to stick my fingers in my ears and sing, "La la la, la la, la la la..."

Whilst running I passed a man in a raincoat who looked a lot like Frank Bough. Frank Bough was a BBC TV presenter whose career took a nose dive after allegations of his cocaine taking and lingerie wearing  at parties became public (he went up in my estimation). In his heyday during the late 70s and early 80s, he used to present an early evening magazine programme for the BBC called Nationwide.

After a cookery demonstration one evening by Fanny Craddock (pictured) and Johnny, her helper and husband, where they showed the viewers how to make doughnuts, the camera cut back to Frank for the link to the next item. After thanking the couple he turned to camera and cheerily proclaimed, "And I hope that all your doughnuts turn out like Fanny's..."

Here he is performing There is Nothing Like a Dame with Morcambe & Wise.

When you're dead, you'll regret not having fun with your genital organs...

In a flat at 25 Noel Road, Islington, London on the 9th August 1967, Joe Orton was murdered by Kenneth Halliwell, his partner of 16 years. He was 34 years old. Halliwell smashed Orton's skull in with a hammer and then took an overdose of twenty-two Nembutal washed down with the juice from a tin of grapefruit. Halliwell died first.

As I ran tonight, for some reason, I was thinking of Joe Orton. I think my mind was free-wheeling and somewhere I'd picked up Joe Orton as a passenger. He's a welcome and entertaining passenger is Mr Orton; he ensnares your mind by getting you to laugh and then getting you to question the things you've just laughed at. I thought about this dramatic technique as I ran; you don't see it employed that much nowadays.

I first became interested in Orton and his writing when I was in my late teens. He influenced my world view and I read anything associated with his name. His philosophy and outlook fascinated me. It was so irreverent, anti-establishment and deliciously wicked. His plays sprang directly from his experiences. He was an outsider; his class, his criminal record, his intelligence and his sexuality placed him (and kept him) outside - something he was boastfully proud of.

Looking in at society he was able to see the farce and sham that it actually was. His cruelly comic satires on the hypocrisy of this conservative British post war society and its values are a delight; savage and full of innuendo and contradiction. In all of his work Orton undermines society and the family and ridicules their values. In his plays there lies a seething sexuality and brooding violence but, above all, a wicked sense of fun. The same might be said about his life


The grade II listed Victorian toilets where Orton went cottaging in South End Green, Hampstead, North London were renovated with £50,000 of national lottery money at the turn of the millennium. The Sunday Times reported, "The prime purpose of the renovation grant is to preserve one of the last remaining Victorian lavatories left intact and still in service in London. However, both the council and the lottery fund agree that the Orton connection is an influential factor in securing the money." The British public were outraged. A fitting memorial for one of Britain's greatest wits and most provocative social commentators. Here's a wonderful clip from the film of Orton's stage play, Entertaining Mr Sloane starring the wonderful Beryl Reid on top form.

My run tonight was another zippy one for me: I ran with a pace of 5'25" over 4.02 km in 21'48" - despite nearly choking when I remembered this warning from Orton to live life to the full, "When you're dead, you'll regret not having fun with your genital organs."