It’s Not How Good You Are, It’s How Good You Want To Be

The best gifts I have received recently have been books passed on from special people. Books which touch and affect you in a certain way, and make you want to pick up the giver in a big squeeze of thankfulness for being kind enough to think of you and pass it on.

‘It’s Not How Good You Are, It’s How Good You Want To Be’ is Paul Arden’s mini wonder book about making the most of yourself. As the sub-line says, it’s ‘The World’s Best Selling Book’, and that is exactly the author’s case in point. Although written for those in the creative industry it applies amazing well to life in general by being full of positive advice that you already knew deep down, but had somehow lost along the way.

“Do not covet your ideas. Give away everything you know, and more will come back to you… Ideas are open knowledge. Don’t claim ownership. They are not your ideas anyway, they’re someone else’s. They are out there floating by on the ether. You just have to put yourself in a frame of mind to pick them up.”

People are always anxious to be doing the right thing (whatever that is anyway!). One of the most important ideas to take away from the book is to avoid looking back into the past; we should always be concentrating on the now. Sometimes it’s hard not to look back into the past wondering ‘I shoulda, coulda, woulda’ (cannot express more thanks to little Eds for that one). Equally as hard is not to have some kind of outlook for the future. 

But worrying is futile; what does it achieve, apart from a splitting migraine? Worried about a future job? Concentrate on doing things now that can get you there: don’t think “We’ll make the next [job] good. Whatever is on your desk now, that’s the one. Make it the best you possibly can.” As Arden also says: “Being wrong isn’t anywhere but being here. Best place to be eh?” As a self confessed worrier, I have found this to be the best piece of advice to soothe a worried soul and it rings true with another book, ‘The Power of Now’ by Eckhart Tolle, which preaches similar ideas.

As with life and all advice, we have to negotiate a myriad of contradictions. But life isn't supposed to be easy: "Failures and false starts are a precondition of success". Arden, regarded as the top dog in the field of advertising before his death in 2008, was himself fired five times. 

As a book that can be easily read in a single hour sitting, Arden encourages us to aim for our highest goal. If a stranger and a piece of work can remind me to try my best and quit worrying in less than an hour then I hope to pass this book on to the next special person.

Concrete Circus

Too often lately, I’ve been reduced to banging my head on the coffee table as I’m forced to watch another episode of (insert one of the following here), Jeremy Kyle, Jersey Shore, X-Factor, Holyoaks, as I ‘catch up’ with friends. Just when I’m about to throw the remote across the living room in a rage about the feces on TV, I stumble onto a programme like this and my faith is instantly restored. 


Channel 4’s documentary ‘Concrete Circus’ aired last Monday and showcased some of the world’s best up and coming urban sport stars who have teamed up with four uber-talened film makers (Stu Thomson, Brett Novak, Claudiu Voicu, Kendy Ty). The result of this artistic combination? Jaw dropping, awe inspiring footage and editing which is both a thrill and joy to watch.


Recent news has been stuffed full of the sickening ignorance of those participating in the London riots. Commentators and young rioters themselves have been quick to jump on the band wagon by complaining that today’s ‘yoof’ are bored out their minds; trapped in an ugly urban landscape which has nothing to offer them. This documentary is living proof that you CAN make the most of whatever environment you are born and brought up in and not all hoody wearing adolescents are looting yobs.


While social commentators have attacked the internet and social networking sites as stoking the flames of the London riots, pro BMXer Keelan Phillips is one of the many urbanites from Leicester who is riding on the international success of his YouTube footage. Danny MacAskill, on the other hand, born and bred on the Isle of Skye (population 10,000), has gone from the un-concreted, picturesque jagged backdrop of the Inner Hebredes to one of the world’s top BMX riders.


If anyone else was shocked to hear about the BBC’s decision to broadcast a radio programme under the heading “Is there a problem with young black men?” following last week riots, then Paul Joseph, the professional Parkour or free-runner, would be the young black antithesis of this. Joseph’s performance (these are, after all, creative displays) are seemingly unreal, as he twists and turns through London’s concrete maze. If there was one critique to be made with director Voicu’s film in which Joseph appears, it would be that the dark and violent undertones of gang culture sit uncomfortably in the post-London Riot context it will now be watched in.


These young directors and sports stars have heaps of raw creative talent, and are articulate even whilst donning hoodies, god forbid. OK, so we can’t all become professional skaters or free runners, but this documentary definitely inspires to get out there and make the most of whatever you have got. Check out Stu Thomson’s earthy ‘Industrial Revolutions’ featuring Danny MacAskill below. (Beautiful music by Ben Howard, who, incidentally, rocked out this Saturday at the Boardmasters Festival in Newquay and made our weekend.)

Watch the whole documentary on 4OD:

http://www.channel4.com/programmes/concrete-circus/4od

'Cat's Dream' Pablo Neruda

How neatly a cat sleeps,

Sleeps with its paws and its posture,

Sleeps with its wicked claws,

And with its unfeeling blood,

Sleeps with ALL the rings a series

Of burnt circles which have formed

The odd geology of its sand-colored tail.

I should like to sleep like a cat,

With all the fur of time,

With a tongue rough as flint,

With the dry sex of fire and

After speaking to no one,

Stretch myself over the world,

Over roofs and landscapes,

With a passionate desire

To hunt the rats in my dreams.

I have seen how the cat asleep

Would undulate, how the night flowed

Through it like dark water and at times,

It was going to fall or possibly

Plunge into the bare deserted snowdrifts.

Sometimes it grew so much in sleep

Like a tiger’s great-grandfather,

And would leap in the darkness over

Rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.

Sleep, sleep cat of the night with

Episcopal ceremony and your stone-carved moustache.

Take care of all our dreams

Control the obscurity

Of our slumbering prowess

With your relentless HEART

And the great ruff of your tail.

Eulogy For Our Home.

Our old house. The things it had seen. The ups, the downs, the laughter, the tears, the arguments, the break-ups, the make-ups. Who knew that one could form such a close attachment to a pile of bricks and mortar? 


But of course, houses become much more than that. So much so, that they become more than part of our lives but part of the family. Throughout life’s adventures, there has always been one solid, silent structure which can offer support. They require the same love and attention as any other child, not to mention the same seemingly bottomless monetary needs. Similarly, they must endure the same torment and abuse that rival siblings dish out on each other. While my mother did her best to ruin my 5 year old reputation by decking me out in stripy braces and bowl-cut bobs, our house was fitted with epileptic inducing carpets (yes Mum, I’m sure any pattern resembling a collision of 80’s acidic colours and Aztec designs will hide a multitude of stains). And wow, the faded beige Formica fixtures and the infamous brown bathroom carpet. Carpet. And bathroom. God knows what sins that carpet concealed.


And yet, I fear that many people may underestimate the connection between occupant and house. I have lived in the same house for the first 24 years of my life. Indeed, I may never live in another house for as long ever again. For despite all of its shortcomings, it was that uniquely familiar, musty, lived-in smell as I returned home from many travels away that immediately reassured me: ‘I’m home.’ It was the smell of the richest, red wine gravy on the perfect Sunday roast. 

I knew my way around it inside and out. Blindfolded. Knew which slight movement the bent key needed to open the front door. Knew how to perfectly reverse my car around the blind-bend driveway to impress the new boyfriend. Knew exactly what pressure the kitchen tap needed, and could always rely on the friends who didn’t to drench themselves. Knew, in the middle of the night how many tentative steps it was to the sock drawer to warm my numb feet. I always knew, that it was always there.

It came as no shock when after years of blood, sweat and tears my father finally packed in the family business. I didn’t even bat an eyelid when the parents said they wanted to sell up and move abroad. Cheap holidays in the Algarve. Perfect. The house was duly pepped up, packed up and sold within 6 months.

Then, it slowly dawned. I had packed up nearly a quarter of a century of memories. I reluctantly said goodbye to the same elderly neighbours whom we once feared when we snuck into their gardens to retrieve our lost tennis balls. It was only when I stood in the empty doorway of our house and stared at squares of discoloured wallpaper where family photographs had hung, that it finally hit home; this wasn’t home anymore. I shed a tear as a door to my past closed. It felt like, no it was, the end of an era.

Having the carpet literally ripped up from underneath me resulted in a restless and uncertain six months. Uprooted, misplaced and with no base to return to, I felt like a complete lost soul. At the same time however, as I sofa hopped from one friend to the next with one bag of clothes, there was the realisation that I didn’t need half the things that I once considered fundamental to feeling at ‘home’, or even just to live a day-to-day life. Most of the belongings and objects were clutter that I could do without.

Cornwall being the beautiful although often more than uncomfortable Royston Vasey-esque place it is, it turned out I knew the family that moved into my old home; the boyfriend’s family of my childhood friend who once lived two doors down in the very same street. I stopped by one day and stood uncomfortably as I rung the door bell as a stranger, and not as a daughter who had, once again, locked herself out. It was so surreal walking into that same but different hallway. I felt dizzy. I had to stop myself asking why they had hung that god awful clock on the wall forgetting for that split second that I no longer lived there. Different faces but contented smiles beamed down from new family photographs that lined the walls. Kids giggled and ran riot in the garden outside just as me and my brother used to. There was the consolation that my home had gone to a good home. And that home smell. It was no longer there. My home had transformed into just another house, but into someone else’s home.

As I stepped off the plane in Portugal on my first visit to the new family abode the heat smacked my face with an air of the unknown. I had mourned the old house, but now was impatiently excited to see the new home. How uncanny to see the familiar of all our old furniture from England in new and clean surroundings. Not a brown carpet in sight (although there were a few new Aztec print mats). I even quietly gave a sigh of relief when I saw all my pointless clutter in my new room. But something still just didn’t feel right.


When my brother arrived a few days later everything slotted into place. It made perfect sense. With the family all back together, the house now felt like home. I learnt that home, most definitely, is where the heart is. The white washed walls of the new house suddenly became our new home: a blank canvas in which to paint the next twenty five years of memories.