Come the Apocalypse

"So what you up to?" my son asks, once we've got Glastonbury out of the way, the fried egg rolls have been dispatched and we're on to our second cup of coffee.  

"Got a grant from the people who fund particle physics and astronomy research," I say.

"What for?" he says.

"It's this Three Minute Learning," I say. "It's going well. The teachers like it and so do the scientists."

"Getting cutting-edge science into schools is a cool idea," he says.

"But not easy," I say. "Scientists overestimate what kids understand. Often they haven't a scoobie what they're on about, but are too polite to say so."

"Kids too polite?" he says, with a raised eyebrow.

"Sure," I say. "Most of them do their best to please the adults in their lives, most of the time. But we keep moving the goalposts."

"Yeah," he says, clearly unconvinced. "So what makes you good at it?" 

"Dunno," I say. "Maybe it's because I listen with the ear of a scientist one minute and a teenager the next."

"I hate to point out the obvious," he says. "But you don't have the ear of a teenager. Or the eyes or nose. Every bit of you is 90."

"See that's where you're wrong," I tell him. "I got an inner teenager I can tap into anytime. In fact it's not even a teenager. It's an eight-year-old. And when I was eight I was crap at school. Tapping into your inner idiot is handy, when you're helping people learn."

"I never knew you had an inner idiot," he says.  

"There's plenty about me you don't know," I say, but I've lost him momentarily.

"Hi," he says to a slightly-built, effeminate-looking character with long, curly hair, walking along Woodlands Road. "Now he is hard," he says, turning back to me.

So I glance again and he still looks like a powder-puff to me. "That guy couldn't break the skin on a custard tart," I say. "I could take him with one hand."

"You couldn't take him with six hands and a bull terrier," he says. "Your inner idiot has got out. That guy does Tai Chi and cage fighting and he's good."

"Seems to be a lot of your martial arts buddies in these parts," I say. 

"It's where we hang out," he says. "Come the Apocalypse we'll all be milling around Woodlands Road, beating the crap out the zombies."

"Not if there's 40 million of them and three of you. Which reminds me of something my dad used to say."

"Your dad was a smart guy."

   

"He was. Prone to deep insights into the human condition. So there was this street corner in Cumnock, where people used to hang out, smoking, chatting and watching the girls go by."

"What did he say about it," he asks, as the waitress drops the bill on our table.

"'If everybody in the world stood on Ayr Road Corner, how would the rest of the folk get past?'" I say.

"That is very profound," he says. "Very Zen."

"You're the first person to say that," I tell him. "Everybody else stares at me with blank incomprehension."

"Yeah well, there's something you maybe don't know about me," he says. 

"What's that?"

"I have a bigger inner idiot than you." 

Rantingness

I began this blog with a post about trying to escape a rant from my son. But I actually enjoy a good rant, especially if it's verbally inventive and soars into flights of fancy. 

In this clip, McGlashan, a Scottish nationalist ranter, treats his agent to an entertaining tirade on how the Scots invented everything, then the English stole their ideas. "The English," he shouts. "We even invented them. We did. We took all the people in our country who were poofs or perverts. Or deviants. 

"Or bastards. Or girls. And we put them down south and said 'Right, you can be the English. You just stay there and we'll come down and kick your arse every now and again.'"

As this clip illustrates, a good rant is often accompanied by shouting and arm-waving, which is why some people dislike them, failing to find the humour and seeing only aggression.

So I'm driving my son back to his flat the other day, after meeting him at Tesco's, where the zombies got us, and a girl walks in front of the car, lost in her own earphone world, and forces me to stamp on the brakes.

It doesn't bother me any, but it sets him off on one. "What is it with young people these days?" he demands. "They walk out without looking and expect you to stop for them. It's insane."

"They don't know how dangerous the world is," I suggest.

"Well, somebody should've taught them," he says, as I start the stalled engine and head along Great Western Road, towards his flat. "Why do they expect everybody else to look out for them?" he demands.

"I'll tell you why," he continues without a beat. "Nobody gets to chastise kids these days. You have to reason with them, share their pain, persuade them of your point of view."

He draws a breath. "Send them to conflict resolution classes!"

By now we're stopped at the traffic lights just past Kelvinbridge and his raised voice and apparent agitation is attracting the attention of pedestrians, who look like they're wondering if he's about to explode or smack me around.

But this is not aggression and it's not directed at me. It's just good old-fashioned rantingness. "Maybe it's better to bring kids up like that," I suggest. "More enlightened than the traditional way."

"More enlightened?" he barks. "Are you mad? Do lionesses reason with their cubs, if they're getting too close to a big male? Do dogs consult the charter on the rights of the child if their pups are being a pain? No! They cuff the little fuckers and so they should. It's how kids learn. When I was a toddler, all cute and curly, crawling around your house, trying to eat sick, drink bleach and explore the electricity sockets, you didn't sit me down and explain human biology, did you? You smacked me."

"I'm not sure I did," I say. "It was a long time ago."

"Well you bloody should have!"

"You'll be telling me next that friendly neighbourhood cops should be encouraged to give kids a clip round the ear," I say, as we pull up outside his flat.

"Cops!" he shouts, seemingly oblivious of the young constable walking past on the pavement. "Don't get me started about cops! All they do is protect rich bastards from the people they've screwed."

"It's all right, officer," I say through the open window. "Care in the community - he's harmless."

"Get him off the street, sir, he's causing a disturbance," he says.

"I will," I say, taking his arm lightly and guiding him towards the door. "Let's get you inside and have a nice cup of tea."

"Tea!" he shouts, with a wicked grin the cop can't see. "Don't talk to me about tea. Those stupid bags don't have any tea in them. They're just dust, mouse-shit and spiders scraped off the factory floor."

I pat his arm for the benefit of the cop, who's still watching us. "Get inside, pillock, and put a sock in it," I say quietly.

"Socks!" he shouts, as I finally get the door open and shove him safely through. "Don't talk to me about socks!"

PS Alternative link to McGlashan. Catch it while you can, because Channel 4, who own the rights, have already blocked it at several websites.