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Okay, I'm single, yes? So what? A great many older men are for one reason or another. I can already hear the population of Swindon England saying "Yes but....". Yes but nothing. It's circumstance, not a statement of sexuality, fashion, manhood, or any other concept these overgrown children struggle with. In particular the youngsters of my home town have been testing my patience with the most ignorant questions and attitudes imaginable. That's the reality of modern sub-culture, kids growing up divorced from adult perspective and trying to impose their petty little world upon the rest of us. Or me, which is worse. I recall a song by Charles Aznavour. Not my kind of music you understand, but with my parents, certain radio stations were inescapable. The song was 'She'. I still suffer the trauma of repeated exposure to it in my younger days. So can I relate my younger experiences with the cultural mores I have to contend with? Am I really better than them? She may be the face I can't forgetA trace of pleasure or regretMay be my treasure or the priceI have to pay One night not that long ago I had some guy outside my home trying to give me a lecture about life and love. Unbelievable. These people never talk to my face, just stand outside and entertain me with their peculiar visions of the world when really they ought to mind their own business. I wonder if the problem is that these people don't have a life to get on with so insist on trying to influence mine. Anyway, the winner of this verse was when that guy told me I should forget her and move on. Did he really think he was going to make things better for me? Turn me around? Oh good god. Actually I know exactly which lady he was referring to but the laughable thing is neither that lady or myself have any intention of resuming communication after we stopped talking to each other decades ago. I did bump into her recently, the first time in fifteen years, and we didn't even say hello. I am sorry things worked out the way they did - life is like that. She may be the song that summer singsMay be the chill that autumn bringsMay be a hundred different thingsWithin the measure of a day Ahh yes. Fear of the unknown. Am I man enough to approach, flirt, ask, or complete those adult motives? The absurd thing is how many people seem to think I suffer this problem, or that I'm a virgin because they haven't seen me dating. Of course being young I was more opportunistic and experimental. I'm not going to make assertions or admissions about this part of my private life (although for the sake of saying it, no you're wrong, I'm not gay nor have I ever indulged in any such behaviour). Perhaps my perspective was different from the beginning. My upbringing wasn't entirely conventional, my mother being a pious and misguided Christian, my father unable to be the role model; he demanded to be. Let's just say I have had my fair share of liaisons with ladies that I ought to have considered more carefully. Wisdom comes with age, more or less as vigour weakens. She may be the beauty or the beastMay be the famine or the feastMay turn each day into a heavenOr a hell There's a lady of my acquaintance. Never good friends you understand, nor did I really pay her much attention. I'm not blind to her charms, nor am I blind to the fact she knows she can charm the blokes. It's just that I always thought a relationship with her would be a problem, out of past experience if nothing else, plus I didn't feel the need to explore such possibilities. Then for some reason, just before the lockdown, her behaviour changed. She started making loud comments or suggestions to her friends, and it wasn't long before I realised she was referencing me. For some inexplicable reason she got it into her head that I fancied her. No, I didn't. She's too full of herself, too fixated on lifestyle, and smokes too much. Since the lockdown, she's actually gotten a tad abusive on the quiet. Uh huh... Didn't get the reaction you wanted? There's the truth of it. She's used to getting attention from blokes. A bit too used to it. I don't think she she has any idea how to cope with rejection at any mature level, and still insists on her concept of romance which to me appears to have been taught by the pages of teen magazines. So, if by some bizarre circumstance she's actually reading a blog on a history website, my message is this. I'm not interested. Get over it. She may be the mirror of my dreamsThe smile reflected in a streamShe may not be what she may seemInside her shell The lady of this verse to this day doesn't know I saw through her to a part of her inner self she wanted hidden. We take so much for granted when we involve ourselves with another person, and where the relationship is based on romance, the risks are so much worse. I have seen written works that say one should not be inhibited by speculations and instead enjoy the moment. In a perfect world perhaps. However the human psyche hides a potent dark side. We all have it, to a greater or lesser degree, just that most of us have psychological brakes that prevent the excesses that cause those tragedies of life and death. But that one night, alone with her, I knew what was on her mind, betrayed by expression and body language. That relationship was never the same. We parted as friends - not as lovers.She who always seems so happy in a crowdWhose eyes can be so private and so proudNo one's allowed to see them when they cryShe may be the love that cannot hope to lastMay come to me from shadows of the pastThat I'll remember 'til the day I die I smile as I remember that special relationship in my past. There's no doubt a good many of my critics will name some woman or other, but no, you're wrong. It was someone else. I know who she was, and she will know it's her I'm referring to. She wasn't the problem. My life was in a difficult place and at the time, I did not want to be an albatross around her neck. Do I regret the decision to let her go? Of course. I'm just as human as anyone else. But as much as I might think of what could have been, I also know it could have been so much worse. I hope she has a happy life. There you have it. A somewhat whimsical dip into my private life - the real one, not the fantasies bandied around by inhabitants of Swindon. You want proof? I don't answer to you. You want facts? You can't handle them. If you don't get what's written here, or feel a need to shout me down, don't waste your time. You can't change the past. Or me.

Warning: You might nod off while reading this blog, so make sure you’re positioned safely, and that the area around you is free from hazards. In order to protect your safety, I’d better make it just a little bit steamy, just in case. Ah! Now you’re interested . . . . Anyway, are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin. Welcome to GhostOfClayton’s Twice Fortnightly blog. Allow me to introduce myself to new bloggees. I am what I am, and what I am needs no excuses. I deal my own deck, sometimes the ace, sometimes the deuces. Yes, that is another song lyric. It would take more of an effort of will than I can currently muster, to summon up the motivation to look up who sang this. I was always curious about the lyric ‘I deal my own deck’. Is that maybe a little euphemistic? Probably not. It was penned quite a while ago, long before we started to live in such cynical times. 50 Shades Are we living in more cynical times? Certainly the times are more sexually open than they once were. A sex shop opened up near us a couple of years back. Sorry . . . an ‘adult store’. That’s nothing new, I know. A sex shop opened up in our town when I was about 12, much to the great delight and amusement of my schoolboy chums and me. The windows were obscured, and middle-aged men in raincoats with their hands in their pockets were regularly seen walking furtively in and out. That last bit’s not true. I never saw anyone going in or out. Which is probably why it closed down soon after. But this new adult store seems all very overt, and aimed at the young, experimental couples market, keen to find new ways to pleasure and enjoy one-another. Far from the boarded-window shame of the 1970s sex shop, this adult store even goes as far as to stand an advertising board on the verge of the A road, opposite. I first noticed it when it said ’50 Shades toys now in stock’, together with a picture of a collection of sex toys (some of which I really couldn’t identify, or imagine how they were used). This was clearly an attempt to jump squarely onto the ‘50 Shades of Grey’ bandwagon. Have you read ‘50 Shades of Grey’? I haven’t. Here’s what I know about it: it’s about a rich guy called Mr Grey. We know he’s rich, because he owns a dungeon, just for sex. Now I don’t own a dungeon, but even if I were to allocate one of the rooms at OfClayton Towers just to be used for sex, it wouldn’t stay that way for long. Within a couple of weeks, I would be putting other things in there. Christmas presents is a good example at this time of year. Mrs OfClayton would start hanging washing in there to dry when the weather outside wasn’t suitable. It’d be a great place to keep all the things I’m getting ready for my next tour . . . . and wouldn’t it be easier in January to dump the Christmas decorations in there, ready to be put up in the loft the next time I go up (but you can bet they’d still be in the sex dungeon next December). That’s how we know he’s rich – there are no socks on the radiators in his sex dungeon. Then there’s the female protagonist, Anastasia Steele. Now, that name wasn’t just plucked out of thin air. A lot of thought, even maths, has gone into that name. It is calculated to the nth decimal place to be just sexy enough, without being a pornstar name. Imagine, if you will, someone called Anastasia Steele. Conjure a picture of her in your head. You are imagining someone attractive, confident, not to be messed with, but with an underlying vulnerability ripe for exploitation by someone rich enough to have a recreational sex dungeon. I am hugely attracted to Anastasia Steele, but deep down I know that my attraction is to be forever unrequited, because my BDSM dungeon has got Boxes, Decorating Stuff, and a Mower in it.

Interesting article (and book) about Plato, which sheds new light on his idea of love. Plato lent his name to Platonic love but a new book reveals that the ancient Greek philosopher never advocated love without sex. Dr Jay Kennedy: Image-Uni of Manchester University of Manchester science historian Dr Jay Kennedy, who hit the headlines last year after revealing he had cracked the code in the great thinker’s writings, has now published a decoder’s manual that lays bare the secret content of Plato’s ancient works. “Plato – the Einstein of Greece’s Golden Age – was long thought to favour love without sex, or ‘Platonic love’, but this new research reveals Plato was far from being a prude,” says Dr Kennedy, who is based in the Centre for the History of Science, Technology and Medicine, part of the University’s Faculty of Life Sciences. More at Heritage Daily

There's a strange mood in the town right now, and I suspect, across England, because once again our national football team has failed to reach the heady goal of winning the World Cup. This time they failed to get out of the starting blocks, so I understand, but then I don't have any time for football. Nothing wrong with the game as such, but I resent the expectations that I should be interested and discuss the subject at every opportunity. I don't like the blatant commercialism and outrageous incomes football stars can earn, or for that natter, I remain baffled as to why a bloke who kicks a football for a living can be seen as important as politicians on the world stage. All those national flags displayed in peoples front windows... But I suppose that's nothing other than a sense of disappointment. For David Cameron, it means a major reorganisation of his social diary now that he doesn't have a football team to be seen with at press events. A few less new years honours to promote. Unfortunatetly it also means that David Cameron has more time on his hands, and with busy politicians who like telling the British how to go about their daily lives, it means he'll have time to think up new ways of getting his face on television, and since trampling on the unemployed is his most popular game plan right now, I dare say it'll get worse for those of us who can't afford football tickets. As it happens I'm shortly to be put on a work placement. Unlike previous years where you get a small premium payment to make the idea worthwhile, now I have to work for my benefits. Those of you with well paid jobs will no doubt say that's a good thing. But ask yourself this - would you want to work a thirty hour week for sixty odd pounds? Especially if you want to earn a living instead of dossing at public expense? In a country that's so strident in its call for National Minimum Wages and assistance for those unable to pay their ever increasing bills? Now the Job Centre has warned me that twenty-six week placements are coming soon to a own near you. On the one hand it's a means of engaging those without jobs in some useful social capacity. On the other, the need of a politician to win popularity by forcing those on benefits into what amounts to slave labour. I'm almost willing to support the England soccer team from now on. As much as I hate football, as least a few goals will keep our politicians busy for a while. They Are Working On It. The Old College site is starting to look like a shopping centre now. Not complete you understand, but getting there. At the back, the car park has the metal underlay almost fitted, obscuring the dark interior and presenting a very bright spectacle when the sun gets low in the evening. Won't be long before the muffled thuds and rumbles from the cinema start intruding upon the normal traffic noise and singing contests. I saw a man from Morrisons, one of the supermarket chains that are going to inhabit the site. He stood looking dejected on the traffic island, watching the work in progress. "Give 'em a chance," I told him, "They are working on it." Sex And Violence of the Week The local park is proving to be a popular hoilday destination for alll manner of birds. Geese, ducks, coots, moorhens, pigeons, an assortment of white sea birds, but none of the swans you used to see every year. I watched a flock of geese arrive, circling down in formation and performing a coordinated landing on the water. That made quite a splash. With such a condensed population of birds you might expect the odd confrontation or two, animals being what they are. I watched a goose making a hasty and noisy retreat as another pecked at its tail feathers in furous pursuit. A coot chased a duck continuously, while the duck cleverly evaded its nemesis by swimming underwater in a random direction, the chase resuming once the coot spotted its quarry again. I watched amused as a fat pigeon sidled up to every other female asking for a date, or preferably, a chance to make eggs. He danced and strutted his stuff, but the ladies really didn't take to his display and wandered away. If that pigeon was a human, he'd be arrested as a sex pest. or perhaps given a starring role on a comedy show. But he's working on it nonetheless. Maybe one day he'll find love. Must be difficult for pigeons. I mean, it's not like they understand the internet or know how to use dating agencies. I noticed a certain cat too. It's the black and white one whose face bears an alarming resemblance to Adolf Hitler. I had no idea this feline adventurer ever prowled this part of town, but as cats do, sometimes they travel some distance to find a hiunting ground. It's all sex and violence, really. Oh well, it was a nice day at the park, but if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. Whether I like or not.

David Cameron has said Britain needs to be more evangelical. No. It doesn't. Christianity is two thousand years out of date, causes nothing but misery, and is no better than it ever was at curing the worlds ills. No suprise then that our revered leader is patronising Britains official religion, which is getting a bit ridiculous given that even the Archbishop of Canterbury has admitted that Britain is no longer a Christian country. This is course now that the Pope has made saints of two of his predecessors. A click of the fingers and two dead men become immortal spirits we must worship as examples of what humanity aspires to be. How ridiculoius is that? Truth is that becoming a saint is really a second class title. The Romans used to make people gods when they thought it was worthwhile making a fuss in public, but they can't do that now because God made a ruling that only He was to be worshipped. Someone forgot to tell the Pope obviously. As for being more evangelical, I get enough reminders about Jesus in the street. Not impressed. After all the more evangelical people get the more reasons they find to empty your wallet. If evangelism needs to be a success, then maybe a few more moneychangers tables in the temple need to be turned over. You listening Cameron? No, I thought not. Bumps In The Night Talkimg about listening, my neighbours are still confused as to why my stereo occaisionally makes itself heard. Not because I want to impose my musical tastes on anyone else - I normally listen via headphones - but I seriously don't want to listen to anyone elses either. The girl downstairs for instance. She sings along to her partners guitar a quarter tone flat with no natural verve. Sorry, but either it's my stereo or I'm facing a large dentisits bill. At least I've managed to persuade them that music late at night is out of order. So late at night when the time comes to submit to my incresing lethargy and get some sleep, at least I can be assured that thuds and rumbles won't be preventing me from getting that healthy eight hours rest. Ahhhh.... Yes.... Busy day tomorrow, a nice warm bed, and.... Huh.... Huh.... Huh... Huh.... Huh.... Huh.... Huh.... Huh.... Ah yes. The evocative sound of the Lesser Spotteed Neighbour in their nightly mating ritual. I don't want to be cruel, but maybe she needs more than singing lessons? If you're going to make those noises at night, at least make some effort with your love life. Please. This is worse than counting sheep. Moan Of The Week Some people reading my blog are going to moan that all I do is moan. Well, that's how we are isn't it? I passed a lady the othe day, moaning about the world and its frustrations into her mobile phone. "I've had no lunch break, I've had no fag break..." She complained, outside a commercial premises, leaning against the door frame with a lit cigarette in her hand.