The sun is shining at last and whilst a glimpse of the Big Bright usually puts a song in what passes for my heart these days, I can't seem to shift my low. Bad things happen but when they come like a hammer on a nail the relentless blows forcing me down and make me wary of being optimistic, of looking up or ahead. Sometimes I just want to dig a hole and plant myself in it, pull the earth over and wait to go cold.

On the bright side............... there's 20p off teabags at Tesco.

I can't help taking the piss out of the Germans

I can't help taking the mick out of the hun

I know when I reflect

It's politically incorrect

But try as I might it's such a delight

And such delicious fun

Oh I love taking the piss out of the Germans

It makes my day to quip about a Kraut

I know they're not all bad

But it makes my heart feel glad

For the pleasure's profuse when I vent my abuse

And I let my feelings out.

Trial by Press is the standard bearer of mob rule. Jon Venables, co murderer of Jamie Bulger, has had his licence revoked for breaking one or more of the conditions put on his freedom. Because the crime he originally committed so outraged public opinion many now believe the public have a right to know what crimes it is alleged he committed.

If this infomation was disclosed Venables could not receive a fair trial. Any crime he committed would be outweighed by the infringment on his human rights. Venables case would be prejudiced. Do we want to live in a lynch mob society where actions are guided by the whims of public outrage. Are Newspaper editors and owners preferable to judges?

It is right that we are disgusted and outraged by the alleged actions of Venables. It is wrong to believe law can be changed to fit public opinion. 

I put this idea on the back burner for around 10 years.  I have always been fascinated by glass, it is a magical substance born of heat and yet clear as water, it refracts light and yet can glister like flames.

I first became interested when I found a small piece of Roman glass in a field near my home, this would have just remained a childhood find if I 'd not found three pieces of medieval stained glass in the grave yard of a ruined church a few months later. These finds caught my imagination, I visited Yorkminster to see the rose window, the modern stained glass at Coventry Cathedral and The Victoria & Albert Museum amongst others. I have worn glasses since I was 5 years old, I remember putting on my specs for the first time. The world around me had a clarity I'd not experienced before. Suddenly within weeks I was reading, my drawing skills developed and I had an overwhelming desire to translate what I saw into how I saw.

Without glass I would not have become an artist. 

I like to walk along a beach looking for weathered glass, scowered by the sea and eroded to pebbles of misted crystal. I remember seeing the ugly slag heaps above the mines of South Wales transformed to diamond mountains by the evening sunlight reflecting off thousands of broken bottles.

There is a huge difference between the education of the rich and the poor in Britain. The wealthy parents send their children to private schools which foster their talents and prime them for further education at elite universities. Only the exceptionally dense tend to end up in red brick colleges. Children of the poor can only rise within the education system if they are intelligent and determined and have the support of their family. what is bought by the rich is worked for by the poor.

There is a saying that 'Cream always rises to the top.' The assumption being the best will always succeed. Are we really to believe that the reason politics, the civil service and the professions are represented by a disproportionately high number of those educated at private school is because they are more intelligent?

The rich are not born more intelligent than the poor, it is not a genetic gift from God for those born with a silver spoon in their mouth or the children of those who have accumulated a nice wad in an offshore bank account. Education is the most significant supporting structure of the British class system. From the boy on his first day at Eton to the old Civil Service Grandee the link is unbroken, what for the poor is a greasy pole for the rich is a ladder.

I fear for Britain if the Conservatives gain power in the upcoming general election. I am a fifth generation old school Labour voter so my opinions wont change, my fundimental  belief in equality of opportunity for all is at the heart of my politics.

David Cameron is a rich man who has benefited from an elitist education and relied on wealthy connections to push him up the greasy political pole. He is the illusion of a politician, an ever changing mozaic of policies, he is brand X  promising to do everything better, he is the cure all, the polished turd of politics, proof if it was needed that there is such a thing as a walking talking arsehole.

I watched as an African man, (I could tell by the song of his voice) nearly choked on a chicken bone in KFC. He was pushing in the chicken, crunching up the bones and swallowing the lot, I'd never seen anyone do that before and was kind of fascinated and disgusted at the same time. I don't like bones, cartlidge, gristle or unprocessed fat in my mouth, these textures make my stomach turn in revulsion.

There he sat, crunching away, cheeks bulging as he masticated. Then, as he attempted to swallow, he pushed his chin forward and attempted two huge gulps, his throat contracted and  he coughed, coughed again showering chicken over the table and a small child sitting opposite. By now we had realised what was happened and he was dragged to his feet whilst a woman with arms barely long enough to go around his sizeable paunch attempted without success the force the chickeny blockage out.

Eventually, as the man began to sag, an old man forced the victim's mouth open flicked a long gnarled finger inside and hooked out a chicken rib complete with a tiny bloody scrap of human throat attached to one end. 

Drama over we all went back to our nuggets. But if proof was needed this clearly shows that eating junk food can be fatal.

I searched the web for these images after looking at Melanie Bonajo's work. They resonate the same collection of meanings.

Melanie Bonajo is a photographer who lives and works in The Netherlands. I have admired her work for a number of years. I tend not to read the artspiel as it gets in the way of looking at the work.

I consider the work to be photographic records of living sculpture rather than photographs because the image captures what would be impossible to sustain for longer than minutes in a gallery context. I have tried to find video work by her but as yet have not discovered anything. filming the subject on a rotating plinth or slowly moving around it would add another domension to her work. ( I'm sure she must have done this often.) 

Inside our skins we are alone. The more we struggle to be a part of the world the greater our sense of alienation. like our ancestors we crouch together looking into the fire rather than turning to look into the darkness. We clutter our minds with momentos, decorate ourselves with knowledge and memories in the hope that we can fill the space in which we dwell. and yet the emptiness is as vast and as terrifying as that primordial darkness.

The downside of creativity is the emptiness afterwards. It is why so many artists cling onto the craftsmanship of traditional methods. The artist is a rule maker for every work he produces therefore, by conforming to the internal laws specific to it. A work of art should succeed for the artist on a private level when it reflects these rules.

Unfortunately a mature artist will realise the emptiness of this imposed tyranny. The impossibility of total communication means he must take meagre satisfaction from percentages rather an the joy of birth. Creativity is a desire to communicate both to oneself as much as to others The problem is that the two languages are different and therefore the interpretations will never be precise. art therefore can only ever be a compromise. 

I get in knots sometimes.

All this stuff locked in my head, the adrenalin pumping as I try to drag it out. Ideas, images, sensations, memories. Sometimes I'm so up on working that I can't sleep, I close my eyes but my mind wont stop. I open my eyes and within seconds the dark ceiling becomes a screen on which a flux of imagery is projected. Even when I finally clear my head I get  flashing lights and patterns sliding across the darkness of my mind like flickering neon.

My senses get confused I taste colours and smell texture, sounds become visible and colour itself a kind of complex harmony. It's not drugs, it's me....... or the drugs my body is making.  

"Wrapping a turd in a suit doesn't make it any less a turd."

My granny on the subject of Class

The simple animation is an attempt to create the sense of the constant barrage of negativity directed towards the overweight. I believe the issue has gone beyond that of health. There is now a sense of psychological hectoring, the fat are being made to feel inferior....less human.

It is no coincidence that poverty and weight are linked it is also interesting that it appears to be more class focused. Fat, poor, ignorant, scrounger, council tenant, slob, criminal. How easily many people would find it to accept fat as part of this list of prejudices.

Sometimes I get taken along by an idea. It's a kind of buzz, driving idea into idea until from the confusion something new emerges in fragments. I then work on these in the same way sometimes feeding the original work back into the process until my mind is exhausted.

Later I review this narrative of ideas and try and understand the way the work has developed. When working in this way the mind tends to throw out stuff which can only really be recognised after through a kind of critical self analysis. The creative state of mind can sometimes be so focused that it does not recognise certain aspects of a work which are not directly within it's sphere of interest.