BEATS OF LOVE 

146. Determination by Dean Parrish

MISTER WHITEHEAD, a balding, lanky, short fused stereotypical PE teacher, introduced me to the adolescent delights of dancing in his aerobics class. Get Up and Boogie was the track that stirred things up.

No idea what the goo in my shorts was, but thought I'd better keep it to myself. I was already called a wanker quite a lot. I hated PE and was truly gutted when those classes ended and I had to try my hand at Rugby instead. 

It's fair to say there's always been that same crazed element to my dancing. Crazed and slightly off key. Mastering dancing comes after lots of internal counting, which forces a remove from the listening experience making it cerebral. I like an instantaneous hit to both my ears and body. No remove and no mastery. And no brainpower. 

I struggle with the northern soul dancers in the now, but love sense stirring tunes like this more than ever. The old folk wear the same tops as dart players and the young folk dance impassionately like line dancers. There was a time in a sweat soaked mecca when appreciation for 60s soul sides like this was dead cool when folk were actually living for it. Or in the nineties when Baldie was doing his thing.

I take my dancing inspiration from Mister Whitehead's wonky aerobics class, who could see despite my ability I appreciated his music. Thankfully, not realizing quite how much.

BEATS OF LOVE 

145. Ode to Beer by Me 

Little folk came to stay, sex toys, explosions along the way, 

Rallying round, sipping tea and drinking beer

but us you could barely hear

Warning sign number one was full on

Distracted when thudding onto the living room floor. 

Or did you mistake the armchair for a door?

Confidence lost with remote still in your shaky hand 

Soldiering on, as these little folk got easier to understand

Warning sign number two was a right to do

Putting the gas on, the new pedal to the metal

It no longer smelt, thus

Melting your plastic electric kettle

Still, we poured a beer

and hid the hobs

There was no warning sign number three, just an almighty crash

Mistaking the massive rubber plant for something else

Something that could hold your weight

Spooning down hospital food, things quickly disappeared

First the home that you haven't really lived in for months, anyway

Then, hoping to escape the bed,

your strong legs, purposefully pressing against my hand,

Whilst being told they're as much use to you as sand

Killed said hope dead

Then the one-to-one care that's barely there

 A youthful social worker now dreads our calls

almost as much as the tired hospital staff, 

when asked to get another round of beers in

dread yours

Ironic, though in no way meant

we've only gone and quit the beer this Lent

BEATS OF LOVE 

144. I'm Gonna Change by The Velours

AN OCCUPATIONAL hazard of supermarket work is old work colleagues regaling tales at inopportune times or informing me of folk dying. 

One such guy informed me a former colleague was in a coma and asked whether I knew him. Course I did. He was the only guy who ever got barred from the works drinking hole. 

He threw the contents of his colostomy bag over his girlfriend's head after a heated argument. In the pub. I then added how unfortunate he was to miss out on redundancy. Leaving months before the announcement. I was abruptly told he did alright, pilfering from the firm for nearly two decades. Understandably, nobody in security wanted to search his colostomy bag despite strongly suspecting it contained company property. Even a CCTV camera installed over his workstation didn't deter him. Explains why somewhat ironically he had the sweaty, nervous energy of someone in constant need of the John. 

It then hit me that life gets reduced to a couple of anecdotes by people who are little more than caricatures in our lives. Clothing myself in Christ and not gratifying the desires of my sinful nature will not change anecdotes after my life is toast. It might make me less damaged and better equipped to die. When I was expecting death in my 30s, a death I was spiritually unprepared for, I promised God that if I survived, I would change. What life has taught me since is there's a plethora of deaths, many of which no amount of spiritual preperation readies you for. 

An occupational hazard of supermarket work is old work colleagues regaling tales at inopportune times or informing me of folk dying. And me being flippant.