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. 

I've always danced with a crazed element. 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 styleless tops as dart players and the young folk dance impassioned like self-conscious 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 limited ability, I appreciated his music. Thankfully, not realising quite how much.

BEATS OF LOVE 

145. Ode to Beer by Me 

Little Easter folk came to be.
That only you could to see.
I rallied round by drinking beer.

But me, you could now 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?
As confidence vanished on the floor.
The remote is still in your now shaky hand
as these little folks got easy to understand.

Warning sign two was a right to-do:
You turned the gas on, pedal to the metal.
The scent was gone, You never knew—
Melting your plastic electric kettle.
Still, I poured a beer and hid the hobs.

There was no sign three, just a sudden smash.
An unexpected, almighty crash.
Mistaking the rubber plant, massive and tall,
For something to hold you and break your fall.


Then spooning down hospital food in a blur,
As things quickly faded from what they were.
First, went the home where you no longer live.
Then went the strength that your legs used to give.
Hoping to escape the bounds of the bed,
You pressed against my hand, but were told instead:
Your legs are as useful to you as sand.
That final, lingering hope was dead.


Now 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

Was it the little folk's dark intent
that you quit the beer for 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 work's drinking hole. 

He threw the contents of his colostomy bag over his girlfriend's head after a heated argument. 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 items 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 these 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 I'm dead. 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 change prepares you for. 

My biggest problem with old work colleagues' tales at inopportune times is responding by wrapping myself in flippancy rather than clothing myself in Christ.