I Want To Be A Nationalist

Whichever direction I glance in it seems that Nationalism is on the rise.

Be it Sinhala Buddhist Nationalism over your way, the good old US Trump flavoured Southern fried variety out West or the drink tea and keep calm we're British and let's get rid of all the foreigners and fuck the country in the process kind that we have over here, it's all the rage.

Of course, the intelligent types will tell you that it's always happened historically whenever there has been mass migration of people and I'm sure that's true. Hitler, Castro, Napoleon, Boris Johnson, all these truly powerful and mental leaders have used it as one of their weapons of choice.

So I was thinking the other day that I might give it a try. I'm fifty three and open to new ideas. I bought my first ever pair of raw denim jeans the other day so it must be true. To tell you the truth they do still hurt my balls a bit after about a month of wear but I'm persevering, with the knowledge that after merely a year they should feel like a second skin.

But the thing is I've realised that I don't think I can qualify to be a nationalist. Here in the UK I'm brown. Well I'm brown wherever I go but you know what I mean. I'm brown, with a proper South East England accent, the kind that no one understands in Sri Lanka.

If I was white, apart from my name, people here in the UK would never think I was a foreigner. But I'm brown, which I love by the way, and it means I can't really enrol into the whole Nationalism thing. Thai is somewhat counterbalanced by the fact I can wear many colours and I never look pasty and washed out and I have a decent sense of rhythm.

Then, in the motherland, I'm half Muslim and half Tamil, which well and truly fucks me up on all fronts.On top of that no one there ever thinks I even look Sri Lankan. I continually have arguments with tuk tuk drivers and the like when I tell them I'm Lankan and they insist that I can't be; that I must be Thai or Nepalese or something. 

So I'm a bit stuck on this one. Nationalism, that club that everyone wants to join, is not going to let me in.

But, the good news on thinking about it, is that my balls are hurting a bit less from these jeans now.

Thoughts from Colombo

I’m currently in Colombo, probably feeling like most people; a mixture of heartbreak, confusion, loss (for the many lives as well as the peace we’ve got used to) and, I’m sorry to say, relief that myself and my loved ones are okay.

I’m old enough to have lived through many terror related incidents, from being here in July ‘83 to living in London during the height of the IRA’s reign of terror to witnessing the more recent attacks in London, Christchurch and Paris.

C and myself were with some friends at The Kingsbury on Saturday evening. They were staying there and at one point we were having a poignant discussion about the Central Bank bombing, as one of them was working right there when it happened. It was the past. We felt like we were talking about a different Country. I took that picture from the rooftop bar of The Kingsbury looking at the Shangri La, with the Cinnamon Grand lurking somewhere in the distance. It was just another hot Colombo evening and I was just another person taking another picture.

We woke up yesterday morning to see news of the bombs, mixed with that early event confusion about exactly what had happened and where. Our friends messaged and told C that they were late for breakfast at The Kingsbury because she had been hiding Easter Eggs in their room for the kids. They were safe and had jumped into a taxi and escaped to the haven of his parents’ house.

That’s the thing about these events; so many of us have stories of close calls. A few months ago I was staying at the Shangri La, for a few days C and I had breakfast in that room. We were having dinner in the Cinnamon Grand a few nights ago. I was here with my Girls last year and we were doing the full on tourist trail. These events could have happened at any time, to anyone.

It feels to me like most Lankans have an old wound from the civil war. For each person that wound has healed to a differing degree. Yesterday’s events poked at that wound. Some people feel huge pain, some remain as stoic as ever and others want to sleep, just so that they don’t feel anything.

My best friend, a Brit in the UK, had his birthday on Saturday and, in the course of happy birthday messages, told me that he has decided to finally visit Sri Lanka next year with his wife and daughter. My youngest daughter K, whom you know well, is planning to spend a month here in July.

I just don’t know what to advise them.

I so love Sri Lanka. If anyone reads this blog anymore I do hope you understand that one thing.

I’m British, I’m Sri Lankan. And I feel the loss.

Off for a bit

I'm heading off to the Motherland for a sojourn. Nothing too spectacular, just a couple of weeks in the metropolis with C. I expect it will be pretty empty because of most of you fleeing to the more scenic areas for the new year.

We will talk when I'm back, or if I whack out a little post or two while I'm over there.

Bye then!

I Am NOT Sri Lankan

Groundviews and the Sri Lankan blogosphere in general are full of interesting posts, comments and rhetoric about identity, Sri Lankanness specifically. Where it began, who started it, no one knows, but it's all around us and I feel a need to add my two cents' worth, identity being one of the things we're all interested in.

This post on GV by Guru caught my eye yesterday. My first impression was that it looked interesting, if only I could understand the bloody thing. This is an issue I have with these academic sorts; their use of huge words, some with as many as three syllables, makes it hard for regular people like me to immediately relate to and understand the content.

And it's not only the number of syllables in their words, it's often the words themselves. In the very early stages Guru casually throws out my first unknown word; "praxis". I looked it up and, well, let's just say that I found even its definition confusing. It's not a word I'll be sprinkling into my everyday conversation, unless my local Indian starts to serve a chicken praxis in the near future. Of course if it's one of those Suddha dishes with loads of cream and nuts I won't touch it with a bhajipole. (did you see what I did there?)

The academics say and think that their use of these words helps to define and portray their ideas and that they understand each other anyway. I guess it's true, I just think that it adds to the "elitism" and inhibits progress. But, I digress. The thing is, I read the post, looked up the words I needed to, reread the paragraphs that I needed to in order to understand, then thought that what the brainy chap said makes a lot of sense.

In recent weeks I've battled with the things I've read, heard and seen. Sangakkara's stance, echoed by Indi on many platforms; on reframing the issues so that it's about being Sri Lankan, not Tamil or Sinhala or Burgher or whatever, has some very logical positives. Sangakkara delivered it in an eloquent, intelligent and well received manner whereas Indi did the opposite. Whether he likes it or not, the whole comparing the plight of Tamil people to that of elephants thing was insensitive and had the effect of alienating a lot of people.

To many it shattered Indi's credibility into smithereens. How can you say you're sorry, that "we are all responsible" etc and then expect people to think you understand when you do it with all the sensitivity of an elephant rampaging through a village that's been built on a pathway that his family have used for centuries?

Despite all that I thought that there was a point in this being Sri Lankan thing, not that it fully made sense, more that with some stirring, some adding of ingredients and a bit of baking at gas mark seven for about forty minutes, it might make sense. To me.

Then Guru's post, or one small part of it, impacted me hugely. And I'm glad. The lightbulb moment came when I read this:

"Let us come back to the case for a ‘Sri Lankan identity’ and delver a little deeper now. Those who stand for a Sri Lankan identity are only half way cosmopolitans. Indi and Romesh will be at a loss to explain what’s so special about the ‘Sri Lankan’ identity as opposed to a more universal identity – why not stress our identity as humans. Why? Does it sound too naïve? Those who rely on a strand of universalism but still are adamant about ‘Sri Lankan’ as the universal are closeted statists. They can argue that they are dealing with Sri Lanka as a historical/ sociological reality. This is true, but so is the Tamil identity and equally the Sinhala, Muslim and Upcountry Tamil identity"

Well I don't actually know Romesh Hettiarachchi and should also point you to his response to the statement here, in which he says he's not at a loss to explain. But what Guru said made me think that he's pointed out an undeniable and fatal flaw in the line of thinking of Indi and Sangakkara, namely that the being Sri Lankan instead of Sinhala, Tamil or whichever, can be extrapolated to the nth degree.

Why don't we forget about nationality altogether? Instead of being Sri Lankan let's call ourselves South Asian. And while we're at it let's forget about the problems that are specific to Sri Lanka and look at the issues faced by South Asia instead. Hell no, instead of South Asia, let's be Asian, or just global citizens in the big mess together.

And the answer to the question of "why?" is plain and simple. It's because identity, however we choose to define it, matters to all of us.

Take me as an example. I think of myself as a Sri Lankan Brit, or a Brit Sri Lankan (I still haven't figured out which way round I should say it, or if it even matters). When people ask me what I feel I usually say that I feel about eighty per cent Sri Lankan and about ninety per cent British. Does it make sense to you? Probably not I guess, but it makes perfect sense to me, saying that I feel a strong sense of identity with both elements of my upbringing, that nature and the nurture sides.

But it's personal. That's how I my identity and it may be wholly different from how you choose to define yours. One thing's for sure; it's not for Indi or Kumar to tell me how I should define myself. As far as I'm concerned they can go ahead and choose how to define themselves all they like, just don't do it for me, any more that I have the right to tell them to forget about being Sri Lankan and think about being Asian instead.

Guru also writes about Sinhala Buddhist nationalism, how he links the concept to an ideology far more than he does to a people or community. That struck a chord with me. There are people I know who are not Buddhist, who are not Sinhala, yet seem to be bonded by a mindset. The post made me realise that the mindset is the Sinhala Buddhist nationalist one and it's not one that promotes value pluralism.

I'm not going to bluff and pretend that "value pluralism" is one of my everyday phrase either. I learnt it from the Guru's post too. He says:

"Value pluralism is the view that many different activities and forms of life, which are incompatible, are valuable."

Which is interesting isn't it? It's the acceptance that certain things are good, even though tension and conflict may result from their existence. I thought of recent tragic events in Norway, of the tension we have here in the UK from many towards the influx of East Europeans, and it dawned on me that these things are examples of the negatives associated with value pluralism. Yet there are many positives and I like being part of a society that, as a whole, chooses to accept the positives and try to deal with the negatives.

As a final note I should tell you that I firmly believe that the things said by Indi as well as the content of Sangakkara's Cowdrey lecture were delivered with the best of intentions and positive motives. Perhaps the deliveries could have been better though.

I am Sri Lankan. I am British. I am also Tamil. Well half. I am actually proud of all of them.

Identity, Confusion, Abundance And Germans

It's probable, according to the extensive readership research we conduct here at LLD at regular intervals, that you're 98 years old, prone to wearing checked trousers on Tuesdays and dodgy hand made leather slippers that you're proud of all the time.

You eat rice about 5 times a week and have slept with 2.8 women in your lifetime. You've also had 1.3 "experiences" of a sexual nature with men, but that was when you were at school and everyone was doing it anyhow so it doesn't count.

Oh, as for the 2.8 women, well one of them was a servant when you were 15, one you married and the 0.8 was from that night you got so pissed that you've never been sure what exactly happened.

And, as a regular reader, you know enough about me to know that I have some strangely abundant views on identity, specifically on my own identity.

When I was younger I had a scarce approach to identity, thinking that I was both British and Sri Lankan but that the sum of my identity could only add up to 100%. I think many people hold similar views now. The result, among chaps with mixed identity, is that things become a situation of either / or, of being more of one and less of the other.

The scarcity approach is centred around the idea that one's identity is held within a container, one of fixed size. It can only hold so much identity, but can have as many mixtures of identity as you can think of, just a finite quantity.

The thing is, the more of one you are, by definition (albeit my definition), the less of the others you are. I spent probably the first thirty or more years of my life with this mindset. I knew my make up was British and Sri Lankan but would always struggle to balance the two. As I connected more and more with Sri Lanka I felt as though I was betraying my country of birth and physical home and vice versa.

I suppose that would all have been well and good were I happy about things, but I wasn't. Then I read a wise man's academic thesis on identity, specifically on being Sri Lankan, and I had a paradigm shift. The conclusion in this thesis was that identity is personal, that it's actually defined only by what is within the person's mind. It's not actually about passports, physical geography, heritage and whether you wear a sarong or not. It's about what each chaps feels and believes.

I took this and ran with it, applying it to my own circumstances.

"It's about what you feel, what you believe".

Hmmm.... I thought.

So there are, in my mind, some prerequisites, some rough rules. Rules like the fact that I probably couldn't decide to be a Belgian. Don't get me wrong, I like a good episode of Poirot and a plate of mussels as much as the next man, but even by the loosest criteria I don't have much to connect me with our Belgian neighbours, not even a pointy moustache. On top of that I think Belgian chocolate is nice but overrated, give me a good slab of Cadbury's Dairy Milk any day.

I decided that life, in as far as identity was concerned, would work better for me if I adopted what I call an abundance mentality towards it. Which is to say that, instead of my identity container being of a fixed size and only holding 100%, I'd picture it as something that could expand to whatever size I wanted.

The result was that I felt content and peaceful to take any view on my own identity. I could be 100% British as well as 100% Lankan. The truth is that I feel as if I'm about 90% British and about 90% per cent Sri Lankan. That is today and things fluctuate on a day to day basis, the main point is that I'm at ease when I adopt this mindset.

The girls, A and K, have three mixtures in their pot. Their mother is Polish British, then they have me and the fact that they've been born and brought up here in the UK. I feel very proud that they've grown up with the attitude that they're Polish, British and Sri Lankan.

Those are my views on identity then, formulated and evolved over the last forty four years. They're views that I'm actually rather keen on, but I figure that it's up to the individual to decide upon.

Sometimes I have a little bit of internal conflict. Cricket is never a problem, I always support Sri Lanka. Football is a hypothetical problem. I've always supported England and there's never been an England v Sri Lanka match. If there was I'd have to cheer on Lanka, just because they'd be such underdogs, but it would be a bit of a wrench.

When I hear a lot of the political views that are quite anti the UK I sometimes struggle, feeling a bit loyal to the country but also trying my best to filter out the good information from the bad and formulating decent opinions of my own.

If Sri Lanka were a footballing nation and were in this World Cup I'd definitely sport a St George's flag as well as a Lankan flag on my car. One of my ongoing projects is to find a tattoo design that will be able to combine my feelings for Sri Lanka with those for Britain and also my passion for drumming. The search is ongoing and making slow progress.

It's all abundant, all good, happy and smiley, you may think.

But the other day I saw something that threw all of this upside down. It messed with my head and has left me in some turmoil and anguish.

It was lunchtime, I strolled over to Tesco at my work to get a sandwich and some fruit to nibble on. As I crossed the road a car drove passed me. Said car was flying a St George's flag, something that just about every car here seems to be doing.

It also had another flag. No biggie, lots of cars have been flying two flags and, as I mentioned, I'd fly a Lankan one with a St George's cross if possible.

Then I looked at the other flag. I blinked, cleared my vision and looked again, to check I hadn't made a mistake. I hadn't. It was the real thing and it was just so......wrong.

This car, a Merc, was flying a St George's flag and a, I struggle to even type this, a German flag. Yes a bloody German flag. I mean, there's mixed identity, there's abundance and world citizenship and all sorts but a German and English flag together. Gott in Himmel. Can you believe this?

My head, full of its theories was overpowered by my irrational heart.

It was just so wrong.

And now the match is over and England were well and truly thrashed, beaten by a German team that outclassed us in just about every department. Okay that ref's decision didn't help but I can't complain.

I drove back from watching the match at my friend's, took the St George's flag off my car and threw it in the bin. It's like losing so much more than just a game of football, it wouldn't have been so bad it we'd played better.

The worst thing? I've lost some serious money in a bet with David Blacker. Yes, in a fit of madness I bet 100 Sri Lankan Rupees on England. God knows what I was thinking, throwing money away like that.

Sri Lanka Or Sri Lanka?

What's in a name you may ask?

Do you call it "Sri Lunkah" or Sree Lanker?

I was brought up to believe that "Sri Lunkah" is the correct pronunciation and that "Sree Lanker" is wrong. That was it, black and white, well more brown and white. Grey didn't exist, there was the correct way and the incorrect way. Suddhas say it incorrectly, Lankans say it correctly and Kalu Suddhas just mess things up.

As a kid, in Richmond at school, I'd call it "Sree Lanker" when talking to my British friends. I felt cheap and prostituted, like I was betraying my roots, but it made sense and I managed to live with the guilt. I'd mention the name at school using the Brit way then go home and chat with my parents and use the "proper" pronunciation.

There was rarely an overlap, an occasion when I'd be with a Suddha friend and one or both of my parents and get caught in a position of not knowing which way to turn, so there was never any real conflict. The thing that was definite in my mind, the banker, or bunker, was the right way to say it and the wrong way.

As I got older I maintained the view but, as I felt a stronger sense of identity, perhaps more confidence in my Sri Lankanness, I'd use the "correct" Sri Lunkah more and more, with Western people. I can't really explain the set of rules that I'd come up with to help me decide which pronunciation to use, but they were continually evolving anyhow and loosely based on how close I was to the Western person concerned.

Then, about ten years ago, something happened that messed up my mental equilibrium. I had a really close friend with me, a Lankan who was on holiday here in London, a fellow who's as Sri Lankan as can be and one of my oldest and best buddies. We were browsing in a local camera shop and for some reason he gave the shop assistant his name and address.

When he got to the country bit, you've guessed it, he told the guy that he lived in "Sree Lanker". I was cor blimey gobsmacked guvnor, I tell you Machang. I've never mentioned it to L, my friend, but it was evident that he'd chosen the Suddha way on that occasion as a means of communicating more easily with the very white and very British shop assistant.

Since then I've observed people and their choice of phonetics when saying the hallowed words. The results have surprised me. There's a large chunk of people who'll say "Sri Lunkah" all the time. Stick them with a group of whiter than white people who've never been outside the UK and they'll say it "correctly". Chuck them in the remotest village in the motherland and their pronunciation will be exactly the same.

There's another group of people, mostly western who'll say it "incorrectly" wherever they are.

But what has perplexed me is the number of people I'd consider Lankans, many with Lankan parents who are born here in the UK, some even in Sri Lanka, who'll use the Suddha way all or some of the time. These people have messed up my mindset and forced me to reevaluate. I've met people, brown ones no less, the sort who I'd always say Sri Lunkah to, who'll talk to me, or talk to people that I'd think of as fully Sri Lankan, who'll use the Western way all the time.

My reevaluation is a bit of a reflection on what I feel is my changing attitude towards many things in life anyhow, the fact that there is no right way and no wrong way, just different ways.

What is language? It's communication isn't it? A means of relating to each other to make ourselves understood. It has its limitations but it can also be very effective. So, when we succeed in making other people understand what we mean, it's working. When a person says Sri Lanka and gets it "wrong", it's me who's being wrong in judging them.

It also means that when I say "Sree Lanker" to someone I needn't feel bad or guilty. It's not actually a sign of how Sri Lankan I am, it's just a means of communicating.

What about you though? Which way do you say it and do you alter your choice depending on who you're with or where you are?

Flying The Flag

World Cup Fever is upon us here in England in a big way. It's almost as if it happens every four years.

Each time, when England qualify that is, there's an air of optimism, a feeling that this could be the one, well the second I suppose. But this year there's something different about the optimism. It's an optimism that's more tangible and realistic than ever before. England go into the finals as one of the leading contenders and, with Fabio Capello in charge, there's a confidence in the team that the nation has lacked for so long.

Second generation types like myself must feel a zillion different ways, perhaps even two zillion. For me there's an immense pride in my Britishness and my support of England. I never consider myself English but Sri Lankan and British. My feeling is that the Enlish thing is about the bloodline and heritage and that's where I'm Sri Lankan.

Will I be supporting Engand?

Too fucking right will I.

Yesterday I bought my St George's flag which is now proudly flying from my car. Every other car here, whether driven by black, white, brown or yellow sports a St George's flag, with the occasional stray vehicle flying a dodgy foreign one.

There's something about the whole thing that makes me proud of the cosmopolitan nature of England. Hardly anyone looks at a person's colour and questions their credentials, their right to support the team and fly the flag. I heard a rumour that there's some brown fellow in Borehamwood wondering the streets wearing a sarong with the St George's cross on it!

I've been wondering how it would work if someone printed up a load of dual flags, Sri Lankan on one side and St George's on the other. I'd buy one immediately and fly it with one hundred per cent pride. Let's run it up the flagpole and see who salutes shall we?

Good luck England!

Change, Democracy, Pomp And Police

Over here in the UK we've now had our change of Prime Minister and government and, for the first time in my life, I've watched the events and proceedings with a certain sense of optimism and hope about the state of British politics.

I drove home from work on Tuesday night and listened to the radio. The friendly but slightly arrogant presenter told us that the negotiations between the conservatives and the liberals looked to be almost at their conclusion, that there would possibly be an announcement that night on a coalition government. At worst the feeling was that things would be sorted by Wednesday morning, even the barrage of "experts" being interviewed every few minutes agreed with this.

I got home, did a poo, as a man does, then did some sit ups and relaxed. Then I turned on the TV and, lo and behold, my expected trip to Albert Square, E20, to watch Eastenders was rudely interrupted by all sorts of fascinating shenanigans representing many of the good things about Britishness and not a few of the (m)/(b)ad.

Gordon Brown was just leaving Downing Street and heading off to Buckingham Palace to tell the Queen that he was resigning. His timing could have been better. One can only hope the Queen doesn't watch Eastenders or she would have been as pissed off as the rest of us. As I listened to the commentary it became apparent that he'd decided to do this before the conservatives and the lib dems had formally agreed on anything, an interesting twist, maybe his last attempt at some sort of a powerplay.

His car was swanked by a couple of Police bikes and a few cars and they stopped the traffic with the ease and seamlessness that most people who've lived in London will have witnessed many times. It's a highly effective sort of relay in which one to three of the Police bikes go ahead, stop traffic at the next couple of junctions, then let the VIP through and overtake his car and repeat the whole process.

I've heard stories that in some countries, even when it's not so much a VIP but more a distant relative of a slightly VIP (cerno would call them a DROASVIP), the whole area is closed down for a period of several hours to let the person through and this happens many times a day because so many people want to be seen as important. Well we have none of that over here, where British understatement and head down behaviour is all the rage, not that we have rages.

It was funny to watch. The pomp and circumstance that is part of our monarchy, the way in which Gordon had to officially go and see the Queen to tender his resignation. The helicopter camera followed his five minute journey and then other cameras showed him entering the Palace. After that we waited and the TV anchormen, desperately seeking things to say while we all waited, speculated on what exactly the Queen would say to him and how long things would take.

The level of detail that the presenters talked about was astounding, yet I couldn't help find myself being caught up in it and being interested in things that, on balance, probably weren't relevant to the running of a country.

My mind, and you won't be surprised about this, went on a wild extrapolating spree. I wondered if the Queen would have made some sandwiches for Gordon, if he might have asked to use the toilet before he left. Would she, at the end of the meeting, ask if he wanted to stay for some pot luck? And, seeing as he did work for her really, would she accept his resignation and, if so, what sort of reference would she give him?

Some time later he left, clearly not being asked to stay for dinner, he'd probably stop off at an Indian and get a takeaway on the way home, not that he had a home anymore. I thought this was a bit thoughtless of the Queen to be honest, but then she's not Sri Lankan and she might have been keen to see Eastenders, which was on hold until things had finished. She may have let him use the phone at the Palace to ring the Indian and order his food, that would have been the decent thing to do.

As his car pulled out of Buckingham Palace the commentators remarked on two things that were so British and insignificant yet strangely important. The first was the fact that the guards at the Palace saluted Mr Brown when his car entered the gates but then, when he left, they also saluted him, which they shouldn't have done.

Our esteemed commentators told us that it was correct protocol to salute the Prime Minister but he left as a common man and therefore didn't warrant a salute. Perhaps they had decided to throw protocol to the wind and act a bit madly. In royal circles giving a chap a salute he's not entitled to is like dancing the baila with your sarong folded up at the back to reveal your bum to everyone; a little bit crazy and mad but something we've all done.

The second thing was along the same lines. He arrived with the aforementioned Police escort and outriders but leaving as a civilian meant that he wasn't entitled to all of that. So he exited the grounds of Buckingham Palace being driven in his car with no privileges whatsoever. The helicopter footage showed his car on its own with no entourage, getting stuck in traffic and queuing with the rest of the plebs, most of whom were travelling home blissfully unaware of who was sitting in the back of the car next to them.

After that was all done it was the turn of David Cameron, the leader of the conservatives and now our new Prime Minister, to do the same thing, but in reverse. He turned up at the Queen's house in his solo car, battling through the London traffic like any civilian, to "be invited" by Her Maj to form a government.

I reckon this "be invited" terminology was an interview of sorts. She probably asked him about his previous jobs, why he left them, what his strengths and weaknesses are, that kind of thing. Of course whether he lives locally and if he's ever run a country before would have been taken into consideration very seriously and they might have haggled over the salary a bit, maybe Cameron held out for a slightly higher specification car or a longer lunch break.

Finally, before offering him the job, she would have asked him about his personal interests, what level of badminton he actually plays, just to establish if he'd bullshitted on his CV, standard stuff.

Whatever happened it was enough for the Queen to give him the job and the new Prime Minister left, with Police escort. I can't recall if the guards saluted him, but he headed to Downing Street where he gave a quick speech and went in, presumably to meet his new staff. His wife was with him. I guess she wanted to have a look, see where the hoover's kept and what redecorating she wants to do, that kind of thing.

Why am I optimistic?

Well I'm not a fan of the conservatives per se. But most people I've encountered have expressed exasperation with Gordon Brown and the labour party. It hasn't helped that Brown isn't a charismatic looking leader, if he went out on the pull with Bill Clinton and Tony Blair it's a safe bet that he'd be the one going home alone at the end of the night.

On the other hand, while it seems so many were disillusioned with labour and Brown, there weren't many who strongly backed one of the alternatives. I was one of these types; a fundamentally labour person who had doubts if labour under Brown was the right choice but didn't want the conservatives in and didn't think the Lib dems would get in anyhow.

What we've got, with a little bit of wind in the right direction, could just be a government with hints of everything good. At the very least, in my world that is, it's a government that seems to reflect what the public wanted, except those people who wanted labour.

As the bloke who fixed my watch said; time will tell.

And it all dragged on for so long that they postponed Eastenders.

Overusing English In Excess And Then Some

I saw a couple of things recently that forced that bemused and puzzle smile across my face, the smile that's a half frown, half chuckle and half WTF?

I was interviewing someone the other day and did that thing that a few interviewers do, I think they call it preparing. She turned out to be a nice enough person, Americanists would probably describe her as spunky but, here in England that means something entirely different and, in this case, most likely to be wholly inaccurate.

There I was, doing the preparing thing and reading through her CV. One of the things it said was

"fluent in Punjabi"

It's not a skill that would specifically benefit our business but I could see how it would be useful to many others, particularly in this area, where there are more Indians per square metre than, well Eastern Europeans.

All was well and good. Until I read the next bit. For, our candidate, or someone who thought they were smart and good at CV writing, had added after the "fluent in Punjabi" bit the words

"speaking reading and writing"

I kid you not, the comma after the first word was genuinely missing, that wasn't just me. I found that ironic in itself. More importantly I stared at the words "speaking reading and writing" and wondered what else there is to be included in the fluency in another language. Surely it's like a fellow telling you that he's good at origami and then adding that he's also quite good at making things out of folding paper.

Yes, she sure misunderestimated my English skills.

And then I was driving around and passed a shop, a bakery cum eating place. The sign said:

"Specialists in all types of egg and eggless cakes"

Well I ask you. Was the signwriter getting paid per word?

Why not just say "Specialists in all type of cakes"?

And let's not even get started on Sri Lankan signs?

Merry weekend out there all.

Lord Of The Dance

Picture the situation. It was last week, though technically that will depend on when you're reading this, I was in Barcelona, that city of culture and Spanish miscellany, with C and she was perusing a guide book looking for things to do that evening.

"Do you want to go to the ballet?" she asked.

"Um. What?" I replied, using the old buying a bit of time by pretending I hadn't heard trick.

"Do you want to go to a ballet?" she repeated.

"Well, not really." I answered, with all the firmness and assertiveness I'm renowned for.

And so, at six o'clock that evening I was sat in a theatre, waiting for the ballet to start, pondering on my assertiveness skills.

Earlier that day the woman in the box office had told us that the evening's performance was a "children's ballet", only an hour long and "quite good". I'd succumbed, it was a rather picturesque theatre and an hour of watching blokes dancing around while dressed in tights couldn't be all that bad could it? Besides, I could change out of the tights later in the evening if I really wanted to.

Looking around at the other members of the audience made me uneasy. It was mostly women with their children, most of whom were girls. I had a bad feeling that we were about to watch a pantomime, oh yes I did. Perhaps when she had told us it was a children's ballet her English had let her down.

Two people appeared on stage. One was a woman and the other was a man, or was it the other way round? I forget, but it matters not. For about ten minutes they told us things in an animated, children's TV presenter fashion. Every word was spoken with big eyes, bold body language and more variety of tone than a xylophone player falling down the stairs (with xylophone) and having his fall broken by a couple of accordions. Sentences were littered with sporadic outbursts of dancing from our two performers as they explained through dance what they'd just explained through words.

I didn't understand the words or the dancing, which was a bit of a bummer really. But, it seemed as if the friendly couple were explaining ballet, or perhaps bad clothes and their effect on dance moves, to the children. I began to think that maybe this was it; an hour of teaching kids about ballet, getting them interested and hungry for it, all in Spanish, though it may have been Catalonian.

I'm forty four and linguistics isn't one of my things. On top of that ballet isn't one of my things. All in all I felt as if this might be one of those rare occasions when I left before the end of the show, even if it was only an hour. Then, before you could say something quick, the couple left the stage and were replaced by a group of dancers and some music.

I breathed in a huge sigh of relief. It wasn't traditional classical ballet, more a cross between that and modernish dance, clearly aimed at enticing kids into the evil, dark and murky world of ballet. It was quite good.

There were three of four more acts; one was a dance accompanied by an electro sort of soundtrack, another had a seriously groovy tribal thing going on and there was a bit of classical sounding stuff too. It was dumbed down for the kids and suited me perfectly.

The troupe performed their last number and wallowed in the rapturous applause. It was a full theatre and all were clapping enthusiastically, including me. The gang of dancers (probably an oxymoron) left the stage and ran down the centre aisle, giving it some large ones.

I was sitting next to the aisle. A dancer made eye contact with me and held out a hand. She was one of those girl dancers, the sort with a body made from chiselled flesh and probably used by Michaelangelo and other Ninja turtles as a model. It would have been rude to refuse so I countered by proffering my hand and shaking hers. I figured that I was British and a handshake, a well done, a metaphoric pat on the back were what was called for.

Well, I was wrong.

Before I knew it she'd pulled me out of my seat and I was being led towards the stage. Somewhere in my peripheral vision I could see that most of the other dancers had grabbed an audience member too. Now I'm pretty rubbish at estimating crowd numbers but I reckon there must have been around four hundred thousand, perhaps a million people in the theatre and, in a daze, I was onstage, front left, close to the audience.

The dancers were all going mental in a freeform modern dancing way. I looked around me to see the few other people from the crowd who had been dragged up there were dancing too, but all a bit subdued and mild. My dancer, her with the body, was telling me something in Spanish. It was apparent, even to me, that she was telling me to dance.

I figured that I was a foreigner in a foreign land, I was representing both Britain and Sri Lanka. It was a mad moment to consider my identity but I did, though failed to come to a conclusion. Instead I danced, like a total mentalist.

I pulled out all my moves, the ones that A and K would have absolutely cringed at, the ones that I was sure C would be cringing at. Afterwards she told me that she was watching through her hands, whilst they were covering her eyes.

I shook my legs in my best Elvis impression, I swivelled my hips sexily, I waved my arms above my head and spun around a few times, without falling over. I could tell that the dancers were impressed with me, sometimes a chap just knows these things.

Then things evolved into a slow dance, something that's slightly less my forte. And I say forte in a way that a fish can say his forte is mountaineering or BMX biking.

Dancer girl took hold of me and attempted to lead. I followed for a bit, then battled for the lead, changing my left hand position to gain control while being careful not to fondle her bum too much. Once she surrendered and let me lead I realised I didn't have the faintest idea what to do. For what seemed like hours but was probably seconds we did this weird dance. I managed to establish that the music was in 7/8 but she wanted to dance in 3/4 so we settled on 4/4 and went for it.

Then the music shifted gear again, into something I recognised; that Pussycat Dolls version of Sway with me. Again I pulled out some of my smoothest moves. I forgot to do the one when you lift up one leg, bend it at the knee and grasp the ankle with one hand while putting the other hand behind your head and shaking, but the rest were all there. I felt the spotlight on me, the eyes of the crowd and their gasps of admiration and I loved it. There's something about that song that makes everyone want to dance isn't there?

My dancing partner said something to me. I mumbled a phrase that vaguely sounded like "can you speak in English" and she told me I could go back to my seat now. Disappointedly I left my stage, for it was mine by then. I went back to my seat and the other people went back to their own ones.

As I got to my row I could see C, half laughing and half crying. She had the look of a mother who's just seen her child do really badly in the lead role of the school nativity play; proud but embarrassed, kind of hoping the child would go and sit in the row behind by mistake.

I sat down, knowing that I'd done it for my countries. It was good to find out that I haven't lost it. Well I suppose you can't lose what you never had in the first place. At least I know what it must be like to be the singer instead of the drummer now.

I've since decided that ballet's quite good. Though I did only reach out to shake the girl's hand.

The Election, The Blogs, The Book And The Twits

I was sitting at Heathrow airport yesterday, dropping C as she headed off to the motherland, chatting and watching the Lankans milling around waiting for the plane. One of the things we talked about was the Presidential election and our respective thoughts on it.

I've observed myself as I've observed things happening and I've been amazed and fascinated by the impact of the various internet mediums (if that's the term) and how they enabled me, and probably millions of others, to get real time information and feedback on the state of play in Sri Lanka on a minute by minute basis from all those thousands of miles away.

There were four main platforms I used, the obvious ones; Facebook, Twitter, the mainstream press (on the net) and the blogs, mostly fed to me from Kottu or the ones I link to from here.

In the days preceding the election the blogs and press were the clear winners in terms of getting across their message. For months each Sri Lankan newspaper had told us of the virtues and benefits of its chosen candidate, the majority had gone for MR but some still extolled the virtues of the retired General. In the run up each paper had time to produce nice wordy and well thought out articles, as well as a lot of rubbish.

There were also emails going around, the usual sort of "fan" thing, as well as people putting things up on Facebook, though usually copy and paste jobs or links to blogs.

The blogs did their thing too. There were people like Sittingnut and Voice In Colombo on one side, others on the opposing side and many who, to me at least, didn't really appear to be on the side of either of the main contenders, but on the side of change. By that I mean that there were people who weren't really pro SF but were going to vote for him because they'd had enough. Had I been a voter I would have bunged myself in that category.

Then, when we got to the 26th (election day) and the 27th (results day), the situation in terms of the coverage changed dramatically. The online newspapers, all except the Daily Mirror, though that's more like a forum these days anyhow, couldn't react quickly enough to act as "real time" information providers, so other platforms rose to the occasion, a word I always have trouble spelling.

Most bloggers, those that had kept their allegiance a bit quiet before at least, came out and showed their colours. There were some suprises. Indi's support for SF surprised me more than I could believe. With many of his posts seeming quite pro MR recently I'd thought that the incumbent prez had managed to seduce Indi somehow. How wrong I was.

On the 27th, as the results started to filter through and the Cinammon Lakeside got more publicity and TV footage than Yasmin Cader could ever dream of, it was Twitter that came into its own, with the blogs taking a firm second place. Facebook seemed to fade away and only acted as an outlet for people tell us that they'd written a blog post or that they had a gig the next weekend and we're all invited.

I was surprised that Facebook became a bit pedestrian in that sense but, with hindsight I probably shouldn't have been. After all it is a social networking site first and foremost. The chat thing was something I used, to talk to a few people to see what their take on this was, but that was more because it was there than anything else.

Twitter became like one of those old fashion newsroom machines, the ones that churn out all the news on ticker tape. Everyone was telling everyone what was going on, then everyone else was retweeting things in case we missed it the first time around. Tweets were coming through at a rate so fast that even Michael Schumacher a Sri Lankan bus driver would have struggled to keep pace with. It was mad but in a good way.

Those people who had a little more time somehow managed to dash off quick but informative blog posts giving better detail than possible on Twitter. Indi and Groundviews were particularly prolific in this sense and I genuinely thank them for the updates. In the middle of all of this the Daily Mirror site went down, I don't know if it was sheer volume of traffic or what, but it was as much use as a clown's outfit to a fish, one that doesn't want to work in a circus at all.

I came across some blogs that I've hardly ever read before, one of which was this Telshane one. As with all the information sources it was vital to try to apply one's own filtering mechanisms to things. People were forwarding rumours, heresay, Chinese as well as Taiwanese whispers and things they'd heard from their driver who had heard it from the cousin brother of his friend's sister.

As I read posts like this one I wondered first what they've done to the pool at the Cinnamon Lakeside, as it looks as though one end now has a sort of barrier. Secondly and rather more importantly I felt incredibly involved with the goings on. It was like an out of body experience. I was at my desk, in between meetings on a pretty busy day yet only seconds away from events as they unfolded.

So that's my take on things, or how things were revealed. It was a lesson to me, a very positive one about how the world is so small and accessible. It's not about journey times and physical distances, it's all about broadband speeds, Blackberries and HD video, Tweets and blogs.

The post of the day?

This one. It made me laugh.

Have a good weekend all.

RD

Presenting My Conditions For Political Support.

Dear Your Excellency,

With the forthcoming Presidential election looming larger than a huge thing hovering over a tiny thing, perhaps even larger, I think the time is right to outline my conditions for my support. According to Blogger I have the grand total of sixteen people who are now official followers, I feel that my support for any candidate could gain between ten and fourteen of those votes, a large sum by anyone's standards.

Here they are:

1. Embarkation cards - You know when Suddhas leave Sri Lanka, well there needs to be better signage to tell them / us that we need to fill out an embarkation card. Otherwise they queue up to get their passport checked, making the queues longer for all of us, only to be told to go over there and fill out the form.

2. Odel - Please sort out the mens' department. And also we could do with a down escalator. Why is there just the one, why does it go up, then get us to the wrong floor? These are important issues.

3. Freedom of speech - I reckon it's a good thing and should be encouraged. Dissent is usually constructive and helps people to formulate decent opinions and ideas. Violent protest, terrorism and hateful behaviour aren't good things, most people would agree, not that I've spoken to most people. Get rid of the "if you're not with us you're against us" mentality, start a "you can be with us and disagree" one.

4. Barefoot devilled King Prawns - Please get rid of this delectable dish from the specials menu. It's all well and good to enjoy when a fellow's there but dwelling on the taste and the aroma from my desk on a December morning in West London is quite painful and makes my mouth water. It's not as painful as nailing your balls to a wall but you probably get what I mean. Just ask DD, he'll no doubt agree with me.

5. A Sri Lankan passport - May I have one please? My parents are Sri Lankan, as were their parents. I feel Sri Lankan and love the place, for all its madness and sheer frustration, for its beauty and serendipity. I'd quite like to get one without the need for thousands of pounds to change hands and be verified by all sorts of people, most of whom we're all related to anyway.

6. Release the IDPs.

That's it really. I suppose some of these things are easier for you to do than others, but just imagine if you lost the election by ten votes or so. To be honest with you I'm not too fussed about the whole embarkation card signage business. I actually find it quite funny to watch the tourists get turned back after queuing up.

I'd be happy to come to your house sometime if you want to hear more, I think I know roughly where it is. I can't come on Friday though as I'm on a diabetes clinic thing.

Good luck and all.

RD

Lately Auf Das Lankanosphere...

Ja, fur zis veek ve vill in another language talk. And ze language is Cherman. Das idea vas gut ja?

Except for the fact that my German has now been exhausted. By that, I don't mean that I have a cute German girl under my desk who's now totally knackered. No, I mean I've run out of German phrases, words and umlauts and things. It's probably because I failed my German 'O' level all those years ago and, on top of that, I don't know if the Lankanosphere's male or female.

The past weeks in the Kottu world have been a hive of all sorts of activity and have certainly made for interesting reading. Even as I start this has the smell of a long post. I'd suggest that you grab yourself a cup of something, sit down, get comfortable and prepare for a longish read. Like a good asian family it's all relative and it's not a long read compared to one of Bill Shakespeare's shortest works or the average length of a Sittingnut comment.

The first thing is that the sad passing of Mohan Ariyaratne has caused many bloggers to tell of their feelings and thoughts, whether happy, sad or both. I didn't know him well, to me he was the chap at Barefoot who looked after many things, music in particular.

I don't think he knew my name but he'd always acknowledge me and we'd have a little chat, often about music. I once gave him a CD of my band with me drumming and, to my surprise, he put it on at Barefoot. It made me smile like a cheshire cat to get played there and I'd like to thank him for that.

Indi's post has got a really atmospheric and poignant picture, Dom's post is a beautifully crafted black and white portrait as only he can make with a poem to accompany and Electra's post is written in her uniquely thought provoking style. Java gives us all a bit of background and history in his particularly esoteric way.

It's been a couple of weeks but there was the perplexing story of the Lankan blogger who went and got himself arrested. Perplexing because things were hazy, facts were unclear and simply that perplexing is a word I haven't used for a while. It's unclear who the chap was, though a name has been bandied about, and exactly why and what charges have been brought, if any.

Indi tell us about it here and Aladdin, the slippered Lothario gives us some more detail here. As a blogger I find it a bit worrying, though any arrest on my person is more likely to be from the fashion Police (metrosexual division) than from a political squad.

Rajaratarala, yes him with all the As in his name, has decided to go into acting. Word has it that he's been seen busily auditioning for the latest Gillette commercial, involving a sarong clad sword wielding fiend and lots of shaving gel. He tells us a bit more about it on his captivating blog. It seems he also ran over a bloke in a garage, then pretended the chap was working under his vehicle without the aid of a jack.

Life in Taprobane is the name of the blog, Serendib Isle is the name of the blogger and Lebanon is the name of the Country, though not the Serendib one. Our S Isle has been perving travelling across Lebanon, telling us about his observations and ruminations and falling in love left, right and centre. The posts are good reading and made me want to see the place. Check them out. As an aside I wonder what they call lesbians in Lebanon.

Cerno kicked out two little nuggets that couldn't be more different yet share one thing; brilliance. Firstly we have this one about domestic bliss at home with the Cernos. It made all of us go all gushy and gooey and I even heard a rumour that it had prompted David Blacker to rush out and watch a batch of romantic comedies while eating a large bar of Swiss chocolate.

Secondly is his post on the People's republic of Dehiwala. I think he may have put the apostrophe in the wrong place but, other than that, it's an example of comedic and satirical writing at its best. I think, in reality I don't know what satirical means. As Obama would say, check it. The scariest place in the world must be inside Cerno's head. Well, after Belgium of course.

That girl, the Drama Queen, is back. If I tell you that this post mentions porn, fellatio, a Sri Lankan mother, Hi!! magazine and lines like "because only hookers dress like mums and go to Galle Face Green" I think you'll be interested. You'll laugh and laugh like a demented hyena in an interview for a million pounds a year job at the canned laughter factory. Which is to say, rather a lot. And Dinidu, Fellatio's not a Shakespearean character either. Or an Italian midfielder.

Our Gyppo has been on form lately too. This gem about her thoughts on the war, her attempts to understand and make sense of it certainly hit a home run with me, probably with many others too. Like I said in a comment I left, if more people displayed honesty like this instead of claiming to know all the answers the world would be a better place.

JapSach's gone underground, we know not why, we know not for how long nor how deep. But does anyone else ever has the strange thing happen when you read his blog? It's a thing where my internet browser keeps opening tabs for his blog. I have to do all sorts of task management things to get out of it and it only ever happens on his blog, though not all the time.

Talking of going underground, where on Earth is Kalusudda? The last we heard was July 1st when he published this post. Since then there's been nothing, no comments, no posts and no sightings. Give us a shout out KS, I for one hope you're okay and roaming around in your academic way.

To round off let's just mention the surplus of blogoversaries that has been doing the rounds. Everywhere I turn, every blog I read, every breath you take, I'll be... oops, sorry I went all Sting for a moment there. What I meant to say was that there are blogoversaries galore at the moment.

Gutterflower has passed the two year point. We like her.

Drama Queen's previously mentioned post, which I'll previously mention again, was her one hundredth, so congrats and all. She wins a night out with her Mother for that.

Then that hard hitting, courageous and ground breaking blog, the one that's helped formulate so many people's opinions and has tackled many key issues hit a nice clean one thousand posts. It's quite an achievement indeed.

Did I mention Groundviews?

That hit its thousandth post too. Nice one.

Well I'll be off then.

A merry weekend to you all. I'm going to see Muse tonight avec A and K. Can't wait.

RD

Dear Sixteen Year Old RD - Let's Play Some Tag

I got this idea from Jonathan Ross. It's a letter to your sixteen year old self. What advice would you give, with what you know now, to the sixteen year old you?

It's also been a while since we had a good game of tag doing the rounds in the Lankanosphere, so I'll start and I'll make the rules.

They go like this:

Write a post, a letter to your sixteen year old self.

Tag two people, no more, none of the "I'll leave it as an open tag" or "I'll tag ten people because I love you all so much"

Run round your house naked.

Here's mine:


Dear sixteen year old RD,

Life is going to be quite an adventure for you. That much is for sure. The older you'll get the more you'll actually realise how much you don't know. Right now you think you know it all, at forty three you'll know a lot more and feel like you know nothing. You'll be amazed that you've got a fifteen, almost sixteen year old daughter who thinks she knows everything.

There's so much to tell you about what's to come but I don't want to give it all away. Let's start with the thing you think about for about ninety eight per cent of your waking hours; sex. You will have it eventually and it won't be with Debbie Harry. But that's okay, she's not going to age that well, nor will Pamela Ewing from Dallas.

You'll be surprised about sex. Right now it looks as though it's fun and something only other people do. Give it a few years and you'll be one of them and startled at the trouble people get into over it.

You may want to think about getting a haircut, some cleaner looking and less heavy rock clothes. All the other kids are into a more modern and new wave look and sound and you're hanging around with hippies. Get a bit trendy, it will help you with the whole sex thing for a start. And for heaven's sake shave that bloody pubic bumfluff off your face. That stuff your parents are saying about not shaving too soon is all rubbish and you'll look better for it.

You know the way you've always thought about playing the drums? Do it, do it now, go and get some lessons, it will be the one place in which you feel totally comfortable. Don't wait until you're thirty one to find that out. Do not even think about being a professional musician. You'll end up having lots of fun and making no money. Can there be anything worse?

Now let's talk about Sri Lanka. You like it now, you feel a certain affinity to it and want to go there more. That's nothing. Next year all hell's going to break loose in Lanka, lots of it whilst you're there. It will take over thirty years for peace to turn up and do its thing. Yet, during that thirty years, you're going to begin your affair with that little island. You're going to become connected to it in ways you can't imagine now. It will become more important to you than even those Debbie Harry posters on your ceiling. Seriously. Sinhala lessons might be a good idea too.

And while we're on the subject, you're going to have a blog and get quite interested in writing and reading. This may confuse you as you don't know what a blog is. It's a thing that people publish on the web. Ah yes, you don't know what the web is. Let's leave it for now, you'll find out.

Learn to cook RD, it will be useful.

Make mistakes, make lots and learn from them, that's the key. Perfection is only attained by people who don't push their boundaries.

Parents. Well your ones will get worse. You'll love them but they'll drive you mad. That's what parents do, Sri Lankan ones just do it even more. Then you'll observe yourself behaving towards your kids like your Dad does and did towards you. Let it go RD, that's what happens.

I think that's about it. Your life will be fun, you'll make it fun because of your choices and your actions and you'll go out and get things, not just from Tescos.

With my kindest regards

Your forty three year old friend

RD

My two tagged people are:

The Gyppo.
DD.

Now I have to go, it's cold with no clothes on.

Shall We?

"Love how Sri Lankans say "shall we?" when they want to make a move"

Wrote, or tweeted, a friend of mine the other day. It made me smile, in a bit of a Sri Lankan way.

You see I was brought up in English, but it was an English that was littered with Lankan phrases and "Api yamuda?" was one of them.

I remember being at those very Sri Lankan get togethers, the ones that happen in England. All the adults would be great friends and there'd be dancing, drinking and back slapping and a bunch of second generation young kids scattered around scowling at each other and trying to win the competition to be the most English kid in the house.

Winning was achieved by displaying the most contempt possible towards all things Sri Lankan. This meant insisting on the use of cutlery, never ever dancing to the baila and quite a lot of general skulking and attitude.

The really brave kids, the ones who probably went on to become NGOs, lead singers or overtly camp interior designers with unusual looking business cards, would claim a dislike of rice and curry or even, yes seriously, NOT refer to the adults as Uncle or Aunty. None of us were ever brave enough to do it overtly, there was always a slightly mumbled sound so that the adult would think that they had been addressed correctly, but the thought was there.

Then there'd be a couple of girls, invariably with those uniquely Lankan rhyming names, like Sonali and Ronali or Shahila and Ashila. All the rest of us hated these girls but in a slightly envious way. They were the teacher's pets of the group.

With only a hint of a request from one of their parents, usually the Father, these girls would break out into a song and dance routine that would make one of the songs from High School Musical, either one, two or three, you can choose, seem like a Stigmata gig when they've decided to try and sound a bit heavier than usual.

All the older generation would cheer and clap and commend the parents of the girls on having such talented and lovely daughters. The rest of us, the kids, would scowl and huff, pretending that the last thing on earth we wanted was to be like them.

After all the merriment, the eating, drinking and dancing, remember this was in the days when drinking and driving was positively encouraged, especially among Sri Lankans, there'd be a brave wife or husband who'd look at their spouse, do that very Lankan head twist, raise an eyebrow and say

"Yamuda?"

Then people would leave. Obviously, what with most of the people being of Serendipitious origin, the leaving process would take about another three hours, but eventually it would be done.

These days, on the seemingly rare occasions me and C are in the same country, I find myself a bit of an expert at the "shall we?" The words are often unsaid, the body movements are barely perceptible to a passing suddha. It's a quick bit of eye contact, the slightest bit of facial rotation ( I reckon about 3 deg though that's not scientifically proven) , just the merest raising of an eyebrow and the message has been conveyed.

Sometimes there's a little bit of lip movement but it's more miming the words than anything.

And, three hours later, we go.

Turning into my Dad? Me? Never?

Happy Monday all.

M

I'm going to blow my own trumpet, just a bit.

This is, as those Italians say, my Mth post. Or in English it could be described as my thousandth post. Or in Singlish we might say something like "well done machang, a thousand posts no."

And it makes me feel quite emotional to be honest.

My blog began as an experiment, an experiment to see what would happen, one without a hypothesis and still without a conclusion. Though I know not whether a conclusion can be reached if there's no hypothesis to start with.

It's taken about three and a half years to get to the first millennium and such a huge amount of big stuff has happened in that time, in my life, your life and life in general.

In the case of the first person I've got divorced, I've joined three or so bands, I've left one or two of them. I met C and I've moved four times, two of which were back to my parents' place. Yes, I think it's fair to say that the only thing that hasn't changed dramatically in my life is my work. If, on the day I'd started blogging, you'd told me that all of this would happen to me I'd have phoned up a Doctor to have you carted off to a special place.

There's no point in me telling you about the specific things that have happened in your life, as I don't know who you are, but the chances are that you're one of the people who have been affected in some way by the end of hostilities in Sri Lanka. Most of us, Lankans, Lankan diaspora and people who have an interest in Serendib have been affected somehow. Isn't it amazing how things, which looked so bleak three and a half years ago, look so different now?

The Sri Lankan blogosphere, or the Lankanosphere as someone has christened it, has changed beyond recognition. I don't know the exact figures but Kottu has changed and developed from a small handful of close knit bloggers to a vast spray of over three hundred Lankan and Lankan related blogs.

Many of my old favourites have gone, their blogs deleted or hidden from view, making me look back and wonder if Julesonline, Hot Chocolate and so many others were real or imaginary. Did they exist, did they really regale me with their tales and adventures then vanish so abruptly?

Others have gone from public to private blogs, from regular to irregular blogging, for numerous reasons.

Then there have been some constants. Indi has been consistent and, as a blog is over six years old. He still. Writes very. Short sentences. He still gets read by just about everyone.

Lady D goes way back to January 2006 and Sittingnut goes all the way back to Aug 2005.

Yes, one thousand posts after I started lots of things have changed and lots have stayed the same.

I've learnt loads.

If you've been a reader, a commentator, a fellow blogger, a friend or a foe then the chances are that I've gleaned something from you. I've learned a hell of a lot more about Sri Lanka and have got even more attached to the country that I'm proud to be from, that I'm proud to consider as one of my homes.

The best thing? I've met and made some great and fantastic friends, too many to mention by name, though I should mention DD as he's prone to sulking!

Thank you, here's to 2M.


RD

EDIT - I was going to start this post by saying that something like

"By the time you read this Cerno will probably have published a post about the subject, as he's a bit like the Sri Lankan mother of the Lankanosphere with the way he keeps track of blogoversaries and events."

I decided that I wouldn't, as it was unlikely that Cerno's powers would extend this far, that he'd even notice.

I was wrong. Thank you very much for the post Mr Cerno, I think I might love you.

Racism - Making Me Proud To Be British

Last week we had a bit of a furore over here. It's been written about by old DD and published on Groundviews over here. I can't add much to the words of DD, he's summed it up nice and succinctly, obviously without my wit, but I'd like to tell you what my thoughts are on the subject.

First, let's set my stall out in an attempt to avoid misunderstandation. It's a new word, one that I just made up, I think you know what I'm talking about though. It's when things are misunderstood. It should not be confused with the word "misunderstandasian", which is when a person fails to understand Asians, a concept many of us are probably familiar with.

My opinion is that the BNP is racist, that it holds views that are morally and fundamentally unpleasant, wrong and against the principles of many basic Human rights. They've used a topic that's at the forefront of much of the British public; that of immigration, to attract attention and publicity, maybe even support, to their frankly vile and despicable cause.

But they're also a legitimate and legal political party, both here and in Europe. They've won some seats in the House of Commons here and also in the European Parliament. Their views are unpleasant yet they're also legitimate. As far as I'm concerned as long as the party is legal, then they should be given an outlet, as much as other parties are given one.

The appearance of Nick Griffin on Question Time on BBC TV must have created some turmoil in the minds of those boffins who decide who will appear on the programme, of that there's no doubt. They would have known that the publicity and uproar would have given them a boost in viewing figures, I heard somewhere that in was in fact a four fold increase, pretty large by anyone's standards.

Perhaps they would also have wondered if that increase would be worth the price they would have to pay, the price of negative criticism etc.

Before I saw the programme I felt a strange sense of fear. It was a little bit condescending and patronising towards less bright people, but it was still there. People I considered as reasonably intelligent and normal, those like me, would be quite capable of seeing the BNP for what they really are. The fear was that their leader would be given a platform that would enable him to put across a good and positive impression of both himself and his party to those who were a bit gullible, those who'd get fooled.

My fears proved to be largely unfounded.

As I, and a few million others, though they weren't actually in my living room, watched, we saw Mr Griffin make an idiot of himself. He fudged, he hedged, he squirmed. He attempted to deny the undeniable, then, in the case of the hollocaust, he attempted to deny that he had denied the undeniable.

He tried to chuckle heartily when people pointed out huge big failings in his logic, as if someone was making a small wisecrack about the colour of his tie, rather than a massive flaw in his argument.

I'm sure there were a few people who might have been impressed by him or his party, but that will happen in this sort of situation. To most people his appearance was a huge success, if his intention was to make a total idiot of himself.

What I also thought was that his and his party's opinions are those of dissent. They go against the norm, against most public opinion. There are some countries, so I'm told, in which dissent is outlawed, in which dissenters are jailed, killed or supressed, maybe even given really nasty Chinese burns.

I think of myself as Sri Lankan and British. I'm happy with that, there are no contradictions in my mind.

Watching Nick Griffin make a twat of himself on the BBC made me proud to be British. I felt good that we have freedom of speech here and that people like that are allowed to air their views, no matter how disagreeable they are.

Shopping While Black - What Would You Do?

My good friend M posted this up on the Book and it grabbed my attention, caught my imagination and made me think a lot. In fact I can't get it out of my head, if I may quote the wisdom of the great Ms Minogue.

What would I do?

It's a tough one to consider for a number of reasons. The first is simply that I can't see this sort of hypothetical situation taking place here in the UK. If it did it would be far more subtle, though by no means am I saying that racism doesn't exist here, just that it's usually not so blatant.

Then I have very little first hand knowledge of Americans, so I'm unsure if this sort of thing would actually happen there. If the things I've heard and read are correct then I'd say that it's a believable scenario.

If those things are untrue then I do wonder if this is a scenario that is so unlikely to take place that the very staging of it is putting people in a strange place anyway. It's a hard thing to explain but I think you'll see what I mean if you watch it.

I tried to think about what I would have done before watching the clip. I can tell you that my honest answer is a don't know. I'd like to think that I'm one of the types who would have stepped in and tried to express my outrage and disgust, I just don't actually know if I would have.

On a scale from do nothing to go mental and kick up a big fuss I'm certainly on the right of the centre, towards the go mental end. I'm just unsure if I would have been so far right that I would have done something, or if I'd have not had the courage. That's the truth and I'm uncomfortable about it.

However, having seen the clip, I've now decided that, should I ever encounter such a scenario, I will most definitely do something. I'll be there making my feelings known and doing anything I can.

How about you?

What would you do?

Happy Monday all.

Oh Well

I'm back, at my desk with a heavy heart and a lighter wallet.

Did it happen, was I there?

On Saturday night I was drinking a nice arrack at the Galle Face Hotel, watching a medium, perhaps low quality, sunset, which was still good, and chatting to C about life and things. And there may have been a surplus of commas in that sentence, I know.

Last night I was being driven through the beauty that is Feltham, West London, heading back to RD Towers. It's good to be back and to see the girls, it's nice to be back at my pad and back in my car.

And that's about it.

There are a million stories to tell you, from the blogger meet up to being conned, to almost meeting Ashok Ferrey at the airport. I'll start in a bit.

The trouble with this bloody island that is Serendib is that it sort of absorbs a man, it feels as though the more I go there the more I leave behind.

Sausages tonight... and not those stupid chicken ones either.

Hating My Lankan Heritage.

Why?

Because it's Sri Lankan, because I miss the motherland, because it's like a drug, one of those addictive ones, like parippu or string hopppers, the hard stuff.

The older I've got the more I've travelled and got to know Sri Lanka. The more I've got to know her, the more I've fallen in love with her. The more I've fallen in love with her the more I've travelled there. The more I've travelled the more I miss Serendib.

It's a catch 23; like a catch 22, but worse.

I wonder how many of these similar diasporic types go through the same.

I'm lucky in that I get over there at least twice a year these days, though they're often quickish trips, and I'm aware that many can't do even that. But after the joy of the last trip starts to subside I get a vague itch. Give it some time and that itch becomes constant, give it some more and it becomes an intermittent pain, like a little brother.

Then, after some more time, that intermittent pain becomes almost constant, which is my current state of play. I mope about, wanting to get over there. Everything I see, everything I hear (oooh, I almost sound like Bryan Adams there) reminds me of the little island I yearn for so.

Only on Monday I was taking A to a piano exam. It was hot and it was raining and I smelled the Colombo Kandy road, vivid and tangible. I saw the roadside greenery and felt that Lankan rain, I tasted that woody cooking smell and the fresh dampness.

I talk to people who tell me about their recent weekend in Unawatuna. I see their photos and can feel the drive out of Colombo as the city fades and gives way to the ruralness. The sea on the right changes from occasional to permanent. The smells, the sights and the sounds and tastes are with me in my head and yet so far away at the same time.

Is this one of the downsides of the ever shrinking world we inhabit? The fact that, even though things seem closer, even though we can text, email, twitter and communicate in real time with each other, we're still thousands of miles away. Of course it is, but it's one side of a coin. On the other is the positive fact that all these things are so close, that we're more connected than ever before.

Then, when I feel that I'm at breaking point, that I'm a mere impulse away from logging onto the SriLankan airlines site and booking a ticket, I see this newish blog. "Go to Sri Lanka" it's called.
I know, I know.

It talks rather smoothly of the beauty of Lanka, of Barefoot no less. There are pictures, lists of hotels and writing that's got lots of description. The hustle and bustle of walking into Barefoot off the street, of sitting there in the garden and chatting to that photographer chap, whose name I forget, dangerous type.

I hear the horning, I feel that dustiness on the Galle Road and can actually touch the brass type door handle as I walk in, you know the one. I go backwards and can see the Elasto sign at the junction, it's like a part of my upbringing that sign. Weird.

As I write this, as I think of these things I feel my heart rate speed up, the excitement builds and then crashes down as reality, or the current reality, reappears in front of me.

It's the reality of my shopping list for Tesco at lunchtime. It starts with Flash wipes and washing up liquid, pretty boring really.

But fuck it, I've added chicken to it, for tonight's going to be a rice and curry night.

Sometimes these things have to be done.

And what strikes me is that I'm content.

There's not a country in the world I'd prefer to yearn for.