Against every principle

In this new technological world we must change.  It is inevitable like evolution that we adapt or die.  I too have made adaptations I swore I never would.  Thought I’d die rather than capitulate, let me explain.

All my life I have looked on in amazement at human activities that I see as a perversion of the soul.  What are these?  It is a huge swathe of stuff from crosswords, to jigsaw puzzles, includes pub quizzes, Suduko, word search books (Find Wally for Adults), Mastermind, Who wants to be a Millionaire, the list goes on.  To me, these are all a complete waste of life.  Those who indulge in such activities have little to expend their mental energies/time on and so indulge in this displacement activity.  I regard them all as that ritual behaviour regularly observed by animals in captivity denied the freedom to express their real nature.  In despair, I observed it in a university staff tearoom where a book on such questions as, ‘who was King of England in 708AD?’ is used to while away the valuable free time at breaks.  I mean what the hell? 

My opinions have brought me into conflict with a wide range of nice people.  Our neighbours would regularly sit and do 10,000 piece jigsaws on carefully constructed boards.  I felt like I had walked in on some masochistic ritual they felt obliged to subject themselves to.  Those who contend that they are good for the mind, please show me the evidence.  I suspect many will, at this point, wheel out the new brain tools hailed as useful in preventing senility.  To which I reply, use it or lose it.  Like your legs, which if immobile in a shockingly short space of time, become incapable of supporting you.  So too, your mind was designed to be active, to achieve, discover, create, engage and progress.  I’ll admit doing something is better than nothing and for those isolated and deprived of viable alternatives activities are needed.  But surely, crafts are a better way to go.  Or hobbies, or travel, or meeting new people, or being in contact with those you already know?  The sad thing is that we have become so socially isolated that we are less able to cope with anyone.  The more we reach for that soothing crossword to keep us company to while away the remaining hours of life. 

But I must confess to doing Suduko this week.  Yes, it is against every principle I choose to cling to.  Let me explain my mother in Northern Ireland is addicted and spends ages doing these bloody things.  People buy her books of the cursed squares.  I once had a colleague in college who pulled open his drawer in our shared office, full of Suduko puzzles.  If he’d shown me a drawer full of dirty underpants I would have not have been so disgusted.  He could tell from my reaction I was not a fan.  He harboured a resentment towards me for some years, probably all my fault.  His hostility only changed the day I asked if he had any deodorant.  I’d come to work in haste having slept in and showered but had omitted to apply deodorant and after a taxing morning with goats in the school animal room could not stand the smell of myself.  I asked my Suduko-liking colleague for deodorant and he opened the cupboard above his desk and showed me a chemists shop of goodies, elaborating on the benefits of each.  I was grateful and he was ecstatic.  Obviously sharing toiletries takes relationships to a deeper and closer level.  Our differences over Suduko forgotten in a haze of Brute deodorant.  If only I could have known that all it took to declare peace and make friends was to ask for a favour.

While on holiday this Christmas I challenged my mum to Suduko.  I liked the way competition threw her into a sweat and spoiled the usual tranquillity of her Suduko hours.  Instead of relaxed contemplation there was panicked filling in, nervous checks of her opponent.  The occasional defeat sharpened her desire to wipe the floor with me.  Having returned to Malta my mother in the evening regularly now comes on Skype and we pick an online puzzle to tackle.  Once we have taken it down the clock is ticking and silence reigns until one of us completes the bloody thing.  Despite my hatred of Suduko and such things, that half hour of shared competition brings my Mum into my day in an immediate and companionable routine.  It may be against every fibre of my being but I must choose to make space for the oddities of someone as sweet and dear as she.

Pokey and the fact that shit floats

Sarah said they came in angry and armed.  They had pushed past her mother at the door and they now stood looming over her in the living room.  The smallest long nosed man held a revolver and the tall red-faced lad had a rifle.  She knew their names, they were all from our village.  The nervous red haired one was called Stan, the long nosed one was nicknamed Pokey and the third Dave had been our class at primary school.  Stan held his rifle embarrassingly as if not comfortable in the tidy living room with it.  Sarah’s mother was terrified and wept at the doorway crying “what’s happening?”.  Pokey began,

“You’ve been going out with the other side”, he told Sarah, “that’s not allowed”. He continued with venom, “If your father was alive he’d have sorted this but he isn’t so we are here to do the job”.

Pokey stood, his lower lip puckered and he was nipping it repeatedly between his finger and thumb in a nervous gesture.  The revolver in his other hand swung from side to side with the same nervousness.  Sarah thought she was going to die in her small tidy living room aged seventeen never having lived at all.  Pokey continued, “You’re going to stop seeing him right”, he looked at her mother, “and we mean business, if we have to come back…”  He let the silence hang and all the time Pokey squeezed and released his lower lip so hard it stood out white and proud.  Sarah thought her heart would explode with fear. 

Even the next day when she told me of the event at school she cried with the memory of it all.  Her mother hadn't slept the whole night and Sarah had reassured her that everything was settled.  It was all okay.  The three men had taken her word that she would end the relationship and she had.  Since her father died, Sarah felt it her duty to support her mother and even now facing this trauma she felt shame that she had brought such terror to her widowed mother.  I listened burning with rage that three such idiots could inflict such damage on innocent people.  Personally, I felt that if her father had been alive they would not have dared knock on the door.  But a young widow and teenager was obviously fair game for the local thugs. 

That’s the thing about when society breaks down, it is not the local doctor or friendly street cleaner that suddenly turn toxic.  When the police and the army withdrew from our village it was the vicious and malignant that came into their own. Intimidating at will and feeling themselves the village heroes by targeting the vulnerable.  The very worst of society suddenly feel empowered to do what they want.  I met Pokey shortly after and told him exactly what I thought of him and his friends.  We had a heated conversation and I informed him that I would be going out of my way to date every single person from the opposing community on sheer principle.  This seemed very noble and righteous at the time.  I was on a crusade and informed Pokey I would much rather be dead than be dictated to by a little shit like him.  It was weird how empowered you can be but also very foolish at the same time.  

After all, it is one thing to announce you are going to date across the cultural barrier and quite another thing doing it.  I had never had a boyfriend of any sort so was not equipped for the task I had set myself.  In fact, four years passed without my having any romance whatsoever and gradually my heart went out of the whole affair.   With each year that passed I felt my failure anew as only teenagers can.  Total humiliation was reached at the five-year mark.  Sarah met and married Dave, our classmate and villain!  I began to suspect that the whole thing had not worked out well for me at all.  It could have been my imagination but I felt that Stan, Dave and Pokey and probably both sides of the community were sneering at my failure.

I went to university in Coleraine, eventually married, had kids and moved abroad.  Decades passed and then this year I returned to Northern Ireland, for a holiday, and was watching the TV in my Mum’s home when there on the screen was Pokey.  As thin nosed as ever but now thick set, dressed in a suit and tie and being introduced as the elected representative of the community.  He was being interviewed and as he listened to the question he pulled at his lower lip before answering.  Suddenly, it was as if it was yesterday and my anger returned as raw as before.    I tell you all that there is a truth in the saying shit floats, and in the words of Forrest Gump, that is all I am going to say about that!

My father was upset about the library being burned

My father was upset about the library being burned.  He tried to be stoic but I could tell he loathed the destruction of knowledge it represented.  I was at primary school and fancied myself as an amateur detective.  My main suspect was William McCartney, a boy in my class.  The evidence was circumstantial but clear.  I had discovered him defacing a library book at school.  He had drawn two huge breasts on the cover of a book on Cookery.  Instead of a prim, apron clad April Summers displaying cakes in each hand, William had constructed huge breasts incorporating the cherries on top of the cakes as nipples.  I was convinced such vandalism spoke of his disrespect for the written word.  

In our household books were everything and everywhere.  We devoured them like bread and water and whether it was by Henry Miller, the collected plays of Shaw, or Steinbeck we consumed them and then hunted for new fodder.  No folding down corners or scuffing the cover and no underlining of texts or notes in the margins.  Books had to be respected like people.  Even the crappy ones.  So Ms Summers added breasts offended my sensibilities.  William’s violent tendencies were shown clearly when he brought to school a black bin liner full of dead birds he had shot with his own air rifle.  When the American Constitution stipulates the right to carry arms, they must never have had classmates like mine.  I could honestly say I wouldn’t have trusted any of them with a firearm.  So there you have it.  William was violent (bag of birds – exhibit one) and he took pleasure from the defacement of literature (cookery book – exhibit two).  That made him in my mind a strong candidate for the burning of the library.  For a whole year I seethed with resentment towards William and blamed him for the book, the birds, the library and for bringing sadness to my father’s heart.

It came as something of a shock to discover later that my father was referring to the burning of the Great Library in Alexandria which happened around two thousand years ago.  A crime William, however vile, could not have committed.  Through the following years my father continued to mourn the loss of this great library and filled in the details of this catastrophe. 

When Alexander the Great died in 323 BC his kingdom was divided up into three pieces: Antigonids ruled Greece, Seleucids ruled Asia Minor, Syria and Mesoptamia while Ptolemis ruled Egypt.  Wanting to gain supremacy and legitimacy Ptolemy stole Alexander’s body and took it first to Memphis and then to Alexandria.  This was a blatant attempt to create a political and dynastic link with Alexander the Great.  Creating a museum “Temple of the Muses” was also a part of this goal.  After all, Aristotle who had taught Alexander, had a wonderful library and so Ptolemy and his line created the greatest library of the ancient world.  It was their intention to collect all the books in the world and works from India, Persia, Babylonia, Georgia, Armenia and far a field were gathered.  The works of poets, philosophers, historians etc were carefully obtained and kept in the library.  

There was a copy of Epidemics belonging to the physician Mnemon of Side, ancient scrolls and books from all over found their way to the library at Alexandria.  Even when a ship entered the port it was searched and if books or scrolls were found these were seized and copied.  The copies were returned but the originals were stored in the library.  The greatest fruits of human endeavour flowed to Alexandria and were collected and collated.   The arts and sciences were represented and so many were not only original but unique and priceless.  The fame of the Great Library of Alexandria spread far and wide.  It was an incredible search for knowledge all carefully gathered from the four corner of the earth. 

So what happened?  Well, as one has probably suspected by now, some idiot burned the library down.  After centuries of careful collection and cataloguing the works of great minds it took small minds a few days to dispose of the Great Library.  The disaster was of epic proportions.  We don’t know, even now, the scale of the loss.  But there are hints.  Callimachus, a poet and scholar, had created a catalogue/biography of the contents of the library called Pinakes.  We only have a tiny portion of this Pinakes (table of contents) left but there is enough to make you howl in despair at what went up in flames.  

Now, I understood why my father took the burning of the Great Library in Alexandria so personally.  So should we all!  But on further reflection I didn’t feel so bad about blaming William McCartney for the crime.  It turns out blaming those we dislike for despicable crimes they have not done is a theme common in history. For example,  Caliph Umar was blamed for the burning of the library and there is even a nice little tale told to explain why. , "If these writing of the Greeks agree with the book of God, they are useless and need not be preserved; if they disagree, they are pernicious and ought to be destroyed". It was, the story continues, thereupon, decided that the books were contrary to the Quran and the whole library was burned down without even opening the books.  Totally rubbish of course, the Great Library was lost much earlier probably in 47/48 AD perhaps by Julius Caesar who was burning ships around that time in the harbour.  Mohammad and the Quran did not appear for another five centuries and so Caliph Umar is in the clear.  There was another library in Alexandria called the Serapeum (daughter library) but this was burned down in 391 AD under the decree of Archbishop Theophilus.  Edward Gibbon (writer of the  The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire) described Archbishop Theophilus as "...the perpetual enemy of peace and virtue, a bold, bad man, whose hands were alternately polluted with gold and with blood." Not a great way to be remembered in the history books.  

But some people really do say and do such stupid things that they need to be remembered for posterity.  Like Pope Gregory’s famous line "Ignorance is the mother of piety." Following this principle to the letter, Gregory burned the precious Palestine Library founded by Emperor Augustus, destroyed the greater part of the writings of Livy and forbade the study of the classics. The Crusaders destroyed the splendid library of Tripoli and reduced to ashes many of the glorious centres of Saracenic art and culture. Ferdinand and Isabella put to flames all the Muslim and Jewish works they could find in Spain. 

Library burning has not gone out of fashion.  The library of Leuven, Belgium was burned in 1914 and then after being rebuilt was burned to the ground once more in May in 1940 by the Nazis.  In case you think this fetish for library burning has run out of steam one need only look at the American invasion of Iraq in 2003 when the National Library of Baghdad was burned and priceless ancient antiquities and manuscripts were lost. 

Knowledge is like a light that illuminates humanity and ignorance is the opposite, darkness.  The burning of libraries serves to show the bigoted, the fanatic and the stupid at work.  Such a shame to destroy what is really the birthright of the human race.  We should all sorrow over the loss of the Great Library at Alexandria.  It reminds us that ignorance is too dangerous to be permitted and the search for knowledge and truth is the only way ahead.

Coffee time in Malta

There are a wealthy couple sitting with friends at a nearby table in this café.  The man is complaining about the delay in the delivery of his new Porsche to Malta.  Later, they move on with relish to discuss their forthcoming holiday in Moscow where they hope to visit the Winter Palace and are twittering on in a fashion fit to annoy anyone.  They have that peculiar plumy English accent that sets your teeth on edge.  He is babbling again at the top of his voice,

“Life is still fun and worth living”, the sixty odd year old proclaims. 

“The economic situation has not touched me, thanks goodness.” He follows in smug tones. 

I believe fate places such people nearby to annoy and test me.  Now, he is complaining about his computer system’s inability to respond to his commands.  I find myself strangely comforted that PCs, at least, do not jump to the beck and call of that “rulers of the empire” tone.  Computers are democratic and as such equally rebellious to all.  It’s weird that in Northern Ireland I’ll  be specific about coming from north of the border but when on an island in the Med I morph into Irish for fear of being associated with these colonial types.  My father always claimed that there was something about ruling an empire that damaged emotions.  He would name them one by one, tapping on each finger in turn, pausing at each tap to raise his eyebrow as if exhibiting another proof of his argument.  His reasoning was, if you had to keep the locals underfoot it required you to be missing on certain wavelengths including for example compassion, empathy, humility, modesty.  It has taken years for recent research to prove that keeping a nation or people in subjection is as damaging to those who rule as it is to those who are abused. 

It stands to reason then that keeping women in a lower state will have equally negative effects on both men and women.  Injustice is evil, not just because of its unfairness but also due to its long-term damage on all concerned.  In India 50 million girls are missing due to abortion of unwanted female babies.  In that culture boys are preferred.  The end result of this tragedy is that girl abductions/rapes are common.  How horrific that following the quiet death of millions of female girls, young women who have survived this first cull are being singled out for yet more violence.  Of course India is not alone, violence against women crosses all borders, Rwanda, Sierra Leone, Yugoslavia, South Africa, Afghanistan and one of the highest rates of domestic abuse is found in Papua New Guinea.  So much of this violence is under the radar despite its horrific nature.  Violence against females in our midst is a world problem and not limited to any one nation. 

Whatever the realities that lie beneath the statistics you can be sure that both men and women are being damaged in this process.  I look forward to the day when we realise that injustices such as prejudice of race, religion or gender damage us all.  Sense that the growing gap between rich and poor is another unsustainable trend.  Otherwise the corrosion eating into the vitals of human society will continue, I fear.  

Time to leave, my one coffee has lasted an hour and a half and the staff are becoming increasingly restless round me.  At least I outlasted the plumy toned fellow on my left.  Obviously, I have prejudices of my own to weed out! 

PS Proceeded out of the café and walked a good half hour along the coast only to be brought up short with the dreadful realization I had forgotten to pay for my coffee.  Walked back guilt ridden, apologized and paid.  This growing older business is embarrassing at times!

I seem to have been born not fitting in to my culture and then got worse with age

Am back in Malta after soaking up family and friends for three weeks in Northern Ireland over the Christmas holidays.  I didn’t get to see many friends and am amazed how the time flew in.  I also realized that I am a foreigner in my own country and find it perversely difficult to blend in.  Let me explain an incident that occurred which crystallises what is tricky to put into words.

My mother and my son were having coffee in a small café in the Whitehouse in Portrush.  It is a shop that sells everything from bedding to pots, clothes to furniture and on the upper floor there is a café overlooking the street.  I don’t shop there as when I once lifted a blouse to examine it I found that it was priced at a ridiculous price of ₤165 reduced to ₤99 and that put me in a foul mood.  Even looking around at the ridiculous ornaments, no one would want, costing hundreds, has me muttering, “Is this a joke, or what?” in outraged tones. 

It does serve reasonable coffee and that was why the three of us were having cappuccinos in the café high above the street.  A lady at the nearby table leaned across and said to my mother,

“That is a lovely colour of jumper.” 

Before I could stop myself I replied,

“Yes, shame about the face!” 

In our family we do routinely tease each other and my mother was not surprised.  The lady however was offended and her husband asked me, in cold tones,

“Have you been drinking?” 

Realising, I had offended these polite folk I tried to explain,

“No, it is just that I’ve spent years being asked if my mother is my sister and it has made me sensitive to people complimenting her.” 

My mother and son laughed and so did I.  My Mum’s recent holiday with her sister visiting me in Malta was typical.  Everyday we would walk miles along the coast and each day someone would ask, “Are you three sisters?”  We do have similar colouring but there is a thirty-year age difference, so you can understand my sensitivity.  As far as I was concerned the neighbouring table’s angry response was funny but also strangely admirable.  They felt I had offended my eighty-year-old mother and were stiff with fury!  Oblivious, the three of us enjoyed our coffees.  On my way to the toilet, I passed the nearby table and the man instructed me,

“You should swing by Spectsavers! (a local opticians)”. 

His upset was tangible and again I admired their heated defence of my mother.  After all, if an elderly person was being abused verbally, these people would not sit idly by and let it happen.  Surely, a good thing?  I returned to my mother and son and we collected our coats and began to leave.  My mother, always goodhearted and even tempered, wished the neighbouring occupants a merry Christmas, as did my son and received a warm response.  However, when I wished them the same, all three carefully averted their heads, stiff with distain, and ignored me pointedly. 

I found it all vaguely amusing but by now my son was irritated and wanted to go back to the table to speak to them.  I restrained him with a warm hug and said, “It’s not them, it’s me.  They belong here and I evidently don’t.”  At such times you identify how foreign you are, how much of an outsider you have become.  The worrying thing is, I seem to have been born not fitting in to my culture and then got worse with age!  

Getting ready for the New Year

In many ways this Christmas sticks in your mind when disasters are spoken off.  The Mayan calendar ending  spanned a huge range of doomsday scenarios and it was quite disturbing the number of elderly relatives who confessed to being quite content if the world ended.  They obviously felt life had gone on long enough and going out with a bang and lots of company held a certain appeal.  Unfortunately, these turbulent times are nothing new. 

Imagine living through the World wars or even the Spanish flu, which alone wiped out 40 million.  My great grandmother lost two sons in one week from that Flu.  I cannot begin to imagine what that was like to endure.  With World War I fresh in the mind there must have been a feeling that the horror would never cease.  The young and the strongest, the flowers of each family mowed down with breath taking speed.  The Spanish flu took out those with strong immune systems and so it must have seemed as if the blood let, in those trenches was not enough. If ever you walk, as I did with a cousin, through the war graves in France the scale of such losses hits you.

As far as the eye can see there are graves and as you crest one hill more stretch out in yet another vista of never ending crosses to mark lost lives.  The real consequences of war, its horror hit home and we were silenced by the horrendous loss before us.  

Years later, I had a similar feeling in Auschwitz when visiting the camp with a friend, Pari.  We entered a huge barn like room with shoes of those killed in the camp. 

It felt as if one’s heart was being squeezed in a vice, tightening with the absolute horror of it.  As the train pulled out of that place, Pari and I sat opposite each other in a carriage, in silence.  I found myself rubbing at my chest as if trying to ease the physical pain that knotted there.

Who can forget the more recent disasters such as the Tsunami on Boxing Day 2004 that wiped out 227,898 lives in terrifying unexpected swiftness.  If someone had predicted these disasters we would not have grasped even the possibility that such things could occur.  Our brains would have rightly denied the forthcoming horrors as impossible, intolerable and unendurable.  But our disbelief does not prevent such tragedies happening. 

Likewise, the fact that such tragedies do occur, does not necessarily mean we learn from our mistakes.  Wars still occur with depressing frequency; even natural catastrophes that afflict the world fail to unite us in response.  Instead, a strange lethargy keeps us continuing with business as usual.  As if daily routines will soothe things.  It strikes me that knowing the future might not help.  In fact spelling out such disasters would not be meet or seemly.  Our perversity in not awakening to such tragedies, adapting, learning and changing is however, distressing.  There are lessons to be learned and such losses of life should instil in all of us an urgency for change. 

If nations can endure such horror when we rise up to war, we must wage peace instead.  When humanity is facing such natural calamities and disasters, the need to be a world united in the race to save lives becomes achingly apparent.  These are lessons none of us can afford to forget.   

My Criminal Childhood with Cousins

My cousins and I were experts at fiddling the machines at the amusement arcade.  In Ireland we have cousins the way other countries have mosquitoes.  I remember being shocked by a visiting English child who confessed to having just one cousin; I had figured cousins always came in batches of dozens, like eggs.  Aged between 8-13 our gang knew the ropes like old convicts.  Mind you, we’d learned the hard way.  These blasted machines had eaten our sparse holiday money for years, so we’d grown hardy and wily. 

My cousin Bill was the best.  Only trouble was, he was so good he got barred very quickly from all the establishments.  He was also rather ruthless in his methods.  His favourite trick was to smash the glass window of the first cylinder of a one armed bandit.  Then he’d put coins in and pull the arm while carefully moving the cherry round to win two pennies each time.  It took patience but gradually, in a day, he could empty a machine.  The trick, he said, was breaking the glass cleanly so that no tell tale cracks could be seen.  One of the older cousins, Tom, felt Alan’s technique was not moral and spoke at length about how illegal it was.  The rest of us were conflicted about this issue and would hold long debates about the ethics of it all.  Tom was righteous and managed to save some of his holiday money each year putting it aside in a responsible manner.  As one of the debaters admitted, it was tricky, on the one hand there was no one more righteous than Tom but Alan was by far the most generous of all of us, so which virtue was more important.  The general consensus was that generosity trumped righteousness.  We would not use Alan’s technique, as the majority felt it lacked finesse but we would not condemn him either that would be altogether far too righteous.  Our acceptable methods were subtler.   

People often forgot to press the refund button on machines, so we’d feed off their carelessness once they’d gone.  The joy of those large round illicit pennies warm in your palm!  Old money felt much more substantial and indeed one penny could in those days buy you a paper bag full of sweets.  Or, we’d find coins lying under the bottom rim of a machine kicked out of sight.  There was a favourite change machine in one arcade that was meant to change half crowns into pennies but was the very dickens to use.  It took the half crowns easy enough but then sullenly refused to spit out pennies in return.  The poor punter would press every button available to no avail and then go to the booth at the middle of the arcade to complain.  In a flash, we were on the machine and would give the side panel high on the right a swift blow.  Like a choked person the reluctant machine would cough up first two pennies in rapid succession before vomiting the rest into your waiting hand.  You couldn’t let it hit the bottom for fear of announcing your success to the world.    Ethically, we felt secure.  Sure, didn’t people who dropped money need to learn to be more careful? We were practically providing an educational service! When using the change machine play, we always insured that one of us would be left with the machine so that when the technician came with the punter to investigate they would confirm he had indeed put a half crown in and proclaimed loudly that the machine often didn’t pay out as it should.  This meant the punter got his change and also meant we were up front about the machine’s weaknesses.  We felt no guilt whatsoever, after three hours of wandering desolately around the amusement arcade penniless, we felt we were due some reward.  We learned gambling was addictive. 

One summer our youngest cousin, Sarah , stood transfixed at the penny drop, pumping not just ten but every single one of her valuable pennies into a money clogged waterfall that despite a sliding log refused to fall.  She tearfully begged money from her Mum on the beach, while I minded her machine from the ‘jumper inners’ waiting to take advantage of all her priming of the pump.  All to no avail, even a half crown later not one penny fell.  She dropped to the ground sobbing in anguish and despair.  Bloody machines, we all stood appalled by her pain.  The hero of the hour was cousin Henry, built like a brick house, he tried to pull her to her feet and in doing so leant his considerable weight against the glass fronted machine.  That was all that was needed and there was an ecstatic machine gun of pennies firing out into the tray, the logjam freed.  I still remember her shocked face as pennies rained down over her head and shoulders.  It wasn’t every day you witnessed a miracle. 

However, all these tricks were as nothing compared to our biggest triumph.  There was a machine at the back of an arcade that consisted of black and white stripes moving over rollers.  You slide your penny down a chute and it rolled on its side until it fell over on the black and white stripes.  If it landed on the white stripes not touching the black, you won.  We discovered that if you took the chute and wagged it from side to side like a demented table tennis player, the coin would come out in a perfect straight line each time and flop on the white middle line like a beauty.  We were delighted with this discovery and made a real killing.  Imagine our outrage when the arcade closed this machine, taping an ‘out of order’ sign across it.  It took us a while to discover another in the back of a smoky arcade across town.  More success followed and we were exultant.  After years of the amusement arcades taking our pocket money we felt we were on a righteous roll.  Gradually, they disappeared these black and white beauties to our deep disappointment.  Decades later, I discovered one in an amusement arcade in Brighton.  I cannot begin to describe my ecstasy on spotting the familiar friend behind a pinball machine.  Within seconds, I was whipping the chute to and fro like a pro and winning coins hand over fist.  My three sons looked on in awe as we left, all our pockets bulging with coins.  There are always moral issues to tackle in life but just occasionally success is down to sheer skill and you can only celebrate that.