Today I made a great compilation album. It is brilliant. A good compilation album is not easy – it takes a lot of careful skill, harnessed over years and years. But because I am a generous chap, I am willing to share some of my wisdom and expertise with you. Here are a few handy rules and pointers:-
· The perfect compilation should be longer than 38 minutes and shorter than 47 and a half. Be concise. You don’t want to bore your audience with over indulgence. Even though it is a redundant format, the compilation should be approximately the length of one side of a C90 cassette. Of course, it is ok to start off with a long list of songs. Choosing from a wide song-base shows you have applied more thought. They can always be whittled down to the best material.
· To reiterate the last point (seriously - I can’t emphasise it enough), DO NOT exceed 47 and a half minutes. If you insist on economically maximising the use of a single 74-80 minute CD, your compilation should be treated as two separate halves with a 7 to 10 second gap between the two, so they are clearly divided.
· The best track on any compilations should always be track number 9. Don’t ask me why - it just always is. Maybe the positioning is something to do with keeping the listener’s interest. Or perhaps it is to prevent the compilation from being ‘top heavy’ (like so many contemporary albums nowadays) with all the best tracks put on really early. Who cares what the reason is. It is not our job to question the compilation album Gods – only to oblige their wishes.
· Always consider the context of consummation. This should form the ‘mood’ or ‘theme’ of the compilation (eg. You might want some ethereal songs for late night motorway driving, but these would not necessarily suitable for a youngster’s birthday party). Ordering is very important. Each song should be able to run smoothly into the next one without sounding jarring. For many non-musicians, this is difficult skill to master (very much adopted via a ‘trial and error’ procedure), and ignorance and inexperience spoils many a compilation. (TIP - Close your eyes and imagine a facial expression which would best represent the mood of the current song. Hold that face. Now play the song you intend to follow it with. Once again, try and summarise the listening experience by pulling a new face which you feel best embodies this song. How do your facial muscles feel when moving from one track to the next? If the face-shift feels too dramatic, you will probably need to think about revising your track-list).
· Compilations can be excellent ways to crow-bat odd singles, mp3s and B-sides you own into an ‘album format’. It is a great to accessorise oft-neglected gems from your record collection– however, it is also very easy to fall into the trap of turning your compilation into a collection of ill-fitting ’odds and sods’. Believe me, this type of compilation will soon become redundant.
· There are certain songs which should not be considered for inclusion if you are an amateur compiler. These include live tracks or songs with segue-ways which cause a sudden stop when used in isolation from the context of their original album. Also, be sure to avoid songs of impaired quality. Putting such tracks together will make your project sound unprofessional and badly edited. Only consider doing so if you are competent in ‘editing’ software and can combat any abruptness through the creation of your own fades and mixes.
· Ensure that a consistent volume is maintained throughout the album. I can’t believe how frequently this schoolboy’s error occurs. You do not want to be struggling to hear one minute, then jumping out of your skin the next. A little care now will save you from an irritating ‘noise minefield’ forever more.
· Be sure to map your compilation out on notepaper using charts, graphs and test runs. Live with different track orders for a while before committing your selection to CD or tape. As you listen through, ask yourself; are there are any songs you feel a desire to skip? If so, you have not got your compilation quite right yet. Repeat this step until the compilation evolves to a satisfactory level.
· Once your CD is burned, always apply thought to a suitable title (there’s no point in rushing and spoiling all your hard work). Favour names that are functional and memorable. It should go without saying - never use the word “Tunez” in the title, or [your name’s] car compilation. These types of names are crass and are frequently used by young working class teenagers who care little for music as an art-form.
· Once you have achieved your perfect compilation, give yourself a pat on the back. The sense of satisfaction should temporarily have filled the aching void of pointlessness in your existence.
Fri 27th Feb 2009
I had a long shift at work because of overtime through the evening after working a full day. There was a gig I had to manage. It would have been a fairly easy too, were it not for a ‘difficult’ support band. The show as a whole was light-hearted, unpretentious and generally pleasing. I generally find such ‘non-precious’ occasions must more instantly satisfying, whereas egoist parades only seem to develop any worth with the benefit of hindsight (mainly because the most pedantic and disciplined of artists consistently seem to be the ones who go on to have greater commercial success).
I consider myself to be quite an easy-going sympathetic type of character. This is, after all, an industry whereby people are sold as products rather than materials. Sometimes however, certain artists can even manage to rouse my much-repressed irritation. 15 minutes after they were due on stage, the support act tonight were nowhere to be seen. This is despite numerous printed signs and a previous approach from me, informing of them of the stage times. When I eventually found the rogue act, they told me not to worry, since their act was only short, they would still have their set finished on time. This turned out to be a lie, as they continued playing for a good quarter of an hour past their allotted time. I am by no means dictatorial, and can understand it when a band strays five minutes or so over time, but fifteen minutes really is pushing it. It might sound a bit of a laugh, but this type of behavior seems disrespectful to the other artists (who may need to have their own sets cut short), the venue staff and the audience alike. On top of this, after their performance, the band left all their gear over the stage and simply went home. When I say gear, this included two big amplifiers, a couple of keyboards and more confusingly, a bench press. This meant I had to move this heavy array of equipment off the stage by myself ready for tomorrow’s artists to load their gear in. It was very annoying. Needless to say, they won’t be invited back to perform again.
I simply cannot understand the point of this kind of behavior. If acts want to get bookings, the least they should do is follow some simple rules, which are only ever laid down in the spirit of fairness.
I consider myself to be quite an easy-going sympathetic type of character. This is, after all, an industry whereby people are sold as products rather than materials. Sometimes however, certain artists can even manage to rouse my much-repressed irritation. 15 minutes after they were due on stage, the support act tonight were nowhere to be seen. This is despite numerous printed signs and a previous approach from me, informing of them of the stage times. When I eventually found the rogue act, they told me not to worry, since their act was only short, they would still have their set finished on time. This turned out to be a lie, as they continued playing for a good quarter of an hour past their allotted time. I am by no means dictatorial, and can understand it when a band strays five minutes or so over time, but fifteen minutes really is pushing it. It might sound a bit of a laugh, but this type of behavior seems disrespectful to the other artists (who may need to have their own sets cut short), the venue staff and the audience alike. On top of this, after their performance, the band left all their gear over the stage and simply went home. When I say gear, this included two big amplifiers, a couple of keyboards and more confusingly, a bench press. This meant I had to move this heavy array of equipment off the stage by myself ready for tomorrow’s artists to load their gear in. It was very annoying. Needless to say, they won’t be invited back to perform again.
I simply cannot understand the point of this kind of behavior. If acts want to get bookings, the least they should do is follow some simple rules, which are only ever laid down in the spirit of fairness.
Thu 26th Feb 2009
It was the day of the big date. If you can call it a ‘date’. The word ‘viewing’ may have been somewhat more appropriate. If you’ll recall Tuesday’s entry, the plan was to meet up with my friend, who would act as a marker for my potential date to approach us, should she not find my physical appearance nauseatingly repulsive. This matchmaker stuff is not the sort of childish antic I would normally dream of indulging, but for the sake of this blog, I am trying to develop a ‘say yes’ attitude (which you may recall being employed when I arranged to meet my financial advisor). Otherwise, each entry would run something along the lines of “Went to work. Got home. Cried myself to sleep”… ad infinitum.
Now - I appreciate that meeting a financial advisor or being ‘match-made’ are hardly the most spectacular of human triumphs. In fact these are just things that normal things that human-beings manage to achieve on a day to day basis (thinking about it, technically I never even actually ended up meeting my financial advisor in the end, did I? But at least the thought was there). Basically before attempting anything too spectacular, I figure I first need to catch up on the basic skills of social interaction that all you lot seem to manage so effortlessly. It’s best to start with small incremental steps – there’s no sense in drastic recklessness.
I was due to meet my friend in the pub at 6pm. By 6.45 I was still sitting alone nursing an empty bottle. To be stood up by a date who may naturally be acting with uncertainty might be a bit damning to a fragile ego. But when even the matchmaker who is supposed to be your friend fails to show – well -should that be considered even more damning?
I had been sitting in the pub like Billy No Mates for close to an hour before my (now-borderline) friend finally arrived. We sat together a-while engaged in frivolous small-talk, whilst my eyes fidgeted nervously around the room, wondering exactly who this mystery woman might be. There are fewer things to make oneself feel so self-conscious than to know you are under scrutiny, but not know who your scrutinizer is. Even simple acts like subtly picking your nose become minefields of paranoia. But I needn’t have worried. All the nose restraint in the world could not inspire the young lady to come forward and introduce herself.
“She’s just a bit busy at the moment.” my friend sympathetically proffered, as I faced the abyss of my failed prowess. Naturally I assumed her words were intended to make me feel better about my rejection. But when the mystery woman’s identity was revealed, I realized my friends words had actually all been rather too literal. I also became aware that I’d already approached and spoken to this woman previously; specifically with the words, “One bottle of Corona please”. Yes, that’s right - it had been a set-up with one of the pub’s bar staff.
I’m sure I don’t need to point out the flaw in the conception of this plan. It’s just plainly wrong on so many levels. I’ve always been under the impression that when a gentleman takes a lady on a date, he is supposed to buy a drink FOR her, not FROM her. Due to the constant queue of people waiting to be served, it would be difficult to procure even the most rudimentary conversation, never mind a date. Surely a man trying to seduce a bar-maid in a busy town centre pub cannot be definined as a romantic liason. If anything, this scenario appeared more accurately, little more than a man sitting a busy town centre pub, trying to lech at a bar-maid.
Given the evident futility of the situation, I left shortly after, assessing the sum total of what I had managed to achieve this evening - specifically making any future uses of this particular establishment slightly more awkward. The barmaid clearly had not been interested in me, but would henceforth know who I was, and my intentions in turning up there with my human ‘marker’. For this reason, I imagine it is not a pub I will so readily frequent when drinking in town. It’ll just be slightly embarrassing now whenever I want to order a drink. I suppose I could try to discover her shift patterns in order to avoid her, but this type of behaviour would only arouse an impression that I am somehow obsessed with her.
I bid my friend goodbye and headed out of town and into the village my Dad and his friend were out for drink. When I found them, they were propped on barstools talking to a woman in her early-thirties behind the bar. My Dad was trying to tell her how much he reckoned she looked like actress Jenny Agutter. Unsurprisingly, this flattery was received with a degree of uncertainty, since the young girl had been a bit too young to remember Jenny Agutter. As I took a seat alongside them, I immediately felt more at ease. If I was fated to spend the night leching at barmaids, at least it took away the impending sense of loneliness to have a bit of company whilst doing so.
I tried to order a drink, but irritatingly, the young girl seemed too preoccupied by the screen on her phone to bother serving me. After waiting patiently for a while, I tried grabbing her attention with some subtle harrumphs. She looked up rather sharply, but it was not my presence which had aroused her attentions. She suddenly stormed over to my dad, holding her phone out at towards him.
“Well THANK YOU VERY MUCH! You saying I look like THIS?” she exclaimed in an insulted manner.
On the screen, there was a ‘Googled’ picture of the Jenny Agutter - except it was a picture of what she looks like now, rather than in her 60’s and 70’s acting heydays. Inevitably she had interpreted my Dad’s intended flattery as being told she looked like an old woman. His comments had been met with much chagrin, which she was not too shy to address rather publically.
At least I now know which side of the family I have inherited such hapless flirtation abilities from.
Now - I appreciate that meeting a financial advisor or being ‘match-made’ are hardly the most spectacular of human triumphs. In fact these are just things that normal things that human-beings manage to achieve on a day to day basis (thinking about it, technically I never even actually ended up meeting my financial advisor in the end, did I? But at least the thought was there). Basically before attempting anything too spectacular, I figure I first need to catch up on the basic skills of social interaction that all you lot seem to manage so effortlessly. It’s best to start with small incremental steps – there’s no sense in drastic recklessness.
I was due to meet my friend in the pub at 6pm. By 6.45 I was still sitting alone nursing an empty bottle. To be stood up by a date who may naturally be acting with uncertainty might be a bit damning to a fragile ego. But when even the matchmaker who is supposed to be your friend fails to show – well -should that be considered even more damning?
I had been sitting in the pub like Billy No Mates for close to an hour before my (now-borderline) friend finally arrived. We sat together a-while engaged in frivolous small-talk, whilst my eyes fidgeted nervously around the room, wondering exactly who this mystery woman might be. There are fewer things to make oneself feel so self-conscious than to know you are under scrutiny, but not know who your scrutinizer is. Even simple acts like subtly picking your nose become minefields of paranoia. But I needn’t have worried. All the nose restraint in the world could not inspire the young lady to come forward and introduce herself.
“She’s just a bit busy at the moment.” my friend sympathetically proffered, as I faced the abyss of my failed prowess. Naturally I assumed her words were intended to make me feel better about my rejection. But when the mystery woman’s identity was revealed, I realized my friends words had actually all been rather too literal. I also became aware that I’d already approached and spoken to this woman previously; specifically with the words, “One bottle of Corona please”. Yes, that’s right - it had been a set-up with one of the pub’s bar staff.
I’m sure I don’t need to point out the flaw in the conception of this plan. It’s just plainly wrong on so many levels. I’ve always been under the impression that when a gentleman takes a lady on a date, he is supposed to buy a drink FOR her, not FROM her. Due to the constant queue of people waiting to be served, it would be difficult to procure even the most rudimentary conversation, never mind a date. Surely a man trying to seduce a bar-maid in a busy town centre pub cannot be definined as a romantic liason. If anything, this scenario appeared more accurately, little more than a man sitting a busy town centre pub, trying to lech at a bar-maid.
Given the evident futility of the situation, I left shortly after, assessing the sum total of what I had managed to achieve this evening - specifically making any future uses of this particular establishment slightly more awkward. The barmaid clearly had not been interested in me, but would henceforth know who I was, and my intentions in turning up there with my human ‘marker’. For this reason, I imagine it is not a pub I will so readily frequent when drinking in town. It’ll just be slightly embarrassing now whenever I want to order a drink. I suppose I could try to discover her shift patterns in order to avoid her, but this type of behaviour would only arouse an impression that I am somehow obsessed with her.
I bid my friend goodbye and headed out of town and into the village my Dad and his friend were out for drink. When I found them, they were propped on barstools talking to a woman in her early-thirties behind the bar. My Dad was trying to tell her how much he reckoned she looked like actress Jenny Agutter. Unsurprisingly, this flattery was received with a degree of uncertainty, since the young girl had been a bit too young to remember Jenny Agutter. As I took a seat alongside them, I immediately felt more at ease. If I was fated to spend the night leching at barmaids, at least it took away the impending sense of loneliness to have a bit of company whilst doing so.
I tried to order a drink, but irritatingly, the young girl seemed too preoccupied by the screen on her phone to bother serving me. After waiting patiently for a while, I tried grabbing her attention with some subtle harrumphs. She looked up rather sharply, but it was not my presence which had aroused her attentions. She suddenly stormed over to my dad, holding her phone out at towards him.
“Well THANK YOU VERY MUCH! You saying I look like THIS?” she exclaimed in an insulted manner.
On the screen, there was a ‘Googled’ picture of the Jenny Agutter - except it was a picture of what she looks like now, rather than in her 60’s and 70’s acting heydays. Inevitably she had interpreted my Dad’s intended flattery as being told she looked like an old woman. His comments had been met with much chagrin, which she was not too shy to address rather publically.
At least I now know which side of the family I have inherited such hapless flirtation abilities from.
Wed 25th Feb 2009
There is a popular brand of confectionary I am still unable to face. Last year my mate Al came round and we watched "50 Greatest Television Dramas". I cannot recall whether it was whilst Scum, Cracker, Our Friends In The North or Prime Suspect that was being analysed in the countdown when Al offered me a Fruit Pastille. I began to explain to him about a time I had been with my parents visiting my Nan and was preparing to leave. She was out of the room and so we had to wait for her return so we could bid our farewells. When she eventually returned to the room she bent over to pull open one of the drawers to her dresser to give me an obligatory tube of Blackcurrant Pastilles. I don't think Blackcurrant Pastilles were really available in the mainstream Newsagents, but please allow a moment to become acquainted to the concept. They're basically a tube of Fruit Pastilles but just ALL the Blackcurrant ones. I think you'll agree that they sound absolutely amazing. And indeed they were. So much so, that before out car journey home had ended, I had already scoffed a good two thirds of them. It was only then that I spotted a small, thin line of moist brown goo down the wrapping of the packet. It didn't take me long to realise that my Nan was out of the room having a shit before we left and had not taken the chance to wash her hands. This, I explained to Al, is why I can no longer eat Fruit pastilles.
"How did you know what it was?" Al enquired, "Did you smell it?"
For a brief moment, telling the truth became a bit of a dilemma. But then, if I'd said no, I knew he would inevitably tell me that it was time to get over my paranoid fear and enjoy one of his glazed chewy delights. After all, how could I ever be confident in my conclusion of the particular specimen all those years ago? But saying no wasn't the truth. I concluded that at least by admitting that I'd once had my curious nose perched centimetres away from my own Grandmother's poo, I had somehow participated in a real Modernist act that could be considered as a smashing-down of some sort of taboo. Maybe it was or maybe it wasn't. The only definite conclusion I can take away from the incident is that I am not keen on Fruit Pastilles.
"How did you know what it was?" Al enquired, "Did you smell it?"
For a brief moment, telling the truth became a bit of a dilemma. But then, if I'd said no, I knew he would inevitably tell me that it was time to get over my paranoid fear and enjoy one of his glazed chewy delights. After all, how could I ever be confident in my conclusion of the particular specimen all those years ago? But saying no wasn't the truth. I concluded that at least by admitting that I'd once had my curious nose perched centimetres away from my own Grandmother's poo, I had somehow participated in a real Modernist act that could be considered as a smashing-down of some sort of taboo. Maybe it was or maybe it wasn't. The only definite conclusion I can take away from the incident is that I am not keen on Fruit Pastilles.
Tue 24th Feb 2009
A friend of mine has been suggesting I meet one of her friends in the hope that there may be some romantic potential between us. She has even offered to set us up, suggesting I head over to the pub after work on Thursday, under the premise that I am meeting my friend for a drink. The idea is that this girl will happen to be in the pub at some point too, where she would see me sitting with our mutual friend and could then decide if she was interested in me or not. If she is interested, she will come over to us; and if not, she will leave – no harm done. As you can see, this was a flawless plan - a no lose situation.
At least it would be for her!
It is nice to know who out of the two parties my friend automatically gave the power of initial refusal to. The way in which the procedure has been mapped out suggests that out of the two, she believes I somehow look the loneliest and lowest in self-esteem - which seems a bit presumptive, don’t you think? In fact, I’d go as far as saying it’s quite insult. Fair enough, there’s probably a truth, given the evidence both here and here, but as far as I know she’s never read this blog. It seems alarming and slightly depressing that she’s worked it out all by herself! I may be desperate, but I always prided myself on the belief that at least my desperation is quiet.
Exactly what benefit is there for me in this arrangement? Basically, I am being offered a chance to be put on display, then vetted and assessed by a stranger, as if I am some gallery artifact or zoo animal (When will women learn that men are not just pieces of meat, we are real human beings too? I can only dream of day where we will see sexual equality in our society). Then, if I do not get refused on grounds of how aesthetically pleasing I am, I will be awarded a chance for my personality to be assessed in some sort of interview procedure. Body & mind. How brilliant –I am shy and awkward when meeting strangers at the best of times, so what better way to put me at ease than lauding a first conversation with the pressure of a sensitive, undisclosed agenda. So - not one, but 2 opportunities for me to yet again experience the humiliation of rejection, then? Even to the least cynical minds, the whole thing sounds pretty grim don’t it?
I’ll let you know how it goes on Thursday.
On the plus side, we actually won the jackpot on the swindling quiz machine. That’s right, read it again. WE WON THE JACKPOT; and did so irrespectively of the fact that it tried to cheat again by using near impossible questions (“What was the 600th Number 1 single?” What? You don’t know? Ha - you stupid idiots! – I do!). There were five of us who shared the £10 prize. I tell ya, there is no sense of pride quite like the feeling of winning a jackpot – it makes all those hundreds of pounds we’ve collectively spent over the last few years feel all worthwhile.
Beating the machine might even give us the necessary confidence boost to enter the proper Quiz Night again next week. With real human beings and everything.
At least it would be for her!
It is nice to know who out of the two parties my friend automatically gave the power of initial refusal to. The way in which the procedure has been mapped out suggests that out of the two, she believes I somehow look the loneliest and lowest in self-esteem - which seems a bit presumptive, don’t you think? In fact, I’d go as far as saying it’s quite insult. Fair enough, there’s probably a truth, given the evidence both here and here, but as far as I know she’s never read this blog. It seems alarming and slightly depressing that she’s worked it out all by herself! I may be desperate, but I always prided myself on the belief that at least my desperation is quiet.
Exactly what benefit is there for me in this arrangement? Basically, I am being offered a chance to be put on display, then vetted and assessed by a stranger, as if I am some gallery artifact or zoo animal (When will women learn that men are not just pieces of meat, we are real human beings too? I can only dream of day where we will see sexual equality in our society). Then, if I do not get refused on grounds of how aesthetically pleasing I am, I will be awarded a chance for my personality to be assessed in some sort of interview procedure. Body & mind. How brilliant –I am shy and awkward when meeting strangers at the best of times, so what better way to put me at ease than lauding a first conversation with the pressure of a sensitive, undisclosed agenda. So - not one, but 2 opportunities for me to yet again experience the humiliation of rejection, then? Even to the least cynical minds, the whole thing sounds pretty grim don’t it?
I’ll let you know how it goes on Thursday.
On the plus side, we actually won the jackpot on the swindling quiz machine. That’s right, read it again. WE WON THE JACKPOT; and did so irrespectively of the fact that it tried to cheat again by using near impossible questions (“What was the 600th Number 1 single?” What? You don’t know? Ha - you stupid idiots! – I do!). There were five of us who shared the £10 prize. I tell ya, there is no sense of pride quite like the feeling of winning a jackpot – it makes all those hundreds of pounds we’ve collectively spent over the last few years feel all worthwhile.
Beating the machine might even give us the necessary confidence boost to enter the proper Quiz Night again next week. With real human beings and everything.
Mon 23rd Feb 2009
I actually forgot to mention - my mom gave me a haircut when I visited yesterday. Today was the “debut” when I would actually show my new barnet to the world outside. This was not too daunting. My mother is a very good hairdresser, having been one all of her working life. Admittedly, she has been a women’s hairdresser all her working life. But even this once had a certain era of advantageous synchronicity. When I went through my teenage rebellion years of long hair she was able to put a lovely perm in my locks.
I consider myself very fortunate to have bypassed the hairdressing salon throughout my life. Aside from all the money I’ve saved over the years (which is a MASSIVE plus), I have avoided being forced into an obligatory awkward one-on-one stilted conversations with strangers cutting my hair (this is most convenient as it is my ultimate ambition to eradicate all conversational exposure to service-providing human-beings completely. I have long intended to start convincing my dad to become a taxi driver). Also, I have never had to take any responsibility for my hair. If I’d had to book my own hair appointments, I doubt whether anything would ever actually happen to my hair at all. I once managed four years without seeing a dentist, by all but forgetting about dentists. If the thought of dentists happened to crop up into my mind I’d simply make it go away by telling myself I ‘really should genuinely make an appointment and definitely might do so tomorrow’. As it happens, I can just allow hair to sort of hang there, paying it little heed until one day my Mom will suggest giving it a trim. Like I said, no personal responsibility - it is a great arrangement!
Or at least it used to be. In my twenties, my unkempt style seemed boyish and scruffy. But in my thirties, my frontal receed has become such that thin strands of hair hang limply down an ever-inflating dome of forehead. Recently when I caught sight of myself in a shop window, the best I hoped for my appearance was one of a mildly eccentric train-spotting. I am not a vain man. I could live with this, if it wasn’t for the nagging doubts that my hair is fast-becoming something more sinister; like the archetypal style that a stereotypical paedophile might fashion. This is clearly not a good look, either personally or professionally.
Ideally, I’d like to just have done with it and get her to shave it really short, but my Mom always refuses to oblige my wish. I suppose for a hairdresser, shaving a head is much like admitting defeat, but she maintains she is more concerned I’ll look like some sort of Nazi thug from the late seventies. I keep telling her not to worry about it, and how confident I am that given time, we’ll be able to adapt to the look. Obviously, it’d be better all round if I wasn’t going bald, but now it’s happening, I’m sure I can manage a bit of Nazi ideology if it’s necessary to fit an easily managable hairstyle.
So now I’ve got this hairstyle which sort of self-consciously acknowledges my receed but avoids either paedophilic or Nazi territory. The trouble is that I now need to ‘maintain a look’ using ‘hair products’ and all that hassle. It is short round the back and sides but needs to be made spiky on the top so it doesn’t start spindling down the front of my cranium.
So… as I mentioned at the start of this entry, today I debuted this new look. How did it go you ask? Well the response was positively underwhelming (which is actually more favourable to me than you might be assume – in fact, I’d say it was close to best-case scenario). There was slight derision half-way through the day, when I re-applied the mousse as my mother had instructed. I was gleefully informed how my hairdo was reminiscent of Steve McDonald, the hapless clown-figure from Coronation Street. Clearly, I had not been the only one who’d been inspired by watching the soap yesterday.
I consider myself very fortunate to have bypassed the hairdressing salon throughout my life. Aside from all the money I’ve saved over the years (which is a MASSIVE plus), I have avoided being forced into an obligatory awkward one-on-one stilted conversations with strangers cutting my hair (this is most convenient as it is my ultimate ambition to eradicate all conversational exposure to service-providing human-beings completely. I have long intended to start convincing my dad to become a taxi driver). Also, I have never had to take any responsibility for my hair. If I’d had to book my own hair appointments, I doubt whether anything would ever actually happen to my hair at all. I once managed four years without seeing a dentist, by all but forgetting about dentists. If the thought of dentists happened to crop up into my mind I’d simply make it go away by telling myself I ‘really should genuinely make an appointment and definitely might do so tomorrow’. As it happens, I can just allow hair to sort of hang there, paying it little heed until one day my Mom will suggest giving it a trim. Like I said, no personal responsibility - it is a great arrangement!
Or at least it used to be. In my twenties, my unkempt style seemed boyish and scruffy. But in my thirties, my frontal receed has become such that thin strands of hair hang limply down an ever-inflating dome of forehead. Recently when I caught sight of myself in a shop window, the best I hoped for my appearance was one of a mildly eccentric train-spotting. I am not a vain man. I could live with this, if it wasn’t for the nagging doubts that my hair is fast-becoming something more sinister; like the archetypal style that a stereotypical paedophile might fashion. This is clearly not a good look, either personally or professionally.
Ideally, I’d like to just have done with it and get her to shave it really short, but my Mom always refuses to oblige my wish. I suppose for a hairdresser, shaving a head is much like admitting defeat, but she maintains she is more concerned I’ll look like some sort of Nazi thug from the late seventies. I keep telling her not to worry about it, and how confident I am that given time, we’ll be able to adapt to the look. Obviously, it’d be better all round if I wasn’t going bald, but now it’s happening, I’m sure I can manage a bit of Nazi ideology if it’s necessary to fit an easily managable hairstyle.
So now I’ve got this hairstyle which sort of self-consciously acknowledges my receed but avoids either paedophilic or Nazi territory. The trouble is that I now need to ‘maintain a look’ using ‘hair products’ and all that hassle. It is short round the back and sides but needs to be made spiky on the top so it doesn’t start spindling down the front of my cranium.
So… as I mentioned at the start of this entry, today I debuted this new look. How did it go you ask? Well the response was positively underwhelming (which is actually more favourable to me than you might be assume – in fact, I’d say it was close to best-case scenario). There was slight derision half-way through the day, when I re-applied the mousse as my mother had instructed. I was gleefully informed how my hairdo was reminiscent of Steve McDonald, the hapless clown-figure from Coronation Street. Clearly, I had not been the only one who’d been inspired by watching the soap yesterday.
Sun 22nd Feb 2009
Today I called around my Mom’s to pick her up for our obligatory Sunday lunch. When I arrived, she was watching the Coronation Street omnibus and we had to wait until it finished before we could leave. Sitting through this popular long-running soap was mentally torturous. I was already very hungry, and to make matters worse, the Barlows were having a dinner party; although truth be told, from what I could tell Ken’s heart wasn’t really in it. This seemed a shame, as during a disagreement between the couple, Deirdre was preparing what looked like a wonderful prawn cocktail and even though this dish wouldn’t ordinarily be my first choice, at that moment I’d have given anything to eat old Deidre’s starter. I wondered if anyone had ate this in real life, but I suspect they just threw it away after they’d finished filming the scene. Gutting.
Eventually the show finished and we could finally head off to the restaurant to get our Sunday grub. As the Menus arrived I’d already decided this was certainly a day for multiple courses. I perused through the starters and noticed they had Prawn Cocktail (which shouldn’t have been too surprising, given how common the dish is). As I’ve already mentioned, this is not usually my first choice of dish, but today I found myself really wanting to order one. So I did.
This largely, is all I have to say about the matter. I’ll concede it is not the most epic or exhilarating yarn in the world. There are no hidden allegorical meanings to my tale. In a nutshell, I am merely telling you that the fictional soap character Deidre Barlow, inspired me to eat a Prawn Cocktail. A humble message yes, but nevertheless one I believe to be indicative of the certain charming surprise one can discover by keeping a blog. And yes, I did just use the word ‘surprise’. Ok, it may not be a twist befitting of Hitchcock’s most masterful works, I grant you. But when I woke up this morning, never in a million years would I have guessed I’d be typing the (slightly intriguing) words “Deidre Barlow inspired me to eat a prawn cocktail” at some point!
And anyone else who reckons they foresaw this entry is lying.
Eventually the show finished and we could finally head off to the restaurant to get our Sunday grub. As the Menus arrived I’d already decided this was certainly a day for multiple courses. I perused through the starters and noticed they had Prawn Cocktail (which shouldn’t have been too surprising, given how common the dish is). As I’ve already mentioned, this is not usually my first choice of dish, but today I found myself really wanting to order one. So I did.
This largely, is all I have to say about the matter. I’ll concede it is not the most epic or exhilarating yarn in the world. There are no hidden allegorical meanings to my tale. In a nutshell, I am merely telling you that the fictional soap character Deidre Barlow, inspired me to eat a Prawn Cocktail. A humble message yes, but nevertheless one I believe to be indicative of the certain charming surprise one can discover by keeping a blog. And yes, I did just use the word ‘surprise’. Ok, it may not be a twist befitting of Hitchcock’s most masterful works, I grant you. But when I woke up this morning, never in a million years would I have guessed I’d be typing the (slightly intriguing) words “Deidre Barlow inspired me to eat a prawn cocktail” at some point!
And anyone else who reckons they foresaw this entry is lying.
Sat 21st Feb 2009
Another cop-out entry today, where rather than trying to write stuff of my own, I just link to something interesting or amusing I’ve found on the internet.
http://foundobjectpublications.blogspot.com
and here’s another
http://www.pontoon21.com/
http://foundobjectpublications.blogspot.com
and here’s another
http://www.pontoon21.com/
Fri 20th Feb 2009
The last time I went to see a bank’s financial advisor he tried convincing me to invest my meager savings in shares. This was about four years ago. As you’d imagine, I was a little bit hesitant. “What happens if something unprecedented were to happen to the global economy?” I questioned.
“Nonsense! The economy has never been in such a stable state” the advisor replied.
“But what if another disaster were to happen? Something you couldn’t predict, like?”
“You mean like 9/11 or something?”
To be honest, I had been thinking along those lines, but it seemed inappropriate to be discussing specific examples of mass-barbarity in relation to something as frivolous as my bank account. He on the other hand, was not so discreet. It was like he was well-versed in responding to this question, almost pre-empting it from my lips.
“Oh don’t worry about that.” He blustered. “I actually profited greatly when that happened – In fact, 9/11 was brilliant for me!”
And so it was. He even had the evidence to back it up and everything. This seemed an odd and positively callous and tactless thing for him to say. How did he expect me to respond? Did he expect my gratitude that at least all those innocent lives hadn’t been lost in vain? I’m sure the victims will be pleased that such a nice sympathetic humanitarian banker was able to benefit from such a horrific tragedy.
It may have been this lack of humanitarian principle which led me to resisting any investment. And in retrospect, given the contemporary state of the economy, I can’t help feeling I made the right choice.
I am not stupid. I am well aware what my scheduled appointment with the bank was for. These types of financial advisors are simply door-to-door salesmen who aim to make you buy stuff. The only difference is that these salesmen have the audacity to make YOU go to THEIR door so they can sell you something. But I had previously decided that I would fulfill my appointment with HBOS today. The reason? To tell you about it of course. Every day, I sit at these keys, desperately scratching my head, trying to think of something interesting to report on. It ain’t easy when each day of your life becomes a weaker carbon-copy of the last. At least my meeting would be a break from the norm, and hopefully give me some potential fuel for an entry. Honestly – I’m not kidding - that’s what effect keeping this blog is having on me!
I am hoping this ‘say yes’ attitude might eventually pay off, and it will lead me into doing progressively more interesting things. It’s is probably the same chain of thought that lead to really popular ‘documentary projects’, such as Dave Gorman’s thing where he ends up jet-setting all round the world to meet others with his namesake. Or Bruce Parry’s Amazon thing, where he meets tribes and fits in with their radical cultural values, taking unheard-of hallucinogenics or drinking cocktails of goat’s blood and old ladies spit, whilst dodging gun-toting drug smugglers. Yes – this blog has a lot in common with all that sort of stuff. Seriously – it does. Think about it. We all adopt actions that are out of our comfort zones, in order to inspire our writings. The only difference with my inspiration is that rather than sodding off onto a plane to head off to some other part of the world to endanger my life, I am meeting a chap called Gareth Collins in HBOS on a Friday dinner time in Wolverhampton.
Or at least that was the intention. My appointment was scheduled for 11.30. Because I am a cautious timekeeper, I arrived five minutes early and was invited to sit in the waiting area for a while. By 11.37, 7 minutes past our agreed appointment time, there was still no sign of Gareth Collins. This seemed a bit of a liberty on his part – if someone wants to sell me something, then the least I expect is for them to turn up on time to do so. I have a workplace to be at. A job I need to go to so it can pay my wages. And, by default, Gareth’s too. His tardiness irritated me so much, I stood up and left. That’s right – left. As brazenly as that. Without saying a single word. To anyone.
Marching through the HBOS doors, I was overcome with a strange sense of liberation reminiscent of my student days. “That’ll teach ‘em”, I thought to myself. It sounds silly, but through my humble protest, it felt like I was ‘sticking one to the evil capitalist regime’.
Of course, with the benefit of hindsight, this euphoria has long-faded. I now come to realise my mildly disruptive actions were not doing anyone any favours. What if my circumstances change and I find suddenly myself needing to sort out an overdraft? After today’s display of arrogance, any vulnerability would automatically make future appointments an embarrassing affair. Especially if I end up having to finally meet with Gareth Collins. I just hadn’t thought it through properly.
“Nonsense! The economy has never been in such a stable state” the advisor replied.
“But what if another disaster were to happen? Something you couldn’t predict, like?”
“You mean like 9/11 or something?”
To be honest, I had been thinking along those lines, but it seemed inappropriate to be discussing specific examples of mass-barbarity in relation to something as frivolous as my bank account. He on the other hand, was not so discreet. It was like he was well-versed in responding to this question, almost pre-empting it from my lips.
“Oh don’t worry about that.” He blustered. “I actually profited greatly when that happened – In fact, 9/11 was brilliant for me!”
And so it was. He even had the evidence to back it up and everything. This seemed an odd and positively callous and tactless thing for him to say. How did he expect me to respond? Did he expect my gratitude that at least all those innocent lives hadn’t been lost in vain? I’m sure the victims will be pleased that such a nice sympathetic humanitarian banker was able to benefit from such a horrific tragedy.
It may have been this lack of humanitarian principle which led me to resisting any investment. And in retrospect, given the contemporary state of the economy, I can’t help feeling I made the right choice.
I am not stupid. I am well aware what my scheduled appointment with the bank was for. These types of financial advisors are simply door-to-door salesmen who aim to make you buy stuff. The only difference is that these salesmen have the audacity to make YOU go to THEIR door so they can sell you something. But I had previously decided that I would fulfill my appointment with HBOS today. The reason? To tell you about it of course. Every day, I sit at these keys, desperately scratching my head, trying to think of something interesting to report on. It ain’t easy when each day of your life becomes a weaker carbon-copy of the last. At least my meeting would be a break from the norm, and hopefully give me some potential fuel for an entry. Honestly – I’m not kidding - that’s what effect keeping this blog is having on me!
I am hoping this ‘say yes’ attitude might eventually pay off, and it will lead me into doing progressively more interesting things. It’s is probably the same chain of thought that lead to really popular ‘documentary projects’, such as Dave Gorman’s thing where he ends up jet-setting all round the world to meet others with his namesake. Or Bruce Parry’s Amazon thing, where he meets tribes and fits in with their radical cultural values, taking unheard-of hallucinogenics or drinking cocktails of goat’s blood and old ladies spit, whilst dodging gun-toting drug smugglers. Yes – this blog has a lot in common with all that sort of stuff. Seriously – it does. Think about it. We all adopt actions that are out of our comfort zones, in order to inspire our writings. The only difference with my inspiration is that rather than sodding off onto a plane to head off to some other part of the world to endanger my life, I am meeting a chap called Gareth Collins in HBOS on a Friday dinner time in Wolverhampton.
Or at least that was the intention. My appointment was scheduled for 11.30. Because I am a cautious timekeeper, I arrived five minutes early and was invited to sit in the waiting area for a while. By 11.37, 7 minutes past our agreed appointment time, there was still no sign of Gareth Collins. This seemed a bit of a liberty on his part – if someone wants to sell me something, then the least I expect is for them to turn up on time to do so. I have a workplace to be at. A job I need to go to so it can pay my wages. And, by default, Gareth’s too. His tardiness irritated me so much, I stood up and left. That’s right – left. As brazenly as that. Without saying a single word. To anyone.
Marching through the HBOS doors, I was overcome with a strange sense of liberation reminiscent of my student days. “That’ll teach ‘em”, I thought to myself. It sounds silly, but through my humble protest, it felt like I was ‘sticking one to the evil capitalist regime’.
Of course, with the benefit of hindsight, this euphoria has long-faded. I now come to realise my mildly disruptive actions were not doing anyone any favours. What if my circumstances change and I find suddenly myself needing to sort out an overdraft? After today’s display of arrogance, any vulnerability would automatically make future appointments an embarrassing affair. Especially if I end up having to finally meet with Gareth Collins. I just hadn’t thought it through properly.
Thu 19th Feb 2009
Got a nice text message from HBOS, reminding me of my appointment tomorrow. It revealed I would be discussing my finances with a chap called Gareth Collins. You’ve got to tip your hat to ‘em there. Surely Gareth Collins is the most apt name for a man who works in a bank, ever. Even before meeting him, I completely trust him on money matters. It’s almost too ideal. Do you reckon that’s his real name or he just chose the moniker himself?
By the way, this isn't meant to sound sneering. For the people who have read this blog before, you will be aware I have a pre-occupation with the more mundane elements of my existence. So in a world of popular culture, where people apply cool-sounding pseudonyms such as Ghostface Kilah, Axl Rose and, er, Alvin Stardust, it would be nice if those climbing the ladder of a career purposefully chose names which equally instilled confidence in their own chosen profession. And surely banker’s names don’t come much more perfectly reassuring than ‘Gareth Collins’.
I eagerly await tomorrow’s meeting.
By the way, this isn't meant to sound sneering. For the people who have read this blog before, you will be aware I have a pre-occupation with the more mundane elements of my existence. So in a world of popular culture, where people apply cool-sounding pseudonyms such as Ghostface Kilah, Axl Rose and, er, Alvin Stardust, it would be nice if those climbing the ladder of a career purposefully chose names which equally instilled confidence in their own chosen profession. And surely banker’s names don’t come much more perfectly reassuring than ‘Gareth Collins’.
I eagerly await tomorrow’s meeting.
Wed 18th Feb 2009
As a teenager, I’m sure I used to religiously watch the BRIT awards every year. I caught a bit of it today for the first time in years. Christ almighty, was it always this bad? The ceremony opened with Bono doing his second job as singer of U2. He’s a much-maligned target of public cynicism is poor Bono. Some quarters are always sneering at him for getting involved with political causes, insisting that he is getting ideas above his station. They reckon humble pop singers should stick to being just that (although judging by the atrocious new single which U2 bleated out this evening, I reckon the world would be a much better place if he stayed away from studios and concentrated solely on international affairs from now on).
Throwing derision at U2 is like shooting fish in a barrel, but behind the pomposity bashing, even the most hardened critic has a chest-beating stadium anthem of theirs they kinda like; even if they’re too cool to admit it. But the new single? My God – no-one deserves that! Half-way through, I was really starting to empathise with Bono’s cause. I was clutching my ears, begging for the intervention of the UN or Amnesty International or anyone who could just make the aural cruelty go away. Awful stuff.
If things weren’t bad enough, the show’s hosts then appeared; those two lolloping, omnipresent chancers from the once-delightful Gavin & Stacey. Exactly why the Brits are being hosted by sit-com characters, I couldn’t tell you. I don’t recall ‘Blakey’ from “On The Busses” ever being invited to host the ceremony. More’s the pity too. The elected quarter-wits made their ‘hilarious’ entry as Kylie Minougue’s backing dancers. The humour of this routine impinged on the old adage of two men dressed in women’s clothing. It is the type of cheap, unoriginal, lazy, sanitized skit that no-one (other than pensioners or the stupid) has laughed at since the Pantomime Dame-humour of the 1970’s. If that’s the best they can do, they may as well have invited ‘Blakey’ after all - at least he’d have an ironic charm and be properly versed in this sort of stuff.
I was too bored to carry on watching any more. I did briefly tune in a bit later and initially thought they had stopped broadcasting the ceremony, opting instead to show the episode of ‘Only Fools & Horses’ where Delboy and Rodney get their hands on those self-inflating sex dolls which end up spontaniously combusting. Sadly, what I had mistaken to be one of the sex dolls actually just turned out to be Duffy picking up an award. What the hell is going on with her mouth?
I’m sure the BRITS used to be more excited than this dull pile of back-slapping wankery. What happened to all the hi-jinx and controversy? Jarvis invading the stage to moon at Jacko? Fatty Prescott getting a bucket of ice thrown over him? The car-crash potential of drug-addled musicians failing to read an autocue properly? It’s all just so polite and boring now. A post-Brits TV pundit theorized that the reason for this is because artists today are more careerist, and are conscious that their actions are being monitored by the American audiences.
“If British acts want to break the American market they have to tow the line and behave appropriately” the dullard said.
The man was clearly talking rubbish –if they’re trying so hard to find Trans-Atlantic acceptance, why did I fail to see a single spousal abuse or gang-land shooting?
Throwing derision at U2 is like shooting fish in a barrel, but behind the pomposity bashing, even the most hardened critic has a chest-beating stadium anthem of theirs they kinda like; even if they’re too cool to admit it. But the new single? My God – no-one deserves that! Half-way through, I was really starting to empathise with Bono’s cause. I was clutching my ears, begging for the intervention of the UN or Amnesty International or anyone who could just make the aural cruelty go away. Awful stuff.
If things weren’t bad enough, the show’s hosts then appeared; those two lolloping, omnipresent chancers from the once-delightful Gavin & Stacey. Exactly why the Brits are being hosted by sit-com characters, I couldn’t tell you. I don’t recall ‘Blakey’ from “On The Busses” ever being invited to host the ceremony. More’s the pity too. The elected quarter-wits made their ‘hilarious’ entry as Kylie Minougue’s backing dancers. The humour of this routine impinged on the old adage of two men dressed in women’s clothing. It is the type of cheap, unoriginal, lazy, sanitized skit that no-one (other than pensioners or the stupid) has laughed at since the Pantomime Dame-humour of the 1970’s. If that’s the best they can do, they may as well have invited ‘Blakey’ after all - at least he’d have an ironic charm and be properly versed in this sort of stuff.
I was too bored to carry on watching any more. I did briefly tune in a bit later and initially thought they had stopped broadcasting the ceremony, opting instead to show the episode of ‘Only Fools & Horses’ where Delboy and Rodney get their hands on those self-inflating sex dolls which end up spontaniously combusting. Sadly, what I had mistaken to be one of the sex dolls actually just turned out to be Duffy picking up an award. What the hell is going on with her mouth?
I’m sure the BRITS used to be more excited than this dull pile of back-slapping wankery. What happened to all the hi-jinx and controversy? Jarvis invading the stage to moon at Jacko? Fatty Prescott getting a bucket of ice thrown over him? The car-crash potential of drug-addled musicians failing to read an autocue properly? It’s all just so polite and boring now. A post-Brits TV pundit theorized that the reason for this is because artists today are more careerist, and are conscious that their actions are being monitored by the American audiences.
“If British acts want to break the American market they have to tow the line and behave appropriately” the dullard said.
The man was clearly talking rubbish –if they’re trying so hard to find Trans-Atlantic acceptance, why did I fail to see a single spousal abuse or gang-land shooting?
Tue 17th Feb 2009
This evening’s pub night featured similar quiz related aspects of last Tuesday. This time, we were in a different pub playing on a gaming machine rather than competing as a team. The entry fee was the same (a pound each down the slot), but the quiz on the machine generally lasts minutes rather than hours – which is just as well for a busy soul like me who lives such a fast-paced existence (I’ve still some unfilled plans from Saturday to catch up on). Another difference between the two different quiz-types is the wildly varying difficulty of the questions. Initially, the machine will build your confidence with really simple ones; something along the lines of
“Who is the wife and co-presenter of Richard Madeley?”
a) Keith Chegwin
b) Judy Finnegan
c) Michael Finnegan
d) Judy from the popular seaside entertainment franchise ‘Punch & Judy’”.
But as soon as it looks like a cash win is a distinct possibility, the questions go from ridiculously easy to ridiculously difficult. One question we were asked in order to win a pound was, “British band Cud were on which of the following recording labels?”
Pop Music happens to be my specialist subject. I am aware that Cud were a late eighties early nineties British indie band who had a couple of minor hits that shot straight into the lower reaches of the top 100 before disappearing straight back into obscurity. This was back in the days when ‘indie’ music was sheepish, nerdy, underachieving, a bit rubbish but ultimately lovable, as opposed to the late 90’s big supernova anthems which welcomed a following of beer-boys and terrace hooligans. Seriously – how’s anyone supposed to know that? I’d be surprised if even the members of Cud themselves could tell you, never mind anyone else.
Despite the machine’s level of specialization (or cheating, as I like to call it), amazingly I got the answer right. This was satisfying because it’s not like I was a Cud fan or anything, I just had a weird inkling that turned out to be correct (or guesswork, as I like to call it). I enjoyed the feeling of beating the machine when it was so transparently trying to get one over on us with such an obscure question. We were so happy in fact, that we celebrated by putting the pound back into the machine and losing it properly. But I felt sated. At least we lost it on a question that was fair.
“Who is the wife and co-presenter of Richard Madeley?”
a) Keith Chegwin
b) Judy Finnegan
c) Michael Finnegan
d) Judy from the popular seaside entertainment franchise ‘Punch & Judy’”.
But as soon as it looks like a cash win is a distinct possibility, the questions go from ridiculously easy to ridiculously difficult. One question we were asked in order to win a pound was, “British band Cud were on which of the following recording labels?”
Pop Music happens to be my specialist subject. I am aware that Cud were a late eighties early nineties British indie band who had a couple of minor hits that shot straight into the lower reaches of the top 100 before disappearing straight back into obscurity. This was back in the days when ‘indie’ music was sheepish, nerdy, underachieving, a bit rubbish but ultimately lovable, as opposed to the late 90’s big supernova anthems which welcomed a following of beer-boys and terrace hooligans. Seriously – how’s anyone supposed to know that? I’d be surprised if even the members of Cud themselves could tell you, never mind anyone else.
Despite the machine’s level of specialization (or cheating, as I like to call it), amazingly I got the answer right. This was satisfying because it’s not like I was a Cud fan or anything, I just had a weird inkling that turned out to be correct (or guesswork, as I like to call it). I enjoyed the feeling of beating the machine when it was so transparently trying to get one over on us with such an obscure question. We were so happy in fact, that we celebrated by putting the pound back into the machine and losing it properly. But I felt sated. At least we lost it on a question that was fair.
Mon 16th feb 2009
I have nothing to write about today. Absolutely diddly-squat. To be honest, I don’t know why you’re still reading. I’d just leave if I were you. Move along. There’s nothing to see here.
If you’re a new reader who has happened to accidentally stumble here via the “Next Blog” button, I’d hit that same button again. You’ll probably have to cross a crevice of few foreign language pages that you don’t understand, or pages with garish patterns which burn out your retina before you’ve a chance to start on the text, but it’s got to be better than this. You never know, maybe you’ll come across something nice about knitting or some photos of someone’s niece standing next to a vintage car. This is a dark lonely corner of the blogosphere anyways. Look at it – all black, uniform and boring. Virtually no visual stimulation whatsoever. And as for the text? Well clearly, there’s no content, is there?
I know what you’re thinking. “The whole thing seems a bit of a waste of time. Whoever is writing this must be pretty self-indulgent to soldier on, putting all these pointless words together on a page just for the sake of it. And look at all the self-referencing he’s doing too, talking in this third person dialogue and all that; pretending to be someone else. Maybe he’s a bit mental or something. Or maybe he thinks he’s being dead clever by being all experimental ‘on your ass’, but anyone can see how this desperate experiment is flailing. If it were all a build up to some giant climactic ending, then it would be worth plodding on with. But I don’t even think he’s got a clue how he should end the entry. It’s all just waffle now. How long can he keep typing all this before he’s able to find an inkling of direction? We’re 316 words in and if something interesting was gonna happen, surely it would’ve started by now? And what’s all this dialogue anyway? It seems he’s bought this extra character into life for the purposes of critiquing his blog, but this character is somehow suppose to be representing the thoughts of you, the reader. It’s as if he’s arrogantly trying to proclaim that if you don’t like this entry, it’s somehow your own fault for having all these thoughts in the first place. But he’s the one controlling what words go on the page, casually misrepresenting us as he pleases. And the ultimate insult is that when he stops writing, I (who is supposed to you) will cease to exist. He has given birth to your (my) voice, just to make it say boring things on his behalf, then he’ll just discard it afterward. What a perverse set up. Technically, it’s murder. What sort of a terrible man would commit textual homicide, just for something to write about? Clearly he must reckon murder is the only thing climactic enough to divert the reader from the real, inescapable truth. He really does have absolutely nothing else to say.”
Like I say, you might be thinking all this.
But to be fair, I did warn you in the first sentence.
If you’re a new reader who has happened to accidentally stumble here via the “Next Blog” button, I’d hit that same button again. You’ll probably have to cross a crevice of few foreign language pages that you don’t understand, or pages with garish patterns which burn out your retina before you’ve a chance to start on the text, but it’s got to be better than this. You never know, maybe you’ll come across something nice about knitting or some photos of someone’s niece standing next to a vintage car. This is a dark lonely corner of the blogosphere anyways. Look at it – all black, uniform and boring. Virtually no visual stimulation whatsoever. And as for the text? Well clearly, there’s no content, is there?
I know what you’re thinking. “The whole thing seems a bit of a waste of time. Whoever is writing this must be pretty self-indulgent to soldier on, putting all these pointless words together on a page just for the sake of it. And look at all the self-referencing he’s doing too, talking in this third person dialogue and all that; pretending to be someone else. Maybe he’s a bit mental or something. Or maybe he thinks he’s being dead clever by being all experimental ‘on your ass’, but anyone can see how this desperate experiment is flailing. If it were all a build up to some giant climactic ending, then it would be worth plodding on with. But I don’t even think he’s got a clue how he should end the entry. It’s all just waffle now. How long can he keep typing all this before he’s able to find an inkling of direction? We’re 316 words in and if something interesting was gonna happen, surely it would’ve started by now? And what’s all this dialogue anyway? It seems he’s bought this extra character into life for the purposes of critiquing his blog, but this character is somehow suppose to be representing the thoughts of you, the reader. It’s as if he’s arrogantly trying to proclaim that if you don’t like this entry, it’s somehow your own fault for having all these thoughts in the first place. But he’s the one controlling what words go on the page, casually misrepresenting us as he pleases. And the ultimate insult is that when he stops writing, I (who is supposed to you) will cease to exist. He has given birth to your (my) voice, just to make it say boring things on his behalf, then he’ll just discard it afterward. What a perverse set up. Technically, it’s murder. What sort of a terrible man would commit textual homicide, just for something to write about? Clearly he must reckon murder is the only thing climactic enough to divert the reader from the real, inescapable truth. He really does have absolutely nothing else to say.”
Like I say, you might be thinking all this.
But to be fair, I did warn you in the first sentence.
Sun 15th Feb 2009
Another day, another tragic turn of events. My mug got smashed. It was accidentally knocked off the draining board. I’m sad to see it go. It had been my main beverage container for almost a decade. In that time, we’ve greeted each other nearly every morning upon my waking, and for this reason it wasn’t just a mug - it was technically the closest thing I’ve ever had to a wife. Just think of the rivers of tea we must have seen together over the years. And now it is nothing more than memory.
It wouldn’t have been so bad if my drinking vessel at work hadn’t also met a similarly untimely death at the hands of clumsiness only yesterday. How cruel to have lost my two main drinking vessels of so many years, in just two successive days. Lord only knows what short-term effects this will have. The next time I fancy a warm beverage at home, I will reach into my cupboard and the mug will no longer be there. Initially, I expect this might cause confusion. But given such exraordinary circumstances means there will be no respite. To have the same thing happen at work as well, I fear that life will become an unfamiliar, even bewildering place.
I once met a man who told me that mugs are often unappreciated. They are not just something to hold larger amounts of tea, but actually trinkets which help forge our identity. As such, they are a part of us. Why else do we feel a mild, unspoken sense of anger and possessiveness whenever we walk into the office and someone else is drinking tea from the vessel we consider our own? Believe me, everyone feels it even if they don’t say it. Mugs are not just practical crockery, they have the power to be our own little statement. Whether a brickkie or lawyer, modes of expression are undeniably limited. You cannot go into your workplace dressed as you please. You can’t walk into an office wearing a t-shirt with a political slogan or the logo of your favourite band. Mugs are one of the last mediums we feel free to reveal our sense of individuality through. That’s what makes them so significant.
If there is any truth in the man's words, then maybe my breakages are some sort of sign that I should make a new start. Perhaps I am being told I should re-invent myself with a new identity, not just personally, but professionally too. It makes me wonder whether I have been living in a downward spiral, and this is literally the break from mundane normality I need to spur me into new actions. Am I in a rut? Who knows. But sitting at a computer, writing nearly 500 words about broken condiments is hardly evidence of the most fulfilling existence, is it?
It wouldn’t have been so bad if my drinking vessel at work hadn’t also met a similarly untimely death at the hands of clumsiness only yesterday. How cruel to have lost my two main drinking vessels of so many years, in just two successive days. Lord only knows what short-term effects this will have. The next time I fancy a warm beverage at home, I will reach into my cupboard and the mug will no longer be there. Initially, I expect this might cause confusion. But given such exraordinary circumstances means there will be no respite. To have the same thing happen at work as well, I fear that life will become an unfamiliar, even bewildering place.
I once met a man who told me that mugs are often unappreciated. They are not just something to hold larger amounts of tea, but actually trinkets which help forge our identity. As such, they are a part of us. Why else do we feel a mild, unspoken sense of anger and possessiveness whenever we walk into the office and someone else is drinking tea from the vessel we consider our own? Believe me, everyone feels it even if they don’t say it. Mugs are not just practical crockery, they have the power to be our own little statement. Whether a brickkie or lawyer, modes of expression are undeniably limited. You cannot go into your workplace dressed as you please. You can’t walk into an office wearing a t-shirt with a political slogan or the logo of your favourite band. Mugs are one of the last mediums we feel free to reveal our sense of individuality through. That’s what makes them so significant.
If there is any truth in the man's words, then maybe my breakages are some sort of sign that I should make a new start. Perhaps I am being told I should re-invent myself with a new identity, not just personally, but professionally too. It makes me wonder whether I have been living in a downward spiral, and this is literally the break from mundane normality I need to spur me into new actions. Am I in a rut? Who knows. But sitting at a computer, writing nearly 500 words about broken condiments is hardly evidence of the most fulfilling existence, is it?
Sat 14th Feb 2009
As part of our job, my colleagues and I have to work occasional over time on evenings and weekends. Today was one of those days for me. I can just imagine the reasoning that must have gone into the rostering process;
“Well that hellish, marathon 12 hour shift’s gonna be a tough one to get covered. Not only is it a Saturday, it falls on Valentine’s Day too! Hang on a sec… I’ve just thought of someone who definitely won’t have any plans that day…”
That’s exactly how I reckon I got landed with it. What gets me is how presumptive it all seems. How should they know I had no intentions?
“Sorry I already have Valentines plans.” I recall trying to protest at the time.
But apparently sitting in a darkened room, wanking with tears in your eyes, doesn’t constitute as ‘Valentines plans’ in their eyes. So I ended up working.
Another year passes in which I am persecuted for being unloved.
“Well that hellish, marathon 12 hour shift’s gonna be a tough one to get covered. Not only is it a Saturday, it falls on Valentine’s Day too! Hang on a sec… I’ve just thought of someone who definitely won’t have any plans that day…”
That’s exactly how I reckon I got landed with it. What gets me is how presumptive it all seems. How should they know I had no intentions?
“Sorry I already have Valentines plans.” I recall trying to protest at the time.
But apparently sitting in a darkened room, wanking with tears in your eyes, doesn’t constitute as ‘Valentines plans’ in their eyes. So I ended up working.
Another year passes in which I am persecuted for being unloved.
Fri 13th Feb 2009
HBOS called me today. I was quite surprised. Usually when people’s actions are so controversial they end up vilified all over the news, a low public profile often follows. Yet here were HBOS, the most topical thing of the moment, phoning me up casually as you like, personally inviting me round to there’s for a chat. Whatever next, I wonder. Bin Laden popping round for a scone?
They want to talk to me about what might be best for my savings. Previously, the extent of my relationship with HBOS had been conducted solely through a numerical keypad, and an odd letter of correspondence going on about home insurance, or something I’m equally ambivalent about. Yet now their offering me personal time and I don’t even have to pay for it. They just want to sit down with me and give me some advice, just like a friend would. How lovely.
To be honest, I’m not sure how much interaction I feel necessary to have with my bank. I know they only have my best interests at heart, but the ‘keeping my wages for me to withdraw whenever I want without any required dialogue’ thing we had going on was working for me just fine. Exactly how much value is there, for either party, in a man to wittering on about savings, shares and investments to another man who won’t understand a word, and will eventually get pre-occupied by what variety of Gregg’s pasty he’ll be treating himself to for dinner?
Clearly I am not well-versed in the world on banking, and it is perversely for this very reason I’ve decided it might be quite sensible to go on and see them. After all, I do want what’s best for my money. I wouldn’t want to end up doing something stupid with my savings, like one day suddenly stuffing them all in an envelope marked “London” to find their way into the hands of some blundering coke-head, giddily reeling about the grimy City streets with a gutful of champagne. Surely that’d be one of the worst thing I could do. Maybe second only to giving them straight to Howard, the chap off the adverts with little round glasses, who has a tendency to suddenly start surfing, despite the fact he’s wearing a suit, or break into contemporary pop music, despite the fact he can neither sing nor remember the real lyrics. That man is so irritating it borders on being tragic. Nearly as tragic as my sudden realization, that by being an HBOS customer, then really I actually must have paid Howard by default. Brrr.
In reality you don’t see much of the prancing banker nowadays. Presumably, given the financial state there’s no longer any room for knock-about jolly bank adverts. In an attempt to rebuild customer confidence, I expect we’ll start seeing more serious vague advertising again. Now HBOS have been bought out, I expect the Lloyd’s horse figurehead will start making a more frequent appearance. Which seems a little unfair. It’s not really Howard’s fault that the whole economy started to collapse. The bloke must be gutted. Imagine how demoralizing it would be, having to explain how you lost your job to a horse. Poor Howie. He may have been irritating but at least he was harmless. I genuinely hope Lloyds/HBOS will keep him on in some role or other. Even if it’s just a job mucking out the stables.
They want to talk to me about what might be best for my savings. Previously, the extent of my relationship with HBOS had been conducted solely through a numerical keypad, and an odd letter of correspondence going on about home insurance, or something I’m equally ambivalent about. Yet now their offering me personal time and I don’t even have to pay for it. They just want to sit down with me and give me some advice, just like a friend would. How lovely.
To be honest, I’m not sure how much interaction I feel necessary to have with my bank. I know they only have my best interests at heart, but the ‘keeping my wages for me to withdraw whenever I want without any required dialogue’ thing we had going on was working for me just fine. Exactly how much value is there, for either party, in a man to wittering on about savings, shares and investments to another man who won’t understand a word, and will eventually get pre-occupied by what variety of Gregg’s pasty he’ll be treating himself to for dinner?
Clearly I am not well-versed in the world on banking, and it is perversely for this very reason I’ve decided it might be quite sensible to go on and see them. After all, I do want what’s best for my money. I wouldn’t want to end up doing something stupid with my savings, like one day suddenly stuffing them all in an envelope marked “London” to find their way into the hands of some blundering coke-head, giddily reeling about the grimy City streets with a gutful of champagne. Surely that’d be one of the worst thing I could do. Maybe second only to giving them straight to Howard, the chap off the adverts with little round glasses, who has a tendency to suddenly start surfing, despite the fact he’s wearing a suit, or break into contemporary pop music, despite the fact he can neither sing nor remember the real lyrics. That man is so irritating it borders on being tragic. Nearly as tragic as my sudden realization, that by being an HBOS customer, then really I actually must have paid Howard by default. Brrr.
In reality you don’t see much of the prancing banker nowadays. Presumably, given the financial state there’s no longer any room for knock-about jolly bank adverts. In an attempt to rebuild customer confidence, I expect we’ll start seeing more serious vague advertising again. Now HBOS have been bought out, I expect the Lloyd’s horse figurehead will start making a more frequent appearance. Which seems a little unfair. It’s not really Howard’s fault that the whole economy started to collapse. The bloke must be gutted. Imagine how demoralizing it would be, having to explain how you lost your job to a horse. Poor Howie. He may have been irritating but at least he was harmless. I genuinely hope Lloyds/HBOS will keep him on in some role or other. Even if it’s just a job mucking out the stables.
Thu 12th Feb 2009
Sleepless nights.
Honestly, they’re my worst nightmare. At least with my worst nightmares, I actually get some form of sleep – no matter how harrowing it is.
It’s so annoying. I don’t remember being troubled by this affliction as a kid. Maybe now and again when there was a reason – like getting over-excited the night before Christmas or something. But surely I am not over-excited about the pending day of work which faces me in the morning. Why should tomorrow be of any particular relative joy? Surely it’ll be the same mundane working day as ever. Except I’ll be dead knackered.
So many theories about how to cope in this situation. I definitely shouldn’t move. My brother in law reckons it’s best to keep perfectly still. Don’t look at the clock. He says you may as well give your body some rest, even if you can’t rest your mind. There’s certainly a logic there, but my mind always starts feeling neglected. If I’m not getting myself all worked up by blowing day to day incidents out of proportion, I’m busy convincing myself how my chin has an itch to scratch, or that I’m feeling the first dewy remnants of a wee in my bladder and I should probably go to the toilet now. I’ll give myself any self-loathing excuse to not keep still. The only rule I honestly manage is avoiding the sight of the clock.
The other school of thought is to take your mind off your problem by getting up and doing something else for a while, like watching television. But what’s on at this time? Channels 4 and 5? Oh joy. Niche sports.
Believe me, I’d rather poke my own eyes out than spectate even the most mainstream sports. The thought of watching specialist sports whilst in a state of sleep deprivation is enough to depress me to my own suicide. It is a mere one rung higher on the desolation -stakes than ITV’s NIghtscreen. Officially the loneliest place - not just on the planet – but the whole desolate, pointless universe. It is the televisual equivalent of a Pot Noodle on Neptune. But in a bad way.
BBC’s News 24 isn’t much better either. Ok, so the newsreader is a human being talking straight to you live and alive, at the godforsaken time of whatever. And you might even briefly fool yourself into believing this is some sort of ‘company’ through your silent hours. But you’re always aware that newsreader has another agenda. He or she is just a fair-weather friend selling you short. It’s ok for them; before another day of work, they’ll be looking forward to clocking off and getting to bed. But you’ve got to get up early. They might as well be some parasitic killjoy nicking your last can whilst simultaneously informing you the party’s over. And that clock too. Permanently there in the corner of the screen. FOR GOD’S SAKE DON’T LOOK AT THE TIME. It’ll only depress you further, telling you how many ‘X amount of hours’ you’ve failed to sleep. Or how terrible you should feel tomorrow morning having only had ‘X amount of hours’ sleep. It’s best not to know these things. Ignorance is bliss. You’ll only torture yourself.
So this morning I’ve lay awake, trying my best to ignore the clock, but still being silently curious of the time. In fact I’ve applied so much energy frustrated by my curiosity, that the next thing I see is the beginnings of dawn beginning to break through the window. Such a sight is my final horror. At this point, there is nothing left to do but admit defeat. There’s no point in even trying anymore. I might as well just surrender to the fact my alarm will be sounding soon, and I will need to face another horrific, sleep deprived day of work. And at that point my mind’s torment seems to loosen. Having given up at the 9th hour, I am finally released into a…
zzzz…
Honestly, they’re my worst nightmare. At least with my worst nightmares, I actually get some form of sleep – no matter how harrowing it is.
It’s so annoying. I don’t remember being troubled by this affliction as a kid. Maybe now and again when there was a reason – like getting over-excited the night before Christmas or something. But surely I am not over-excited about the pending day of work which faces me in the morning. Why should tomorrow be of any particular relative joy? Surely it’ll be the same mundane working day as ever. Except I’ll be dead knackered.
So many theories about how to cope in this situation. I definitely shouldn’t move. My brother in law reckons it’s best to keep perfectly still. Don’t look at the clock. He says you may as well give your body some rest, even if you can’t rest your mind. There’s certainly a logic there, but my mind always starts feeling neglected. If I’m not getting myself all worked up by blowing day to day incidents out of proportion, I’m busy convincing myself how my chin has an itch to scratch, or that I’m feeling the first dewy remnants of a wee in my bladder and I should probably go to the toilet now. I’ll give myself any self-loathing excuse to not keep still. The only rule I honestly manage is avoiding the sight of the clock.
The other school of thought is to take your mind off your problem by getting up and doing something else for a while, like watching television. But what’s on at this time? Channels 4 and 5? Oh joy. Niche sports.
Believe me, I’d rather poke my own eyes out than spectate even the most mainstream sports. The thought of watching specialist sports whilst in a state of sleep deprivation is enough to depress me to my own suicide. It is a mere one rung higher on the desolation -stakes than ITV’s NIghtscreen. Officially the loneliest place - not just on the planet – but the whole desolate, pointless universe. It is the televisual equivalent of a Pot Noodle on Neptune. But in a bad way.
BBC’s News 24 isn’t much better either. Ok, so the newsreader is a human being talking straight to you live and alive, at the godforsaken time of whatever. And you might even briefly fool yourself into believing this is some sort of ‘company’ through your silent hours. But you’re always aware that newsreader has another agenda. He or she is just a fair-weather friend selling you short. It’s ok for them; before another day of work, they’ll be looking forward to clocking off and getting to bed. But you’ve got to get up early. They might as well be some parasitic killjoy nicking your last can whilst simultaneously informing you the party’s over. And that clock too. Permanently there in the corner of the screen. FOR GOD’S SAKE DON’T LOOK AT THE TIME. It’ll only depress you further, telling you how many ‘X amount of hours’ you’ve failed to sleep. Or how terrible you should feel tomorrow morning having only had ‘X amount of hours’ sleep. It’s best not to know these things. Ignorance is bliss. You’ll only torture yourself.
So this morning I’ve lay awake, trying my best to ignore the clock, but still being silently curious of the time. In fact I’ve applied so much energy frustrated by my curiosity, that the next thing I see is the beginnings of dawn beginning to break through the window. Such a sight is my final horror. At this point, there is nothing left to do but admit defeat. There’s no point in even trying anymore. I might as well just surrender to the fact my alarm will be sounding soon, and I will need to face another horrific, sleep deprived day of work. And at that point my mind’s torment seems to loosen. Having given up at the 9th hour, I am finally released into a…
zzzz…
Wed 11th Feb 2009
Today I went to my sister’s for dinner. I’m ashamed to say that I initially felt a bit put out by her kind offer to cook for me, which is surprising to say the least. Were you to ask anyone who knows me, they would vouch that I am actually rather a big fan of dinner. They’d probably even go to the point of saying I LOVE dinner. Indeed, virtually any other time, there would be no hesitancy. But tonight I felt uneasy because I’m getting so far behind in some of my work and it has long been hanging over me like the Sword of Damocles. The particular work in question was writing-related too, and everybody knows the pen is mightier than the sword. Technically, a Bic biro tenuously hovering above you is an even greater threat than a big sharp weapon with the capacity to slice your head open. I know - Sounds daft to me too. But hey – I don’t make the rules. All I care about is the fact that I’m arguably braver than a Greek God.
I am glad I made the immense effort to go round to my sisters to get fed. It was a delight to see my nephew again. He is now visibly growing up fast. The last time I saw him I’d witnessed him stomping and stumbling around on his feet for first time. His skills are developing quickly. He can now point at certain objects when say the name of them and ask where they are, or clap his hands upon a verbal and visual cue.
Today, he was taking great amusement in a silly little action I was doing. I’d suck in air through my teeth until my lungs were full, hold my breath for a couple of seconds, then breathe out whilst doing a kind of ‘Bez’ dance with his little toy shaker. He screamed with laughter at this. It was like comedy gold to the little fella. I did it again and again and rather than this repetition becoming tedious, he would be laughing out loud every single time, sometimes with such force that he would almost fall over with excitement. I must have done it a dozen times, and rather than become bored with it, the little chap would actually run up to me and start sucking in air himself to encourage me into doing my silly dance again. It was a joyous thing to see, and for one fleeting moment I felt a twinge of sadness for never having the inclination (or, let’s be honest, opportunity) to have children of my own.
But although it felt like the fun would never end, the near fall which had terrified me the last time I saw him, actually happened for real. In the blink of an eye, he’d tripped over my lumbering foot and landed head first into one of his toys. The laughter was no more. As his screams pierced the air, all I could do was sheepishly and shamefully step away, and let his mother try and quell the flood of tears. My awkwardness was a sharp reminder that I am simply not up to the responsibility of having children of my own. How can I possibly get fooled into believing otherwise? I am barely equipped look after myself!
In one move, I had fell from being a comedy genius who could invoke hysterical laughter from his audience over and over again, to feeling like the most evil man alive. The more quick-witted of might be anticipating joke along the lines about me “knowing how Michael Barrymore must have felt.” Despite the temptation, I will show restraint. That would be a cheap shot, which would only devalue the end of this entry - which is after all, about the joys of young innocence. I feel it best so simply draw this to a close. I admit it may not be the most fulfilling of conclusions, but at least you’ll appreciate a certain level of dignity has been maintained. Maybe I am becoming more responsible after all.
I am glad I made the immense effort to go round to my sisters to get fed. It was a delight to see my nephew again. He is now visibly growing up fast. The last time I saw him I’d witnessed him stomping and stumbling around on his feet for first time. His skills are developing quickly. He can now point at certain objects when say the name of them and ask where they are, or clap his hands upon a verbal and visual cue.
Today, he was taking great amusement in a silly little action I was doing. I’d suck in air through my teeth until my lungs were full, hold my breath for a couple of seconds, then breathe out whilst doing a kind of ‘Bez’ dance with his little toy shaker. He screamed with laughter at this. It was like comedy gold to the little fella. I did it again and again and rather than this repetition becoming tedious, he would be laughing out loud every single time, sometimes with such force that he would almost fall over with excitement. I must have done it a dozen times, and rather than become bored with it, the little chap would actually run up to me and start sucking in air himself to encourage me into doing my silly dance again. It was a joyous thing to see, and for one fleeting moment I felt a twinge of sadness for never having the inclination (or, let’s be honest, opportunity) to have children of my own.
But although it felt like the fun would never end, the near fall which had terrified me the last time I saw him, actually happened for real. In the blink of an eye, he’d tripped over my lumbering foot and landed head first into one of his toys. The laughter was no more. As his screams pierced the air, all I could do was sheepishly and shamefully step away, and let his mother try and quell the flood of tears. My awkwardness was a sharp reminder that I am simply not up to the responsibility of having children of my own. How can I possibly get fooled into believing otherwise? I am barely equipped look after myself!
In one move, I had fell from being a comedy genius who could invoke hysterical laughter from his audience over and over again, to feeling like the most evil man alive. The more quick-witted of might be anticipating joke along the lines about me “knowing how Michael Barrymore must have felt.” Despite the temptation, I will show restraint. That would be a cheap shot, which would only devalue the end of this entry - which is after all, about the joys of young innocence. I feel it best so simply draw this to a close. I admit it may not be the most fulfilling of conclusions, but at least you’ll appreciate a certain level of dignity has been maintained. Maybe I am becoming more responsible after all.
Tue 10th Feb 2009
Went to a quiz evening at our local village pub. Contrary to what one particular person might assume, I do genuinely have enough friends to form a quiz team. If anything, we were faced with the opposite problem. When we first arrived, there were five members, which was the maximum number of participants allowed in a team. Any additional members came at a cost of having five points per person deducted from the team’s score. But as the rounds wore on, various friends would enter the pub and come and sit with us. And why shouldn’t they be allowed to? This was supposed to be a fun game in the social environment of a pub, not some sort of exclusionary academic examination.
In fairness, this didn’t become an issue and the curmudgeonly landlord (who read the questions out himself to save money on a quizmaster, and got us to swap our answers with the next team to save him the effort of marking them) seemed to turn a blind eye to our perpetually increasing team size. Had we won, I’m sure there would have been uproarious accusations of cheating from the other teams. It is a strange feeling to enter a quiz, yet be preoccupied by a nagging worry about actually winning the damn thing. How could the number of people sitting around our table not go unnoticed? Of course we could try to argue that our additional friends were not part of the quiz (officially they arrived too late to have paid any entry fees – though this argument could well be another source of further chagrin), but if you were in a quiz and knew the answer to a question, it would take the same level of restraint as eating a doughnut without licking your lips not to shout out the answer to the nearest team. Consequently, I ended up assessing my friends in relation to their ‘points value’, just in case we happened to win.
I cannot help but resent the obligation to feel any form of guilt during my own leisure time. In an ideal world, I would really like to satirize this ‘points reduction’ rule. I wish to convince everybody in the pub to join together as one solitary team. We may not share much of a prize through our amalgamation, but it’d be a coup to win a quiz with a score of minus 115.
In fairness, this didn’t become an issue and the curmudgeonly landlord (who read the questions out himself to save money on a quizmaster, and got us to swap our answers with the next team to save him the effort of marking them) seemed to turn a blind eye to our perpetually increasing team size. Had we won, I’m sure there would have been uproarious accusations of cheating from the other teams. It is a strange feeling to enter a quiz, yet be preoccupied by a nagging worry about actually winning the damn thing. How could the number of people sitting around our table not go unnoticed? Of course we could try to argue that our additional friends were not part of the quiz (officially they arrived too late to have paid any entry fees – though this argument could well be another source of further chagrin), but if you were in a quiz and knew the answer to a question, it would take the same level of restraint as eating a doughnut without licking your lips not to shout out the answer to the nearest team. Consequently, I ended up assessing my friends in relation to their ‘points value’, just in case we happened to win.
I cannot help but resent the obligation to feel any form of guilt during my own leisure time. In an ideal world, I would really like to satirize this ‘points reduction’ rule. I wish to convince everybody in the pub to join together as one solitary team. We may not share much of a prize through our amalgamation, but it’d be a coup to win a quiz with a score of minus 115.
Mon 9th Feb 2009
Today I went for a swim. I achieved forty lengths in 25 minutes, which considering this is the first time I’ve been for over 3 months was a bit of a coup for me. And by 40 lengths I DO mean ½ a mile – it wasn’t a child’s paddling pool if that's what you're thinking. To be fair, swimming is a pretty boring sport which I only partake in for reasons of health. It wasn’t so bad last year. There was a rather attractive lady Lifeguard who kept me motivated to stay in the pool and plough on with a few extra lengths. But alas, she seems to have left and swimming is now just a dull chore once again.
In retrospect I suppose it is quite sad that the lifeguard lady would just become another figure I admired from afar yet never uttered a word to. But then I doubt would it have been appropriate to chat up an on-duty lifeguard. Let’s not forget, it may be my leisure time, but it certainly is not hers. She has an authoritative control to maintain, and for this reason any seductions would likely be a pretty humiliating experience for both of us. Approaching her as a half naked and dripping man would make me feel vulnerable, whilst let's be honest, she’d probably find the whole experience akin to being seduced by a moist, slightly obese chicken in a butcher's shop window.
Yes, I suppose it was best to have kept the whole thing as my little private lecherous fantasy (well maybe ‘fantasy’ is the wrong word. Fantasy implies arousal. And the physical consequences of arousal would probably not be contextually appropriate in a pair of revealing trunks around a swimming pool full of young children. But I’m sure you know what I mean).
So goodbye lifeguard lady, whoever you were. How sad that any chance of our love could drown before it’s even had the chance of a supervised swim. If I happen shed a tear over the tragedy, I promise I won’t cause a spectacle at your old pool - I’ll make sure I’m swimming underwater when I cry.
In retrospect I suppose it is quite sad that the lifeguard lady would just become another figure I admired from afar yet never uttered a word to. But then I doubt would it have been appropriate to chat up an on-duty lifeguard. Let’s not forget, it may be my leisure time, but it certainly is not hers. She has an authoritative control to maintain, and for this reason any seductions would likely be a pretty humiliating experience for both of us. Approaching her as a half naked and dripping man would make me feel vulnerable, whilst let's be honest, she’d probably find the whole experience akin to being seduced by a moist, slightly obese chicken in a butcher's shop window.
Yes, I suppose it was best to have kept the whole thing as my little private lecherous fantasy (well maybe ‘fantasy’ is the wrong word. Fantasy implies arousal. And the physical consequences of arousal would probably not be contextually appropriate in a pair of revealing trunks around a swimming pool full of young children. But I’m sure you know what I mean).
So goodbye lifeguard lady, whoever you were. How sad that any chance of our love could drown before it’s even had the chance of a supervised swim. If I happen shed a tear over the tragedy, I promise I won’t cause a spectacle at your old pool - I’ll make sure I’m swimming underwater when I cry.
Sun 8th Feb 2009
If you’ve read any of the previous Sunday entries, you probably know the drill by now:-
Got up…. Went to my Mom’s…. We went out for Sunday dinner…. Blah blah blah…
Well today was pretty much like that too – except with a small but significant twist. Rather than going to the Hare & Hounds for dinner as usual, we tried out a brand new place called The Royal George. This provided a somewhat novel change. Rather than plating the meals up and bringing them to the table, The Royal George operated a carvery, serving beef and pork (see – I told you how I’d intended a crazy shake-up of my life). There were only four other diners in the pub, so we didn’t even have to queue at the hotplate. Bonus!
My Mom went first, ordering her usual “child’s portion” of meat, before heading off for some slim pickings at the self-serve veg counter. Then I handed my plate to the carver, ordering myself some of the pork. This morning I had skipped breakfast, so inevitably I watched the knife gliding down the hulking block of meat in ravenous anticipation. He placed the first slice on my plate. My mouth watered. But my anticipation soon turned to disappointment, when he began cut the second of his slices in half, returning it back to the hot plate. Apparently one and a half measly scraggs of pork was all I would be getting.
It occurred to me that just because my Mom had ordered the child’s portion, then maybe he’d assumed I’d ordered it too. I wanted to address his possible mistake, but having never been there before, I couldn’t really be sure if it was a mistake at all. Maybe it was simply a matter of comparative proportion because the Hare & Hounds had been spoiling us with meaty generosity for so long. Our usual Sunday establishment was a bit more expensive, so this possibly explained such varying portions. Even so, it still seemed a bit mean to have sliced so little. There were still mountains of meat left, and since it was 2 in the afternoon and the place was only occupied by four other diners, it was unlikely that much more would get used. It seemed a shame - most of it would probably just get thrown away. What other conceivable conclusion could there be? That the carving boy was some sort of young Nazi, wishing to use the pig carcass as part of some of anti-Semitic victimization prank?
Predictably, and irrespective of any dissatisfaction toward this frugality, my reaction was to say nothing, move on to the vegetable selection, compensate by serving myself a glutinous amount of roast potatoes, then quietly sit down to eat.
While sitting in near-seething disgruntlement, I couldn’t help but feel partly responsible for the measly meaty conundrum. If I wasn’t so socially self-conscious, maybe I would have been more equipped to address the issue. It’s possible I might have still decided it didn’t seem worth going all undignified and ‘Oliver Twist’ about it but either way, at least I’d feel confident enough to give myself the option to find out. So what if I risked looking a bit rude? My perceived sarcasm might have been the kick the carver needed to stop hogging the blatantly ample hog, and carve more generous portions.
Of course, I don’t wholly blame myself. It would be wrong not to acknowledge that the responsibility should also be partly awarded to my Mother. She was the one who ordering the child’s portion in the first place, thus allowing these doubts of portion adequacy in my mind.
I’ve never understood that. Why do people always seem to eat less the older they get? Have you noticed that there’s always something left on an old person’s plate after dinner? It makes no sense. Surely old age should be a time of indulgence. At such an advanced time of life, looks are well on their way to fading, so what difference is a few pounds going to make? God knows after a lifetime of hard toil, you deserve to knock yourself out. That’s what I intend to do. If I reach retirement having amassed a lot of money, I fully intend to get myself a heroin habit. You’ve earned that money through your labour and it’s not like you can take it with you, can you? What better time to see what all the hard drug fuss is about? After years of working hard and living in careful moderation, why would anyone want to conclude their existence in mundane boredom? It’s not like you’d technically be wasting your life cos most of it would have already been spent.
If there’s any pensioners reading this, I urge you to get smacked up immediately.
I’m telling you man, the twilight years ain’t half wasted on the old.
Got up…. Went to my Mom’s…. We went out for Sunday dinner…. Blah blah blah…
Well today was pretty much like that too – except with a small but significant twist. Rather than going to the Hare & Hounds for dinner as usual, we tried out a brand new place called The Royal George. This provided a somewhat novel change. Rather than plating the meals up and bringing them to the table, The Royal George operated a carvery, serving beef and pork (see – I told you how I’d intended a crazy shake-up of my life). There were only four other diners in the pub, so we didn’t even have to queue at the hotplate. Bonus!
My Mom went first, ordering her usual “child’s portion” of meat, before heading off for some slim pickings at the self-serve veg counter. Then I handed my plate to the carver, ordering myself some of the pork. This morning I had skipped breakfast, so inevitably I watched the knife gliding down the hulking block of meat in ravenous anticipation. He placed the first slice on my plate. My mouth watered. But my anticipation soon turned to disappointment, when he began cut the second of his slices in half, returning it back to the hot plate. Apparently one and a half measly scraggs of pork was all I would be getting.
It occurred to me that just because my Mom had ordered the child’s portion, then maybe he’d assumed I’d ordered it too. I wanted to address his possible mistake, but having never been there before, I couldn’t really be sure if it was a mistake at all. Maybe it was simply a matter of comparative proportion because the Hare & Hounds had been spoiling us with meaty generosity for so long. Our usual Sunday establishment was a bit more expensive, so this possibly explained such varying portions. Even so, it still seemed a bit mean to have sliced so little. There were still mountains of meat left, and since it was 2 in the afternoon and the place was only occupied by four other diners, it was unlikely that much more would get used. It seemed a shame - most of it would probably just get thrown away. What other conceivable conclusion could there be? That the carving boy was some sort of young Nazi, wishing to use the pig carcass as part of some of anti-Semitic victimization prank?
Predictably, and irrespective of any dissatisfaction toward this frugality, my reaction was to say nothing, move on to the vegetable selection, compensate by serving myself a glutinous amount of roast potatoes, then quietly sit down to eat.
While sitting in near-seething disgruntlement, I couldn’t help but feel partly responsible for the measly meaty conundrum. If I wasn’t so socially self-conscious, maybe I would have been more equipped to address the issue. It’s possible I might have still decided it didn’t seem worth going all undignified and ‘Oliver Twist’ about it but either way, at least I’d feel confident enough to give myself the option to find out. So what if I risked looking a bit rude? My perceived sarcasm might have been the kick the carver needed to stop hogging the blatantly ample hog, and carve more generous portions.
Of course, I don’t wholly blame myself. It would be wrong not to acknowledge that the responsibility should also be partly awarded to my Mother. She was the one who ordering the child’s portion in the first place, thus allowing these doubts of portion adequacy in my mind.
I’ve never understood that. Why do people always seem to eat less the older they get? Have you noticed that there’s always something left on an old person’s plate after dinner? It makes no sense. Surely old age should be a time of indulgence. At such an advanced time of life, looks are well on their way to fading, so what difference is a few pounds going to make? God knows after a lifetime of hard toil, you deserve to knock yourself out. That’s what I intend to do. If I reach retirement having amassed a lot of money, I fully intend to get myself a heroin habit. You’ve earned that money through your labour and it’s not like you can take it with you, can you? What better time to see what all the hard drug fuss is about? After years of working hard and living in careful moderation, why would anyone want to conclude their existence in mundane boredom? It’s not like you’d technically be wasting your life cos most of it would have already been spent.
If there’s any pensioners reading this, I urge you to get smacked up immediately.
I’m telling you man, the twilight years ain’t half wasted on the old.
Sat 7th Feb 2009
One of the things I dread about growing old alone (well, growing even older alone I suppose), is that kind of delusional thing that happens to people’s mind from the lack of interactional stimulate. There is a neighbor of ours who comes to the pub on a Saturday night. He has been divorced and living alone as long as I have been alive. His attitude and behavior continue to become progressively idiosyncratic the older he gets. For instance, although he has a great base of general knowledge, every now and then he will try to tell you something in that very ‘bloke in the pub’ type of way, that is complete and utter bollocks. The strange thing is, he tells these lies with the same complete conviction. I suspect he has had too much time and now honed his own world-view to a point where it has become total and solid, because he has lived alone for so long with no-one to question his opinions. Or maybe he is actually well aware of the falsehood of his statements but when in social situations he takes great pleasure in the novelty of messing with people’s heads. I remember him in the pub once, as bold as brass, trying to proclaim that the English invented the curry. At first, I assumed he was earnestly just getting his trivia a little jumbled, and had read or heard about the Balti dish having recent origins in Great Britain. I tried to tactfully correct his faux pas, but he was still insistent that all curried dished originated from English hands. The people around us expressed their surprise at this ‘fact’, but nevertheless seemed to completely believe him. There was only me who did not seem so willing to accept the statement at face value. I decided to dig a little deeper into his historical sources. I felt confident from the reaction I’d witnessed that he was rarely questioned his knowledge, so I could topple his logic quite easily. Yet to my surprise, and to his great credit, there was a deeper argument ready-prepared.
He informed me the dish was conceived when English Army were fighting in India. “Well it’s obvious when you think about it really. It was necessity” he argued with sincerity, “You can’t feed an army on rice alone, can you?”
As flawed as this justification seems, due to the confident sincerity of his argument, the people around us astonishingly took this ‘evidence’ as fact. They all had enlightened, ‘well-I-never-thought-about-it-like-that’ faces on them. Presumably they are willing to believe that up until that point in history, swathes of Indians had been dying off through malnutrition then? Maybe they even gave themselves and their ancestors a collective pat on the back. Thank God for the English.
So there you have it - the blinkered world view of the lonely, previewed in all its glory. I give it 3 months until this whole blog is just a tissue of untruths. Like I say, I am yet to find out whether these lies are going to be for self-amusement or self-delusion. But at least I know I’ll get away with them, so long as I can back it up with the most anemic of justifications.
He informed me the dish was conceived when English Army were fighting in India. “Well it’s obvious when you think about it really. It was necessity” he argued with sincerity, “You can’t feed an army on rice alone, can you?”
As flawed as this justification seems, due to the confident sincerity of his argument, the people around us astonishingly took this ‘evidence’ as fact. They all had enlightened, ‘well-I-never-thought-about-it-like-that’ faces on them. Presumably they are willing to believe that up until that point in history, swathes of Indians had been dying off through malnutrition then? Maybe they even gave themselves and their ancestors a collective pat on the back. Thank God for the English.
So there you have it - the blinkered world view of the lonely, previewed in all its glory. I give it 3 months until this whole blog is just a tissue of untruths. Like I say, I am yet to find out whether these lies are going to be for self-amusement or self-delusion. But at least I know I’ll get away with them, so long as I can back it up with the most anemic of justifications.
Fri 6th Feb 2009
I am famous! - in a local sense anyway. My photo from Wednesday’s shoot was published in the regional newspaper today.
The front of the paper is emblazoned with the headline “Wolverhampton: A Winter Wonderland”, which has the caption “The stunning view of snow-covered Wolverhampton city centre taken from a crane”. Fair play, our local paper is very naturally proud of Wolverhampton – that’s its job. But one can’t help feeling a slight desperation in the photo. It impossible to escape the fact that the picture is of the same morbid non-descript, ring road encircled cluster of buildings, except covered in snow. And if they are so proud of this, one has to question why they have felt the need to sell their paper by offering readers a chance to escape for a break to London on the same front page. What a great issue to be associated with! And inside, tucked away on page 25, is yours truly.
As for our article itself, the Wolvophile angle is once again seemingly pushed with the headline “Wolves Shirt Request”. In the photo, I am the one leaning down on the kerb playing an inflatable guitar, with my colleague draping a Wolverhampton Wanderers shirt above me. The caption says that we are “getting set to hand over a Wolves shirt to members of (a) rock band”. It must be stressed, don’t believe all you see and read in this piece. Despite the implications in use of the words ‘getting set’, we will not stay frozen in this ridiculous position on the street until the band arrives next week. Neither is this a practice for the pose we will adopt when we actually make the presentation of the shirt to a probably bewildered rock band. I am afraid to report that this is merely an illusion used by the paper, and we simply made this pose for photographic purposes.
Sadly, the text is not much better either. “The staff at Wolverhampton W- Hall have had an unusual request from a band due to play there next week… [a] band have requested a football shirt of the city’s home team as part of their backstage requests. ” the piece opens.
We were not, as is implied, thinking “Ooh, look at this crazy band asking for a local football team shirt. This is so bizarre we must immediately call the press about it”. Let me assure you this didn’t happen, because as the piece progresses, it transpires that “this isn’t the first time the Brazilian frontman has been presented with a Wolves top, [as they] played in the city five years ago and made the same request then”. Surely this makes the earlier use of the word “unusual” completely redundant and incorrect then? If the band have played twice and asked for the same thing on both occasions, surely by definition, this request has more actually now become “usual”?
Maybe I’m being a bit overly cynical and pedantic. It is the paper’s job to aggrandize the region it serves, so surely the important thing is that for some inexplicable reason, the city of Wolverhampton is being recognized by an international band. Is this because Wolverhampton is so bloody special? Well actually, no. The article even manages to destroy its own myth-making towards the end of the story, saying “Whichever town they’re playing in, they always ask for a football shirt.”
Well what a bloody anticlimax that is! Why the hell did they put that bit in? If they’re even now dispelling the showy-offy bit, this only begs the question - what is the actual point of the article? I for one can’t see it; and I was in even in the piece!
Oh well, what should I care? At least I have a new-found fame. And it is for this reason I stayed in this evening. I couldn’t stand the thought of all those strangers coming up to me in the street. “Wow, I can’t believe it. It’s that bloke from the papers!” I imagine they’d scream, before going on with their parasitic ways, trying to get a piece of me. “Go on, do that thing.” They’d insist, “You know, that kneeling on the pavement playing an inflatable guitar”.
The front of the paper is emblazoned with the headline “Wolverhampton: A Winter Wonderland”, which has the caption “The stunning view of snow-covered Wolverhampton city centre taken from a crane”. Fair play, our local paper is very naturally proud of Wolverhampton – that’s its job. But one can’t help feeling a slight desperation in the photo. It impossible to escape the fact that the picture is of the same morbid non-descript, ring road encircled cluster of buildings, except covered in snow. And if they are so proud of this, one has to question why they have felt the need to sell their paper by offering readers a chance to escape for a break to London on the same front page. What a great issue to be associated with! And inside, tucked away on page 25, is yours truly.
As for our article itself, the Wolvophile angle is once again seemingly pushed with the headline “Wolves Shirt Request”. In the photo, I am the one leaning down on the kerb playing an inflatable guitar, with my colleague draping a Wolverhampton Wanderers shirt above me. The caption says that we are “getting set to hand over a Wolves shirt to members of (a) rock band”. It must be stressed, don’t believe all you see and read in this piece. Despite the implications in use of the words ‘getting set’, we will not stay frozen in this ridiculous position on the street until the band arrives next week. Neither is this a practice for the pose we will adopt when we actually make the presentation of the shirt to a probably bewildered rock band. I am afraid to report that this is merely an illusion used by the paper, and we simply made this pose for photographic purposes.
Sadly, the text is not much better either. “The staff at Wolverhampton W- Hall have had an unusual request from a band due to play there next week… [a] band have requested a football shirt of the city’s home team as part of their backstage requests. ” the piece opens.
We were not, as is implied, thinking “Ooh, look at this crazy band asking for a local football team shirt. This is so bizarre we must immediately call the press about it”. Let me assure you this didn’t happen, because as the piece progresses, it transpires that “this isn’t the first time the Brazilian frontman has been presented with a Wolves top, [as they] played in the city five years ago and made the same request then”. Surely this makes the earlier use of the word “unusual” completely redundant and incorrect then? If the band have played twice and asked for the same thing on both occasions, surely by definition, this request has more actually now become “usual”?
Maybe I’m being a bit overly cynical and pedantic. It is the paper’s job to aggrandize the region it serves, so surely the important thing is that for some inexplicable reason, the city of Wolverhampton is being recognized by an international band. Is this because Wolverhampton is so bloody special? Well actually, no. The article even manages to destroy its own myth-making towards the end of the story, saying “Whichever town they’re playing in, they always ask for a football shirt.”
Well what a bloody anticlimax that is! Why the hell did they put that bit in? If they’re even now dispelling the showy-offy bit, this only begs the question - what is the actual point of the article? I for one can’t see it; and I was in even in the piece!
Oh well, what should I care? At least I have a new-found fame. And it is for this reason I stayed in this evening. I couldn’t stand the thought of all those strangers coming up to me in the street. “Wow, I can’t believe it. It’s that bloke from the papers!” I imagine they’d scream, before going on with their parasitic ways, trying to get a piece of me. “Go on, do that thing.” They’d insist, “You know, that kneeling on the pavement playing an inflatable guitar”.
Thu 5th Feb 2009
So everyone's been banging on about how great the new Elbow album is. For the last 12 months I’ve been having none of it. I found the whole thing cynical and dubious. Rather than swaying me, even the Mercury Music Prize strengthened my will that I was right and everyone else in the wrong. But today, I have finally given “The Seldom Seen Kid” a good listen. And I’ve actually relented to your opinions. I am nothing if not a consistent flip-flopper.
When Ray Winstone and his cronies released their 1st album I thought it was a very promising debut. But since then I have treated the band with a degree of suspicion. What seemed like emotional authenticity soon gave way to an air of smug self-satisfaction. Albums passed, and everything was “so much about the music maaan”, that it actually started to seem a bit contrived; the joke-y knock-around cartoon video set inside rocket ships, the kind of deliberate smart-arse refusal to write a single with a memorable tune, and, more significantly, the press and public conviction this was all some kind of genius. Then last year ‘that’ song came out, which from here will henceforth be known as the official anthem for BBC trailers and sports tournament highlight packages. After years of critical acclaim and radio wilderness, it seemed Elbow had finally released a zeitgeist-hitting tune, and although the nation seemed to have a collective wank, the whole thing seemed rather dubious to me. It sounded like Embrace being ordered by their record company to write their own version of ‘Hey Jude’ or something. It felt like one of those string-laden ‘lighters aloft’ anthems which cunningly seems to push all the right buttons – y’know - that kind of polished melancholy by numbers that Keane and the likes are masters of. The kind of song emotionally inarticulate thickos want the song playing at their funeral just because they had a teary-eyed moment after a DJ played it during the drunken dying embers of their 21st birthday party or something.
But after having listened to the album, it turns out my cynicism and scoffing may have been ignorant and ill-founded. Elbow’s latest is actually rather good. It is quite a rare delight nowadays to hear a consistent album that isn’t just top-heavy with a couple of nice singles, followed by a load of ‘filler’ padding. So thumbs up lads – I’m sure my anonymous opinion of your canon means a great deal to you.
And while we’re on the subject, that ‘Spiralling’ single by the much-maligned Keane wasn’t too bad either. I mean I wouldn’t buy the track or owt like that, but at least it showed a nice, welcome change of direction.
There you go, I’ve said it. I’ve celebrated the praises of one of the most ridiculed contemporary acts. I can’t take it back now. It’s out there for the world to see. And until I inevitably flip-flop on my words again, I thoroughly intend to stand by them, and am willing to fight anyone that says otherwise.
Actually, I probably won’t really fight anyone who says otherwise. I’m not a fighter. The fact that I’ve just admitted a liking of a Keane song is surely evidence of that.
When Ray Winstone and his cronies released their 1st album I thought it was a very promising debut. But since then I have treated the band with a degree of suspicion. What seemed like emotional authenticity soon gave way to an air of smug self-satisfaction. Albums passed, and everything was “so much about the music maaan”, that it actually started to seem a bit contrived; the joke-y knock-around cartoon video set inside rocket ships, the kind of deliberate smart-arse refusal to write a single with a memorable tune, and, more significantly, the press and public conviction this was all some kind of genius. Then last year ‘that’ song came out, which from here will henceforth be known as the official anthem for BBC trailers and sports tournament highlight packages. After years of critical acclaim and radio wilderness, it seemed Elbow had finally released a zeitgeist-hitting tune, and although the nation seemed to have a collective wank, the whole thing seemed rather dubious to me. It sounded like Embrace being ordered by their record company to write their own version of ‘Hey Jude’ or something. It felt like one of those string-laden ‘lighters aloft’ anthems which cunningly seems to push all the right buttons – y’know - that kind of polished melancholy by numbers that Keane and the likes are masters of. The kind of song emotionally inarticulate thickos want the song playing at their funeral just because they had a teary-eyed moment after a DJ played it during the drunken dying embers of their 21st birthday party or something.
But after having listened to the album, it turns out my cynicism and scoffing may have been ignorant and ill-founded. Elbow’s latest is actually rather good. It is quite a rare delight nowadays to hear a consistent album that isn’t just top-heavy with a couple of nice singles, followed by a load of ‘filler’ padding. So thumbs up lads – I’m sure my anonymous opinion of your canon means a great deal to you.
And while we’re on the subject, that ‘Spiralling’ single by the much-maligned Keane wasn’t too bad either. I mean I wouldn’t buy the track or owt like that, but at least it showed a nice, welcome change of direction.
There you go, I’ve said it. I’ve celebrated the praises of one of the most ridiculed contemporary acts. I can’t take it back now. It’s out there for the world to see. And until I inevitably flip-flop on my words again, I thoroughly intend to stand by them, and am willing to fight anyone that says otherwise.
Actually, I probably won’t really fight anyone who says otherwise. I’m not a fighter. The fact that I’ve just admitted a liking of a Keane song is surely evidence of that.
Wed 4th Feb 2009
Today I had my photograph taken for the local paper. Now, don’t get all worried and thinking the worst – I sincerely promise your 15 year old daughters are safe and unsoiled! The reason my mug will adorn the local press is wholly for work-related purposes.
This is not the first time I’ve been invited to have my photo taken for the paper, which is quite bizarre given that facially I look like a cross between Rodney Trotter and the lead singer of Everything But The Girl. However, it is certainly the first time I’ve actually accepted to have my photograph taken for public consumption. This is partly because (contrary to the fact I keep a daily blog which is sometimes arguably a little too revealing) I am of a shy nature. And also partly because the last time I was invited to be snapped for the paper, it was on the proviso that my pose would involve me looking lovingly at a poster advertising the right-wing comedian, Jim Davidson. This of course would be one-rung lower on the dignity stakes than being snapped naked whilst masturbating on an open top bus, whilst singing ‘It’s Raining Men’ at the top of my voice.
So far in this blog, I have tried to avoid talking about my occupation and background. Or any particularly personal things about people and places I know. Or libelously speculative things about people and places I don’t know. Or ill-informed opinions about current affairs. Or dull scheduled timetable reports of my days activities. To be honest, it’s left me with a pretty narrow canvas to work with. I feel it might now be time to break with some of those self-imposed conditions and talk a little about my job.
I currently work at an events and entertainments venue. Coincidentally, my boss, who boasts the astonishing feat of actually being even more unpleasant and intolerable than Davidson’s TV persona, has heady hopes that one day we may become Jim's actual most favourite venue.
Naturally I fear my boss is building his dreams on sand. Jim Davison's all-time fave is a now-delapidated and long-defunct theatre on a pier in Great Yarmouth. You simply can't compete with a fondly-thought of closed theatre. It's like trying to compete with the memory of a lover's previous husband who died prematurely. Simply impossible - no matter how many cheese and biscuit selection boxes you throw at them.
Ultimately, the fact remains that at some point my life has been concerned with a pandering woo of Jim Davidson, and personally this is not something I wished to have a souvenir photo and news article about. Hopefully, the photo-shoot I was involved with today will not be too dignity sapping. But it did involve me kneeling down in the street, grasping an inflatable guitar. Which I justify partaking in, solely for being one rung higher than the naked open top bus wanking to “It’s Raining Men” thing.
This is not the first time I’ve been invited to have my photo taken for the paper, which is quite bizarre given that facially I look like a cross between Rodney Trotter and the lead singer of Everything But The Girl. However, it is certainly the first time I’ve actually accepted to have my photograph taken for public consumption. This is partly because (contrary to the fact I keep a daily blog which is sometimes arguably a little too revealing) I am of a shy nature. And also partly because the last time I was invited to be snapped for the paper, it was on the proviso that my pose would involve me looking lovingly at a poster advertising the right-wing comedian, Jim Davidson. This of course would be one-rung lower on the dignity stakes than being snapped naked whilst masturbating on an open top bus, whilst singing ‘It’s Raining Men’ at the top of my voice.
So far in this blog, I have tried to avoid talking about my occupation and background. Or any particularly personal things about people and places I know. Or libelously speculative things about people and places I don’t know. Or ill-informed opinions about current affairs. Or dull scheduled timetable reports of my days activities. To be honest, it’s left me with a pretty narrow canvas to work with. I feel it might now be time to break with some of those self-imposed conditions and talk a little about my job.
I currently work at an events and entertainments venue. Coincidentally, my boss, who boasts the astonishing feat of actually being even more unpleasant and intolerable than Davidson’s TV persona, has heady hopes that one day we may become Jim's actual most favourite venue.
Naturally I fear my boss is building his dreams on sand. Jim Davison's all-time fave is a now-delapidated and long-defunct theatre on a pier in Great Yarmouth. You simply can't compete with a fondly-thought of closed theatre. It's like trying to compete with the memory of a lover's previous husband who died prematurely. Simply impossible - no matter how many cheese and biscuit selection boxes you throw at them.
Ultimately, the fact remains that at some point my life has been concerned with a pandering woo of Jim Davidson, and personally this is not something I wished to have a souvenir photo and news article about. Hopefully, the photo-shoot I was involved with today will not be too dignity sapping. But it did involve me kneeling down in the street, grasping an inflatable guitar. Which I justify partaking in, solely for being one rung higher than the naked open top bus wanking to “It’s Raining Men” thing.
Tue 3rd Feb 2009
Apparently, they've released a 25th anniversary CD edition of the very first ‘Now That's What I Call Music’ LP. It is often the case that ‘Now…’ albums are the very first albums children buy or are given as presents, and this relationship with people’s past has helped build a strong branding of the years.
Personally, it beggars belief why people are so obsessed with that nostalgia thing. Frankly, I would rather forget about being a shamelessly socially underdeveloped child thank you very much! It’s bad enough being a socially stunted adult, but at least I’ve now learned to repress my behaviour with ‘shame’. All my childhood memories are little more than a series of embarrassing tales going from one faux pas of immaturity to the next; why on Earth would I fancy to buying the souvenir soundtrack to a time I’d rather forget? In fact, just typing this here I am becoming flooded with the horrors of my childish behaviors. I can’t help it. Random memories have suddenly started shooting round my brain of social conventions I flaunted just because I was too young to understand. Like the time I was about eight, and I thought it might be an ingenious idea to make a bit of quick cash by going round houses offering a ‘carol singing’ service. We’d done carol singing at school and I’d seen other characters out and about doing it over the years and also collecting money for it. At the time I didn’t realise that this money was mainly being collected for charity rather than self-gain so this might seem a rather shameful exploitation on my behalf, but like I say, how was I to know this at the age of eight? It gets confusing as a kid. I probably reasoned it’d be like Trick or Treating or something.
I distinctly remember tapping on a neighbouring door without a single hint of self-consciousness. It only became apparent how badly conceived and ill-prepared my plan was when they actually answered it. How strange it would have been for them to open the door to a lonesome singing boy. I think I got through the first verse of “Away In a Manger” before things reached even lower depths.
My bemused audience looked at me expectantly and we both stood in silence for a second or two. Without the aid of our school book of carols to hand, it became apparent that I hadn’t a clue what any of the words were to subsequent verses. I thought this was supposed to have been easy. I couldn’t understand why weren’t they just going to fetch me some money?
Faced with a wall of silence, I could only assume they wanted more vocal delights; which was grossly unfortunate, being as I didn’t know any more. After my first unsuccessful attempt at monetary gain, the little professor inside my head reasoned that I would have to change my material to something I was more familiar with. So my next caller was treated to a rendition of the work of Shakin’ Stevens. Not even the Christmas Shakin’ Stevens song either - probably Green Door, something like that. It may sound bizarre, but the lack of festive theme wouldn’t have particularly mattered, as I think this whole spectacle happened around April time.
See what I mean? Absolutely clueless!
As you can imagine, the door-to-door service of singing Shakin Stevens songs was not a career I progressed very far with. This would have been my first lesson in the importance of market demographics.
On another occasion, I brazenly (and without a single ounce of irony) informed my God-Mother she looked like Cliff Richard. I mean, how terrible is that?! Once again, I showed no grasp of the intricacies of social politeness. At the time I think she might have given a jovial reply, something like “Oh I wish I had his money”; but it’s only now I really understand how offensive it is to tell a woman how comparable her features are with an old man. Such a childish observation wouldn’t have been so bad, but the whole incident is made even worse by the fact she actually did kind of look a bit like Cliff Richard. I shiver at the possibility that maybe other people had spotted this too, and it had become a sacred unmentionable thing between her friends. Yet there I was, blurting out the un-say-able, to a woman who amazingly still sends me money every birthday.
In fairness I don’t think the significance of understanding gender was high on my priorities at that age. In fact I don’t even think the significance of inter-species comparisons were a priority either, as around this time I also earnestly proclaimed to my Nan’s friend Doris, that she looked a bit like the character E.T. How terribly rude I must have seemed! At least I’m now starting to get a handle on where my patterns of haplessness with the ladies might have originated from.
I have to stop these tormenting memories right now. Other recollections are coming to mind thick and fast and I could easily go on and on and on – which perversely, would be a bit like the ‘Now…’ albums series itself. And if I were to continue, I’d have to rename this blog to something like “NOW THAT'S WHAT I CALL CHILDHOOD MOMENTS THAT WERE INNOCENT AT THE TIME BUT SEEM RETROSPECTIVELY EXCRUCIATING AS AN ADULT” (or a.k.a ‘Reasons I wish I was slightly more successful in my one and only suicide attempt’).
Which is obviously something I’d never do. Because who gives a monkeys about such retro trinkets of regression? Certainly not me.
Nostagia eh? It just ain’t what it used to be.
Personally, it beggars belief why people are so obsessed with that nostalgia thing. Frankly, I would rather forget about being a shamelessly socially underdeveloped child thank you very much! It’s bad enough being a socially stunted adult, but at least I’ve now learned to repress my behaviour with ‘shame’. All my childhood memories are little more than a series of embarrassing tales going from one faux pas of immaturity to the next; why on Earth would I fancy to buying the souvenir soundtrack to a time I’d rather forget? In fact, just typing this here I am becoming flooded with the horrors of my childish behaviors. I can’t help it. Random memories have suddenly started shooting round my brain of social conventions I flaunted just because I was too young to understand. Like the time I was about eight, and I thought it might be an ingenious idea to make a bit of quick cash by going round houses offering a ‘carol singing’ service. We’d done carol singing at school and I’d seen other characters out and about doing it over the years and also collecting money for it. At the time I didn’t realise that this money was mainly being collected for charity rather than self-gain so this might seem a rather shameful exploitation on my behalf, but like I say, how was I to know this at the age of eight? It gets confusing as a kid. I probably reasoned it’d be like Trick or Treating or something.
I distinctly remember tapping on a neighbouring door without a single hint of self-consciousness. It only became apparent how badly conceived and ill-prepared my plan was when they actually answered it. How strange it would have been for them to open the door to a lonesome singing boy. I think I got through the first verse of “Away In a Manger” before things reached even lower depths.
My bemused audience looked at me expectantly and we both stood in silence for a second or two. Without the aid of our school book of carols to hand, it became apparent that I hadn’t a clue what any of the words were to subsequent verses. I thought this was supposed to have been easy. I couldn’t understand why weren’t they just going to fetch me some money?
Faced with a wall of silence, I could only assume they wanted more vocal delights; which was grossly unfortunate, being as I didn’t know any more. After my first unsuccessful attempt at monetary gain, the little professor inside my head reasoned that I would have to change my material to something I was more familiar with. So my next caller was treated to a rendition of the work of Shakin’ Stevens. Not even the Christmas Shakin’ Stevens song either - probably Green Door, something like that. It may sound bizarre, but the lack of festive theme wouldn’t have particularly mattered, as I think this whole spectacle happened around April time.
See what I mean? Absolutely clueless!
As you can imagine, the door-to-door service of singing Shakin Stevens songs was not a career I progressed very far with. This would have been my first lesson in the importance of market demographics.
On another occasion, I brazenly (and without a single ounce of irony) informed my God-Mother she looked like Cliff Richard. I mean, how terrible is that?! Once again, I showed no grasp of the intricacies of social politeness. At the time I think she might have given a jovial reply, something like “Oh I wish I had his money”; but it’s only now I really understand how offensive it is to tell a woman how comparable her features are with an old man. Such a childish observation wouldn’t have been so bad, but the whole incident is made even worse by the fact she actually did kind of look a bit like Cliff Richard. I shiver at the possibility that maybe other people had spotted this too, and it had become a sacred unmentionable thing between her friends. Yet there I was, blurting out the un-say-able, to a woman who amazingly still sends me money every birthday.
In fairness I don’t think the significance of understanding gender was high on my priorities at that age. In fact I don’t even think the significance of inter-species comparisons were a priority either, as around this time I also earnestly proclaimed to my Nan’s friend Doris, that she looked a bit like the character E.T. How terribly rude I must have seemed! At least I’m now starting to get a handle on where my patterns of haplessness with the ladies might have originated from.
I have to stop these tormenting memories right now. Other recollections are coming to mind thick and fast and I could easily go on and on and on – which perversely, would be a bit like the ‘Now…’ albums series itself. And if I were to continue, I’d have to rename this blog to something like “NOW THAT'S WHAT I CALL CHILDHOOD MOMENTS THAT WERE INNOCENT AT THE TIME BUT SEEM RETROSPECTIVELY EXCRUCIATING AS AN ADULT” (or a.k.a ‘Reasons I wish I was slightly more successful in my one and only suicide attempt’).
Which is obviously something I’d never do. Because who gives a monkeys about such retro trinkets of regression? Certainly not me.
Nostagia eh? It just ain’t what it used to be.
Mon 2nd Feb 2009
It may be becoming clear from yesterday’s entry that I find Sundays the most difficult day to find anything interesting to write about. This is probably because most of my Sabbath days follow a really similar protocol. Basically, after the previously reported weekly battle of wills with my alarm, I generally harrumph about the house until it is time to go for Sunday lunch with my Mom (this week I had a Leek & Potato soup for starter followed by a lamb dinner). After this, I drive back home and harrumph about procrastinating over a domestic chore I should really be doing, until what I like to call ‘Antiques Roadshow’ syndrome finally kicks in. This is a condition that I have suffered from since being at school and no matter what time of year, it always consumes me at a certain scheduled time on a Sunday afternoon. Its name may make it sound like a mild, almost quaint little affliction; but as a seasoned sufferer, I can promise you it is anything but. Symptomatically it’s like becoming briefly overcome by searing form of clinical depression as you yet again anticipate the cruel horrors of another working (or school) week ahead. Actually I’m probably mixing literal meanings with simile there.
Having been keeping these writings going for just over a month, I’m already noticing some derivative patterns from one week to the next, and it is fair to conclude that my Sundays are in a rut. But thanks to the power of this blog, I am at least now conscious of the fact, and can now I can offer myself the opportunity to change my ways. If I shake Sundays up a little, maybe I could also shake my dreaded ‘Antiques Roadshow’ condition once and for all. Yes, I reckon some Sunday recklessness might be just the thing. I’ll start from next week. Maybe I’ll order a Mushroom Stroganoff for dinner instead of a full roast; and then we’ll just see how things go on from there (it’ll have to be small amendments to begin with obviously – there’s no need to go crazy right away or anything!).
The more observant of you might be wondering why I am writing so much about Sunday under Monday’s entry. You’re right. It makes absolutely no sense on any level. It is confusing to the reader, and does little favour for your writer either. Wasn’t I just moaning about having so little to write about Sundays? Surely by dragging an entry about Sundays over an extra day, I am actually being contradictory, making the whole of this entry a complete oxymoron. Not just an oxy one either, but a proper moron. If I find it so difficult to find things to write about on a Sunday, then surely I am making life much more difficult for myself; carelessly using up my already modest supply of Sunday-based resources and leaving even less to write about on future Sabbaths.
But as self-referential this entry may appear, it isn’t just me trying to be all tenuously ‘post-modern’ again. The reason why yesterday was significant was because for once I was offered a rare, brief respite from my usual ‘Antiques Roadshow’ gloom. It was caused, quite simply, by novelty weather conditions. Yes, that’s right - I couldn’t help feeling a childish sense of glee upon seeing the snow falling down on the ground. Call me fickle, but the sight of snow still excites me. I have carried this feeling from a young age, just like I have carried the lows of the ‘Antiques Roadshow’.
God knows what I was so happy about. The snow may have caused schools to shut for the day, but it certainly didn’t close my workplace. In reality, all it managed to achieve was to make a more inconvenient working day. I had to stand around scraping the snow off my vehicle before I could get in it – which was most impractical with the weather being so cold and all. Then I had to feel terrified as my car slid around the dual carriageway, which was also impractical, because by having to travel at 20mph the journey lasted much longer, leading to a more postponed feeling of fear. Then I had to get from the car park by walking a bit like an elderly penguin to avoid losing my footing on the slippy floor. As I trudged to work, I was also slightly paranoid that at some point, some unoccupied youths might throw a snowball at me. What on earth would I do if something like that happened? I mean what is the protocol? Would I just have to accept it and degradingly walk on through the crowds having visibly procured a lump of icy water on my person? Wouldn’t this ‘take no notice’ approach just make the kids more adamant to provoke a reaction, encouraging them to throw even more - one fluffy snowball of humiliation after the next? What the hell would I do? If I were to fight back, everyone would witness the spectacle of my embarrassing over arm throw; a manouvre so weedy, it is reminiscent of a young girl with one arm, trying out front-crawl for the first time. If anything, this would be an even more embarrassing sight than simply running away from troublesome youths. And the sight of me trying to run on snow in my ‘careful’ penguin-like manner is laughable enough in itself. But even if I did have an adept arm of strength and precision, would it really be right for a thirty year old man to be engaged in a snowball fight with young kids who he didn’t even know? The only thing worse, would be being snow-lynched by people of an older age, as I suspect my persecution would be lead up to a sinister and violent personal attack.
God, it’s all such a minefield.
The torture of hypothetics doesn’t stop there either. Even when I made it safely into work (thankfully having avoided a single snowball attack), I could see through the windows that snow was falling again, and for the rest of the day, I became burdened with a constant worry about having to drive home.
In fairness, the journey wasn’t too bad. The only time I lost control was when I turned into my street. Rather irritatingly, I slid into the kerb on the using the side of the car where the ball-points are already borderline MOT-failure.
So in conclusion, the Antiques Roadshow is simply a metaphor of dread for the impending return to school. Meanwhile my subconscious link between snowfall, and the anticipation of a possible day’s holiday simply isn’t relevant anymore. Both of these sensory stimulants are merely illusory.
Except the Antiques Roadshow one.
Having been keeping these writings going for just over a month, I’m already noticing some derivative patterns from one week to the next, and it is fair to conclude that my Sundays are in a rut. But thanks to the power of this blog, I am at least now conscious of the fact, and can now I can offer myself the opportunity to change my ways. If I shake Sundays up a little, maybe I could also shake my dreaded ‘Antiques Roadshow’ condition once and for all. Yes, I reckon some Sunday recklessness might be just the thing. I’ll start from next week. Maybe I’ll order a Mushroom Stroganoff for dinner instead of a full roast; and then we’ll just see how things go on from there (it’ll have to be small amendments to begin with obviously – there’s no need to go crazy right away or anything!).
The more observant of you might be wondering why I am writing so much about Sunday under Monday’s entry. You’re right. It makes absolutely no sense on any level. It is confusing to the reader, and does little favour for your writer either. Wasn’t I just moaning about having so little to write about Sundays? Surely by dragging an entry about Sundays over an extra day, I am actually being contradictory, making the whole of this entry a complete oxymoron. Not just an oxy one either, but a proper moron. If I find it so difficult to find things to write about on a Sunday, then surely I am making life much more difficult for myself; carelessly using up my already modest supply of Sunday-based resources and leaving even less to write about on future Sabbaths.
But as self-referential this entry may appear, it isn’t just me trying to be all tenuously ‘post-modern’ again. The reason why yesterday was significant was because for once I was offered a rare, brief respite from my usual ‘Antiques Roadshow’ gloom. It was caused, quite simply, by novelty weather conditions. Yes, that’s right - I couldn’t help feeling a childish sense of glee upon seeing the snow falling down on the ground. Call me fickle, but the sight of snow still excites me. I have carried this feeling from a young age, just like I have carried the lows of the ‘Antiques Roadshow’.
God knows what I was so happy about. The snow may have caused schools to shut for the day, but it certainly didn’t close my workplace. In reality, all it managed to achieve was to make a more inconvenient working day. I had to stand around scraping the snow off my vehicle before I could get in it – which was most impractical with the weather being so cold and all. Then I had to feel terrified as my car slid around the dual carriageway, which was also impractical, because by having to travel at 20mph the journey lasted much longer, leading to a more postponed feeling of fear. Then I had to get from the car park by walking a bit like an elderly penguin to avoid losing my footing on the slippy floor. As I trudged to work, I was also slightly paranoid that at some point, some unoccupied youths might throw a snowball at me. What on earth would I do if something like that happened? I mean what is the protocol? Would I just have to accept it and degradingly walk on through the crowds having visibly procured a lump of icy water on my person? Wouldn’t this ‘take no notice’ approach just make the kids more adamant to provoke a reaction, encouraging them to throw even more - one fluffy snowball of humiliation after the next? What the hell would I do? If I were to fight back, everyone would witness the spectacle of my embarrassing over arm throw; a manouvre so weedy, it is reminiscent of a young girl with one arm, trying out front-crawl for the first time. If anything, this would be an even more embarrassing sight than simply running away from troublesome youths. And the sight of me trying to run on snow in my ‘careful’ penguin-like manner is laughable enough in itself. But even if I did have an adept arm of strength and precision, would it really be right for a thirty year old man to be engaged in a snowball fight with young kids who he didn’t even know? The only thing worse, would be being snow-lynched by people of an older age, as I suspect my persecution would be lead up to a sinister and violent personal attack.
God, it’s all such a minefield.
The torture of hypothetics doesn’t stop there either. Even when I made it safely into work (thankfully having avoided a single snowball attack), I could see through the windows that snow was falling again, and for the rest of the day, I became burdened with a constant worry about having to drive home.
In fairness, the journey wasn’t too bad. The only time I lost control was when I turned into my street. Rather irritatingly, I slid into the kerb on the using the side of the car where the ball-points are already borderline MOT-failure.
So in conclusion, the Antiques Roadshow is simply a metaphor of dread for the impending return to school. Meanwhile my subconscious link between snowfall, and the anticipation of a possible day’s holiday simply isn’t relevant anymore. Both of these sensory stimulants are merely illusory.
Except the Antiques Roadshow one.
Sun 1st Feb 2009
Most Sundays I set my alarm clock at a time which is far too over ambitious. This is usually inspired by guilt, having failed to achieve all the things I intended to do on Saturday. Come Saturday evening, I am adamant that I will get an early start in order to make the most of my remaining weekend; maybe even kick-start my body with an early session at the gym. This always seems a good plan, because when I set the alarm I am in a state of Saturday night of alcohol-fuelled bravado; but paradoxically it is the same drunkenness which actually makes getting up so much more challenging when the harsh reality of morning arrives.
So come Sunday morning, I’ll be abruptly roused by the cruel shrill tones of my alarm. But I do not jump from the covers. Any prior resolve to seize the day soon subsides to the temptation that being a Sunday, I can have one last lie in.
Not even bothering to get out of bed to cross the room, I let the alarm call ring out until silence is resumed and I can sink peacefully back into my pillow. Even after all these years, I still never seem to learn the basic lesson that ‘bearing out of the bell’ is only ever of short-term value: What makes this short-sightedness even sillier, is that my alarm is of the sort that lets you snooze a while, say five or ten minutes, and then proceeds to chirp off again.
On any usual weekday, the second alarm is the one which will make me conscious of the passing time and rouse me into action. But this is Sunday – I do not have the same urgency to get up. Maybe I should have just turned the alarm off altogether when it sounded off the first time, but I reason that only by riding it out, I am able to fully appreciate the novelty value of being allowed to lie-in past this second alarm call.
Another five or ten minutes pass in silence. The digital chiming springs in to life once again; and once again I do not. Indeed, I cannot. For this is now much deeper than a simple dozing disruption; it has become a battle of wills - a moral issue of Man versus Machine. Who will give up first? Will this aural torment eventually force me to step from under the covers and turn the alarm off once and for all? Or will I be able to stand (or lie) strong for long enough to weary this inanimate object of its perpetual wailing?
The answer?
Of course I will.
The stupid thing never manages to maintain its bleeping interruptions for more than an hour. My laziness is much more motivated than that! And the most tragic thing of all is that this sorry victory of wills will often actually be the greatest achievement I’ll manage all day.
So come Sunday morning, I’ll be abruptly roused by the cruel shrill tones of my alarm. But I do not jump from the covers. Any prior resolve to seize the day soon subsides to the temptation that being a Sunday, I can have one last lie in.
Not even bothering to get out of bed to cross the room, I let the alarm call ring out until silence is resumed and I can sink peacefully back into my pillow. Even after all these years, I still never seem to learn the basic lesson that ‘bearing out of the bell’ is only ever of short-term value: What makes this short-sightedness even sillier, is that my alarm is of the sort that lets you snooze a while, say five or ten minutes, and then proceeds to chirp off again.
On any usual weekday, the second alarm is the one which will make me conscious of the passing time and rouse me into action. But this is Sunday – I do not have the same urgency to get up. Maybe I should have just turned the alarm off altogether when it sounded off the first time, but I reason that only by riding it out, I am able to fully appreciate the novelty value of being allowed to lie-in past this second alarm call.
Another five or ten minutes pass in silence. The digital chiming springs in to life once again; and once again I do not. Indeed, I cannot. For this is now much deeper than a simple dozing disruption; it has become a battle of wills - a moral issue of Man versus Machine. Who will give up first? Will this aural torment eventually force me to step from under the covers and turn the alarm off once and for all? Or will I be able to stand (or lie) strong for long enough to weary this inanimate object of its perpetual wailing?
The answer?
Of course I will.
The stupid thing never manages to maintain its bleeping interruptions for more than an hour. My laziness is much more motivated than that! And the most tragic thing of all is that this sorry victory of wills will often actually be the greatest achievement I’ll manage all day.
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