I have been finding it difficult to go to the gym on an evening, and am averaging about two trips a week as opposed to the four or five times per week I was visiting last year. Typically, I prefer to blame this on the gym rather than myself. It is a lot more crowded nowadays, and finding a locker and queuing for machines and showers seems too much of a pain in the arse for me to be bothered with at the end of a long working day. This is of course piffle and I am merely creating excuses for my laziness. My brain is stupid. If the gym really was too crowded of an evening, my noggin should have worked out by now that it’s be best to cancel my membership and find a quieter gym. But I never do, because I know my brain is only trying to mislead me.
I am still hopeful of getting back into a healthy shape. This morning was due to be a ‘fresh start’. If I do not want to exercise after work, it is reasonable to assume I could easily get up earlier in the morning instead and head over to the gym before work. On paper, this seems like a great idea. Not only does this sound like a really invigorating way to start the day (making a nice change from the usual bleary-eyed view with which I usually begin work), I am also humouring my stupid brain, which can no longer use the gym busyness factor as a get out clause. The gym is always quiet in the morning, obviously. Let’s face it, what sort of people go to the gym that early in the morning? Freaks and weirdoes, that’s all.
So last night I set my alarm, rather ambitiously, for 6.45am. It has been so long since I’ve actually seen 6.45am, that I was rather dubious as to whether 6.45am still exists. I suppose if someone is never conscious enough to 6.45am, then it sort of is just a loose concept, in the same way that a falling tree needs to be heard in order to make a sound.
Setting my alarm for 6.45am seemed like an excellent idea before I went to bed. Yet when 6.45am arrived, the quality of this idea now became severely compromised. So compromised in fact, that I’d even go as far as to say that the previous ‘excellence’ of the idea had now become completely subverted to become the worst idea that anyone had ever had, ever.
As the alarm chirped me into some form of drowsy submergence of consciousness, my initial reaction was to turn it off immediately, and forget this stupidly foolish idea immediately. Getting up is hard enough at the best of times, but getting up when you’ve still got the option of an extra hour and half in bed is near insanity! Yet somehow (and don’t ask me how), I managed to resist the luring temptation of the duvet. To my great surprise, I suddenly found myself in an upright position, (albeit drowsily) pulling clothes over myself. The next thing knew, my gym bag was slung over my shoulder and I was heading out to my car. I really was doing it!
It is a particularly crappy journey to the gym, through some hell hole Heath Town. It took a lot longer than I expected it to. I was rather surprised to learn that apparently there are quite a lot of people on the roads at 8am. It gave me a new appreciation that I am usually lucky enough to miss the rush-hour. My working day doesn’t start until 10am, so most of the traffic has subsided by the time I usually set out of the house. And even though my intended exercise time would be somewhat compromised, I rather relished the opportunity to hear the ‘Today’ programme and get a rare window into current affairs. Apparently Jacqui Smith’s expenses have paid for pornographic videos.
When I pulled up onto the gym car-park, I had a quick check through my sports bag.
Tracksuit? Check.
Clean underwear? Check.
Shower gel? Check.
Mp3 player? Check.
Water bottle? Check.
Towel?...
TOWEL??
This would be the precise moment when my good mood and sense of motivation and achievement abruptly faded; becoming overwhelmed by an intense irritation. No towel meant no shower, and it would not be an option to do sweaty exercise, then head straight off for a day’s work without having a shower. Similarly, it was no longer worth driving all the way home to fetch a towel and return with it to the gym, because that wouldn’t have left me with hardly any time to exercise. I was truly gutted.
All that was left to do was to turn the car around and head back home. Could this possibly be more infuriating? Oh, the tragedy of it! With the best intent, I had done the hard part; I had managed to get out of bed at some God forsaken hour. And for what purpose? Effectively just to take some grim, prolonged, petrol-wasting journey around the shit-hole of Heath Town.
I was very agitated as I dejectedly drove to work (not the invigorating start to the working week I’d envisaged), but I have calmed down since. This may have something to do with the fatigue from having had such an early start. But I will endeavour to try again tomorrow.
Fri 27th Mar 2009
A long day at work today. Had to work late. We had a band called N-Dubz appearing. No, I’d not really heard of them either. They are a band for the kids. The kids absolutely love them they do. Yep – they’re certainly hip with da kids, them N-Dubz are. And when I say “the kids” love em, I really do mean THE KIDS. Most of the audience were about 14 years old. Should I feel fortunate to be somehow involved at the pulse of this apparently, cutting-edge phenomena? Well let me tell you, working with N-Dubz does not make me feel hip. I’m just too old to be feeling it; too preoccupied by the worry that I’m some sort of surrogate guardian of a room full of squawking juveniles. They’re nothing like the ill-at-ease, angst-ridden teenagers of my day. They get all excitable about stuff. They run about being all self-assured; screaming and fainting and always seem on the verge of some hyper-actively inspired misbehaviour. Ordinarily I would feel uncomfortable being in the presence of four of them sitting on the back seat of a bus journey I was sharing, but being responsible for the welfare of a thousand of the buggers is inevitably makes for a buttock clenching evening from start to finish. I go through the night with an anticipation of dread that all this young energy will bubble up and explode into some sort of disastrous consequence which I would feel hopelessly equipped to deal with.
As you can probably tell, these are not my favourite shows to be working. Given the choice, I would avoid such nights like the plague. But I’m sure all my colleagues have a pretty similar attitude toward such these shifts, so there is a kind of burdening, unavoidable obligation to take a turn with them once in a while. If there was a way to weasel out of them, I certainly would; and tonight I had a brain-wave. I figured that if I could just get myself on that sex offenders register thing, then I’d no longer be allowed to work with the younger market. My burden would be lifted forever more. Luckily the evening has passed without incident, so for the moment at least, such action does not seem necessary. Still, it’s nice to have an option of a ‘get out of jail free’ card, banked away at the back of my mind.
As you can probably tell, these are not my favourite shows to be working. Given the choice, I would avoid such nights like the plague. But I’m sure all my colleagues have a pretty similar attitude toward such these shifts, so there is a kind of burdening, unavoidable obligation to take a turn with them once in a while. If there was a way to weasel out of them, I certainly would; and tonight I had a brain-wave. I figured that if I could just get myself on that sex offenders register thing, then I’d no longer be allowed to work with the younger market. My burden would be lifted forever more. Luckily the evening has passed without incident, so for the moment at least, such action does not seem necessary. Still, it’s nice to have an option of a ‘get out of jail free’ card, banked away at the back of my mind.
Thu 26th Mar 2009
I was walking past a telephone box when it suddenly started ringing. I entered the booth and picked up the phone. To my surprise, it was my sister on the other end of the line. She informed me that my car had been stolen. Apparently, I had left the keys in the ignition and the thieves had smashed through the window and driven my car. I hung the phone up and walked round the corner to where my car had been parked. She was right. It was gone. All that remained was a few shards of glass on the floor. Then I woke up.
Thankfully it had all been a dream. I pulled on my clothes, munched on my breakfast and headed out to my car. It was only when I turned the ignition key that in real life, I noticed the crack in my windscreen, which occurred a couple of months ago had increased by a fair few inches.
Isn’t this dream weird? Firstly, how did my sister know which phone box I’d happen to be walking by when she rang? More to the point, why didn’t she just contact me via my mobile phone? Clearly, I was nearer to the car than her – how did she know it had been stolen in the first place? If she was nearby when it happened, why didn’t she just jog round the corner to tell me? Or had she phoned around every phone box in the vicinity in the hope that I’d happen to be walking by? If I had left my keys in the ignition, then inevitably I wouldn’t have been able to lock the car. Why didn’t these hapless thieves just open the door using the handle rather than smashing the window and potentially drawing attention to the crime?
The answers to all these questions are easy to explain. It was a dream. Dreams are weird and often make little sense. But what about the windscreen crack, which I had noticed had expanded the morning after the dream. Some people would argue this seems a bit weird, like my dream was some sort of premonition. These are the same people that would believe in spirits and ghosties and ghoulies and an omnipresent old man in the sky that watches and judges us. But I am confident that these people are wrong on all counts. I have just finished reading the atheist bible, “The God Delusion” by Richard Dawkins. It really is an excellent read. I have always been an atheist at heart, but have actually been trying to maintain agnosticism; if only as a kind of politeness to those of faith. More crucially, I was also once prescribed the belief that faith in ‘other powers’ was necessary for a fulfilling and creative existence. My scepticism always felt like a hindrance; that people with a third-party faith were always going to be better equipped to succeed their high ambitions. In my experience, people who lived with the attitude, “Jump and the net will appear”, generally seem to achieve more personal fulfilment in their lives than those empty cynics who merely exist. Maybe non-spirituality really is a disadvantage? As Julia Cameron writes about the other-wordly guiding force of synchronicity,
“It’s my experience that we’re much more afraid that there might be a God than we are that there might not be.. People talk about how dreadful it would be if there were no God. I think such talk is hooey. Most of us are a lot more comfortable feeling we’re not being watched too closely. If God – an all-powerful and all-knowing force - does not exist, well then, we’re all off the hook aren’t we? There’s no divine retribution. And if the whole experience stinks-ah well. What did you expect? If there is no God, then everything can roll along as always and we can feel quite justified in declaring certain [self development] impossible, other things unfair. If God, or lack of God, is responsible for the state of the world, then we can resign ourselves to apathy. What’s the use? Why change anything? Anyone honest will tell you that possibility is far more frightening than impossibility.”
This quotation comes from a well-meaning self-help book. In fairness, it is an otherwise reasonable and motivating work. But this passage always jarred me. Partly because I knew belief the existence of a ‘guiding hand’ largely improbable, which would imply it of limited use to me. Partly because it is almost a ‘challenge’ to believe (it is seems very logical suggest one is more afraid that there might be God than there might not be). Everyone likes a challenge, but this challenge was too difficult. But what is being implied as an alternative? No-one wants to see themselves solely as a victim of circumstance, resigning to apathy. Can hopeless apathy be the only fate for an atheist?
This is an example of faith is being used in a well-meaning fashion. Yet it is a notion of faith which troubled me, making me feel at a disadvantage; belief sold as the mechanics of achievement. It all seems so easy to deconstruct now, but by virtue of a third-party faith being something I could not subscribe to, ultimately this book made me dishearteningly condemned. If a little belief in synchronicity is necessary in fulfilling ambition, then I would forever long for nothing more than to be a believer.
It is only after reading The God Delusion two years later that I have been able to resolve my feelings about this matter. Dawkins has articulated my own thoughts; a justification of hope and ambition, without the necessity of third-party faith;
“How lucky we are to be alive, given that the vast majority of people who could potentially be thrown up by the combinatorial lottery of DNA will never in fact be born. For those of us lucky enough to be here, I pictured the relative brevity of life by imagining a laser-thin spotlight creeping along a gigantic ruler of time. Everything before or after the spotlight is shrouded in darkness of the dead past, or the darkness of the unknown future. We are staggeringly lucky to find ourselves in the spotlight. However brief our time in the sun, if we waste a second of it, or complain that it is dull or barren or (like a child) boring, couldn’t this be seen as a callous insult to those unborn trillions who will never even be offered life in the first place? The knowledge we have only one life should make it all the more precious. Art and science are runaway manifestations of this bonus.”
After reading this, I am warmed by a sense of self-importance and affirmation just in the act of being. There is no longer need to feel the slightest futility or despair just because I don’t believe in any “nets that will appear” should I jump. Such clichés are cosy and nice if you can subscribe to them, but seem of no logical basis. To be honest, I feel a bit embarrassed I ever lost faith in my lack of faith, if you get what I mean. It’s like I was taken in by a kind of toytown theological theorem I have simply been ill-equipped to dispute. I am sure I will look back at this entry with a degree of shame. It would be an exceptional folly were it the fruit of teenage philosophical angst; yet I am a 31 year old man. But for now I intend to bask in this new sense of having been licensed such affirmation and inspiration. We are indeed lucky to be here, and our very insignificance should be everything we need to make the most of our lives. Rather than being at a disadvantage, I feel emancipated from any psychological necessity for a spiritual guiding hand. Could this actually be the most positive entry I have blogged thus far? This truly has been a Day of Enlightenment, which has given me a new motivation. There is so much left for me to do with my brief time on this Earth.
For starters I resolve to get up early and finally sort that damn windscreen out.
Thankfully it had all been a dream. I pulled on my clothes, munched on my breakfast and headed out to my car. It was only when I turned the ignition key that in real life, I noticed the crack in my windscreen, which occurred a couple of months ago had increased by a fair few inches.
Isn’t this dream weird? Firstly, how did my sister know which phone box I’d happen to be walking by when she rang? More to the point, why didn’t she just contact me via my mobile phone? Clearly, I was nearer to the car than her – how did she know it had been stolen in the first place? If she was nearby when it happened, why didn’t she just jog round the corner to tell me? Or had she phoned around every phone box in the vicinity in the hope that I’d happen to be walking by? If I had left my keys in the ignition, then inevitably I wouldn’t have been able to lock the car. Why didn’t these hapless thieves just open the door using the handle rather than smashing the window and potentially drawing attention to the crime?
The answers to all these questions are easy to explain. It was a dream. Dreams are weird and often make little sense. But what about the windscreen crack, which I had noticed had expanded the morning after the dream. Some people would argue this seems a bit weird, like my dream was some sort of premonition. These are the same people that would believe in spirits and ghosties and ghoulies and an omnipresent old man in the sky that watches and judges us. But I am confident that these people are wrong on all counts. I have just finished reading the atheist bible, “The God Delusion” by Richard Dawkins. It really is an excellent read. I have always been an atheist at heart, but have actually been trying to maintain agnosticism; if only as a kind of politeness to those of faith. More crucially, I was also once prescribed the belief that faith in ‘other powers’ was necessary for a fulfilling and creative existence. My scepticism always felt like a hindrance; that people with a third-party faith were always going to be better equipped to succeed their high ambitions. In my experience, people who lived with the attitude, “Jump and the net will appear”, generally seem to achieve more personal fulfilment in their lives than those empty cynics who merely exist. Maybe non-spirituality really is a disadvantage? As Julia Cameron writes about the other-wordly guiding force of synchronicity,
“It’s my experience that we’re much more afraid that there might be a God than we are that there might not be.. People talk about how dreadful it would be if there were no God. I think such talk is hooey. Most of us are a lot more comfortable feeling we’re not being watched too closely. If God – an all-powerful and all-knowing force - does not exist, well then, we’re all off the hook aren’t we? There’s no divine retribution. And if the whole experience stinks-ah well. What did you expect? If there is no God, then everything can roll along as always and we can feel quite justified in declaring certain [self development] impossible, other things unfair. If God, or lack of God, is responsible for the state of the world, then we can resign ourselves to apathy. What’s the use? Why change anything? Anyone honest will tell you that possibility is far more frightening than impossibility.”
This quotation comes from a well-meaning self-help book. In fairness, it is an otherwise reasonable and motivating work. But this passage always jarred me. Partly because I knew belief the existence of a ‘guiding hand’ largely improbable, which would imply it of limited use to me. Partly because it is almost a ‘challenge’ to believe (it is seems very logical suggest one is more afraid that there might be God than there might not be). Everyone likes a challenge, but this challenge was too difficult. But what is being implied as an alternative? No-one wants to see themselves solely as a victim of circumstance, resigning to apathy. Can hopeless apathy be the only fate for an atheist?
This is an example of faith is being used in a well-meaning fashion. Yet it is a notion of faith which troubled me, making me feel at a disadvantage; belief sold as the mechanics of achievement. It all seems so easy to deconstruct now, but by virtue of a third-party faith being something I could not subscribe to, ultimately this book made me dishearteningly condemned. If a little belief in synchronicity is necessary in fulfilling ambition, then I would forever long for nothing more than to be a believer.
It is only after reading The God Delusion two years later that I have been able to resolve my feelings about this matter. Dawkins has articulated my own thoughts; a justification of hope and ambition, without the necessity of third-party faith;
“How lucky we are to be alive, given that the vast majority of people who could potentially be thrown up by the combinatorial lottery of DNA will never in fact be born. For those of us lucky enough to be here, I pictured the relative brevity of life by imagining a laser-thin spotlight creeping along a gigantic ruler of time. Everything before or after the spotlight is shrouded in darkness of the dead past, or the darkness of the unknown future. We are staggeringly lucky to find ourselves in the spotlight. However brief our time in the sun, if we waste a second of it, or complain that it is dull or barren or (like a child) boring, couldn’t this be seen as a callous insult to those unborn trillions who will never even be offered life in the first place? The knowledge we have only one life should make it all the more precious. Art and science are runaway manifestations of this bonus.”
After reading this, I am warmed by a sense of self-importance and affirmation just in the act of being. There is no longer need to feel the slightest futility or despair just because I don’t believe in any “nets that will appear” should I jump. Such clichés are cosy and nice if you can subscribe to them, but seem of no logical basis. To be honest, I feel a bit embarrassed I ever lost faith in my lack of faith, if you get what I mean. It’s like I was taken in by a kind of toytown theological theorem I have simply been ill-equipped to dispute. I am sure I will look back at this entry with a degree of shame. It would be an exceptional folly were it the fruit of teenage philosophical angst; yet I am a 31 year old man. But for now I intend to bask in this new sense of having been licensed such affirmation and inspiration. We are indeed lucky to be here, and our very insignificance should be everything we need to make the most of our lives. Rather than being at a disadvantage, I feel emancipated from any psychological necessity for a spiritual guiding hand. Could this actually be the most positive entry I have blogged thus far? This truly has been a Day of Enlightenment, which has given me a new motivation. There is so much left for me to do with my brief time on this Earth.
For starters I resolve to get up early and finally sort that damn windscreen out.
Wed 25th Mar 2009
When I woke up this morning, I wouldn’t have dreamt I’d be spending £130 in an Interflora shop. I am not much of a flower buyer. I don’t see their appeal, even as presents. I am not saying this to try and cultivate some sort of macho image (and let me assure you, my use of the word ‘cultivate’ is not supposed to be in any way an ironic ‘link’ to the subject I am discussing). The only thing me and Titchmarch have in common is our taste in jumpers.
It has always struck me that flowers are genuinely an odd thing to buy someone. It’s like saying, “Here you are - I have decided to articulate my feelings towards my relationship with you by buying something that slowly withers and decays.” It wouldn’t be so bad if the flowers that were commonly given as gifts were of the edible type, but they never are. To me, the purchase of flowers are the short-hand revelation of a redundant imagination. Should I be so devoid of a gift idea, I would rather spend my money on a present that is more practical, like a four-way plug adaptor.
If someone wants to see flowers, then why don’t they just go for a nice walk in a country park or some public gardens? Surely it is better to get some fresh air than gawp at something on a window-sill anyway. And even if the effort of walking seems too much, there are now lots of nice, traffic islands and embankments that are decorated with flowers, which can easily be viewed through the screen of a car. At least you do not have to maintain these flowers or go to all that kerfuffle of putting them in vases and the like to make them look presentable. Why spend money on something you can enjoy as a part of nature anyway? You wouldn’t buy six bottles of spring water for a present would you? And yet six bottles of spring water would serve as a much more practical gift. Especially if the recipient was a keen tennis player or was planning a picnic on a hot summer’s day.
I am such a romantic.
Nevertheless, I had to buy 31 small rose pots for an event today. They were for the tables of an awards ceremony we were hosting at work. Clearly I do not consider myself the best person to have been making this purchase. I simply do not understand the etiquette of flowers. This is not to say I do not appreciate the beauty of flowers, it’s just that I’m oblivious to the flower language. Apparently, different flowers are suited to different occasions. For all I know, I could have been buying bereavement condolence flowers, which would of course look completely inappropriate for a celebratory occasion in which awards were being handed out. I was also a bit worried that potted flowers might look aesthetically wrong plonked in the middle of a table.
I have always been this way. At school, we were once set an art homework in which we had to draw a plant in a pot. I failed my assignment , becoming the subject of class ridicule after drawing a flower in a vase. I genuinely didn’t realise there was such a significant difference between the two.
The table flowers I bought didn’t look too bad in the end, but this was more by luck than judgement. This has not raised my confidence and I still consider flower-buying as a minefield. Albeit a colourful minefield with some decorative blossom on it.
It has always struck me that flowers are genuinely an odd thing to buy someone. It’s like saying, “Here you are - I have decided to articulate my feelings towards my relationship with you by buying something that slowly withers and decays.” It wouldn’t be so bad if the flowers that were commonly given as gifts were of the edible type, but they never are. To me, the purchase of flowers are the short-hand revelation of a redundant imagination. Should I be so devoid of a gift idea, I would rather spend my money on a present that is more practical, like a four-way plug adaptor.
If someone wants to see flowers, then why don’t they just go for a nice walk in a country park or some public gardens? Surely it is better to get some fresh air than gawp at something on a window-sill anyway. And even if the effort of walking seems too much, there are now lots of nice, traffic islands and embankments that are decorated with flowers, which can easily be viewed through the screen of a car. At least you do not have to maintain these flowers or go to all that kerfuffle of putting them in vases and the like to make them look presentable. Why spend money on something you can enjoy as a part of nature anyway? You wouldn’t buy six bottles of spring water for a present would you? And yet six bottles of spring water would serve as a much more practical gift. Especially if the recipient was a keen tennis player or was planning a picnic on a hot summer’s day.
I am such a romantic.
Nevertheless, I had to buy 31 small rose pots for an event today. They were for the tables of an awards ceremony we were hosting at work. Clearly I do not consider myself the best person to have been making this purchase. I simply do not understand the etiquette of flowers. This is not to say I do not appreciate the beauty of flowers, it’s just that I’m oblivious to the flower language. Apparently, different flowers are suited to different occasions. For all I know, I could have been buying bereavement condolence flowers, which would of course look completely inappropriate for a celebratory occasion in which awards were being handed out. I was also a bit worried that potted flowers might look aesthetically wrong plonked in the middle of a table.
I have always been this way. At school, we were once set an art homework in which we had to draw a plant in a pot. I failed my assignment , becoming the subject of class ridicule after drawing a flower in a vase. I genuinely didn’t realise there was such a significant difference between the two.
The table flowers I bought didn’t look too bad in the end, but this was more by luck than judgement. This has not raised my confidence and I still consider flower-buying as a minefield. Albeit a colourful minefield with some decorative blossom on it.
Tue 24th Mar 2009
So I failed. I am a big loser.
My resolution was to keep a blog for every day this year. But now I have left a gaping week-and-a-day long hole with no entries at all. What a cop-out! It is almost disrespectful, to you the reader of this stupid task - this stupid, now-unfulfilled task.
I suppose the only thing for me to do is pick up from here and try to turn over a new leaf. Maybe my un-blogged days will now just be a missing week which can only remain to be speculated about.
Yes - I rather like the sound of that! It’s almost good enough to justify my journal scribing laziness. It sounds full of mystique – a bit like John Lennon’s ‘lost weekend’ or something. Anything could have happened. For all anyone knows, perhaps my behaviour has been so debauched over the last 6 days, that I’d rather keep them hidden.
Thinking about it, whenever you hear about Lennon’s lost weekend, there is little more than scraps of vague, spindly accounts of a man falling off the rails, indulging in the excesses of booze, drugs and sexual promiscuity; and in a way, last week was a little like that for me too. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not comparing myself to John Lennon or anything. All I’m saying is that there were some genuine similarities to my own personal ‘lost week’.
There was certainly some boozing done. So what that our local drinking establishment is a village pub, and ensures a limited excess by ringing last orders at ten to eleven? In my mind this still technically counts as boozing.
There was also some drug taking. So what that these drugs were pro-biotic capsules, used to quell the storm of my irritable bowel? In my mind these still technically counts as druggings.
There was also sexual promiscuity in my lost week too. So what that this was all done in a forum of morose self- pleasure? Once again, in my mind it still technically counts.
So there you have it. I’ll leave it to the imagination of others to speculate what else I could have possibly been up to.
Let’s try and see this entry as a fresh start, eh? We’ll see how it goes from here.
My resolution was to keep a blog for every day this year. But now I have left a gaping week-and-a-day long hole with no entries at all. What a cop-out! It is almost disrespectful, to you the reader of this stupid task - this stupid, now-unfulfilled task.
I suppose the only thing for me to do is pick up from here and try to turn over a new leaf. Maybe my un-blogged days will now just be a missing week which can only remain to be speculated about.
Yes - I rather like the sound of that! It’s almost good enough to justify my journal scribing laziness. It sounds full of mystique – a bit like John Lennon’s ‘lost weekend’ or something. Anything could have happened. For all anyone knows, perhaps my behaviour has been so debauched over the last 6 days, that I’d rather keep them hidden.
Thinking about it, whenever you hear about Lennon’s lost weekend, there is little more than scraps of vague, spindly accounts of a man falling off the rails, indulging in the excesses of booze, drugs and sexual promiscuity; and in a way, last week was a little like that for me too. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not comparing myself to John Lennon or anything. All I’m saying is that there were some genuine similarities to my own personal ‘lost week’.
There was certainly some boozing done. So what that our local drinking establishment is a village pub, and ensures a limited excess by ringing last orders at ten to eleven? In my mind this still technically counts as boozing.
There was also some drug taking. So what that these drugs were pro-biotic capsules, used to quell the storm of my irritable bowel? In my mind these still technically counts as druggings.
There was also sexual promiscuity in my lost week too. So what that this was all done in a forum of morose self- pleasure? Once again, in my mind it still technically counts.
So there you have it. I’ll leave it to the imagination of others to speculate what else I could have possibly been up to.
Let’s try and see this entry as a fresh start, eh? We’ll see how it goes from here.
Sun 15th Mar 2009
For such a misanthrope, I got a large number of birthday cards and messages offering me congratulations. I’m not exactly sure what I was being congratulated for. Shouldn’t congratulations more aptly follow some big success or achievement? As far as I can see, I have achieved very little beyond sitting and here and existing for the last 31 years. It’s hardly some great feat of humanity; anyone could do that, given the appropriate amount of time. It certainly doesn’t seem a triumph remarkable enough to justify congratulations. You other humans are weird. Don’t get me wrong, you’re nice – but still very weird (although having said that, my hypochondriac nature constantly reminds me that each passing year might possibly be my last; and in the face of such pessimism, I suppose survival does seem like some sort of personal achievement. So on balance, maybe humans are actually cleverer than I give them credit for).
I went for a Sunday dinner with my mom (as per every Sunday). We went to the pub we’d been to before in this entry here. Rather than being desolate like last time, there was a christening party on.
My mom asked for her usual child’s portion, but the girl behind the bar said they could only be sold to Under 12’s and refused to let her order it, literally forcing her to wastefully buy an adult’s meal. To be honest, I thought this was a bit mean. It was perfectly acceptable for my Mom to buy a child’s portion the last time we visited the same pub; in fact I have previously documented the evidence of it here (though I foolishly neglected to mention the name of the establishment, so have probably inadvertently waivered any legal impression on the matter). This irritation was confounded by the fact that due to the christening party, we weren’t even allowed to eat in the dining area. We collected our carvery (which astonishingly had more miserly meat portions than last time) and were banished to the bar to eat, carrying our plates through the restaurant bit like we were shameful outsiders, collecting rations from a soup kitchen. It seemed short-sighted being so uncompromising not allowing my mother to buy a child’s portion, when we were fully expected to accept such a compromised service. We had to eat our meal from a small bar table in the corner of the room, tucked behind the pool table.
Although lacking the luxury of space, initially it wasn’t so bad; at least until some children from the christening party decided they want to play pool. I was literally trying to eat my meal, whilst having to duck from left to right whenever they needed to take particular shots at the table. At one point, I was balancing some cauliflower on my folk to be interrupted by a pool ball which had shot off the table and clattered at my feet. This made my mom jump a little, and in her shock, she accidentally spat two small bits of cabbage across the table. Honestly, the way I was trying to traverse my plate away from all that flying debris, I almost thought I was playing the vintage arcade game ‘Asteroids’ .
Please don’t get me wrong, I am not moaning or blaming my mom for any of this farcical meal, nor am I trying to chastise her for a bit of flying cabbage. Having gone through all the excruciating pain of childbirth 31 years ago today for the benefit of my very being, this would be very disrespectful to say about her. Believe me - I really was a fat little git too, and the fact that she would have gone through all that pain to squeeze me out really does seem like a genuinely humbling achievement. Surely it is more of an achievement than the one we were actually celebrating, which has essentially consisted of little more than managing to breathe for 31 years. Yet my mother didn’t even get a single, solitary gift, card or message. All she has been rewarded with is a seemingly personal and facetious grumble on a blog about table manners by her brattish 31-year old son. We certainly live in an unjust world.
I would like to conclude this entry by redressing the balance a little. Obviously I cannot exactly ‘congratulate’ my mother for having me (how vain, assumptive and egotistical a declaration would it seem, saying “Hey, congratulations! You gave birth to ME of all of all people, you should be very proud!”), but congratulate her on the achievement of getting through childbirth. I’d also like to thank her for all the immense pain she endured on my behalf.
For the sake of balance, I should also probably take this opportunity to thank my Dad too. Let’s not forget his achievements in the childbearing process. Not quite sure what they were specifically, I must admit. Off the top of my head, I suppose I should show him gratitude for having the restraint not to ‘knock one out’ earlier in the afternoon on my day of conception.
And having evoked such an image, it is probably best to put the subject away, for another year at least. I do hope my parents are proud of me.
I went for a Sunday dinner with my mom (as per every Sunday). We went to the pub we’d been to before in this entry here. Rather than being desolate like last time, there was a christening party on.
My mom asked for her usual child’s portion, but the girl behind the bar said they could only be sold to Under 12’s and refused to let her order it, literally forcing her to wastefully buy an adult’s meal. To be honest, I thought this was a bit mean. It was perfectly acceptable for my Mom to buy a child’s portion the last time we visited the same pub; in fact I have previously documented the evidence of it here (though I foolishly neglected to mention the name of the establishment, so have probably inadvertently waivered any legal impression on the matter). This irritation was confounded by the fact that due to the christening party, we weren’t even allowed to eat in the dining area. We collected our carvery (which astonishingly had more miserly meat portions than last time) and were banished to the bar to eat, carrying our plates through the restaurant bit like we were shameful outsiders, collecting rations from a soup kitchen. It seemed short-sighted being so uncompromising not allowing my mother to buy a child’s portion, when we were fully expected to accept such a compromised service. We had to eat our meal from a small bar table in the corner of the room, tucked behind the pool table.
Although lacking the luxury of space, initially it wasn’t so bad; at least until some children from the christening party decided they want to play pool. I was literally trying to eat my meal, whilst having to duck from left to right whenever they needed to take particular shots at the table. At one point, I was balancing some cauliflower on my folk to be interrupted by a pool ball which had shot off the table and clattered at my feet. This made my mom jump a little, and in her shock, she accidentally spat two small bits of cabbage across the table. Honestly, the way I was trying to traverse my plate away from all that flying debris, I almost thought I was playing the vintage arcade game ‘Asteroids’ .
Please don’t get me wrong, I am not moaning or blaming my mom for any of this farcical meal, nor am I trying to chastise her for a bit of flying cabbage. Having gone through all the excruciating pain of childbirth 31 years ago today for the benefit of my very being, this would be very disrespectful to say about her. Believe me - I really was a fat little git too, and the fact that she would have gone through all that pain to squeeze me out really does seem like a genuinely humbling achievement. Surely it is more of an achievement than the one we were actually celebrating, which has essentially consisted of little more than managing to breathe for 31 years. Yet my mother didn’t even get a single, solitary gift, card or message. All she has been rewarded with is a seemingly personal and facetious grumble on a blog about table manners by her brattish 31-year old son. We certainly live in an unjust world.
I would like to conclude this entry by redressing the balance a little. Obviously I cannot exactly ‘congratulate’ my mother for having me (how vain, assumptive and egotistical a declaration would it seem, saying “Hey, congratulations! You gave birth to ME of all of all people, you should be very proud!”), but congratulate her on the achievement of getting through childbirth. I’d also like to thank her for all the immense pain she endured on my behalf.
For the sake of balance, I should also probably take this opportunity to thank my Dad too. Let’s not forget his achievements in the childbearing process. Not quite sure what they were specifically, I must admit. Off the top of my head, I suppose I should show him gratitude for having the restraint not to ‘knock one out’ earlier in the afternoon on my day of conception.
And having evoked such an image, it is probably best to put the subject away, for another year at least. I do hope my parents are proud of me.
Sat 14th Mar 2009
It is my birthday tomorrow. My sister gave me a four-pack of Guinness, as a gift from my nephew. At 14 months of age, it is quite astonishing that he knows me so well. This was almost a perfect gift. However I can’t help feeling a certain sense of disquiet.
Don’t get me wrong, my nephew is very clever and is clearly developing at a pace more rapid than his age. But considering that he cannot articulate anything more than a clumsy delivery of the most rudimentary words and often needs assistance getting certain shaped blocks of plastic into correspondent holes, I suspect he may not have bought this gift his self. Being 14 months old, I can’t see how even the most liberal of off-license retailers would have served him. I strongly suspect this is a sham and it was in fact his parents were the ones who actually decided upon and purchased this gift.
I have always been in awe of my sibling and her husband’s devoted parenting skills, but I worry they are now sabotaging this high esteem. In legal terms, they are technically claiming that their 14-month-old son has purchased four cans of Guinness. Surely this would not look very favorable towards him if this purchase ever came to light in any judicial process. They clearly haven’t thought the consequences of their actions through. For parents I hold in such high regard, such irresponsibility seems almost incomprehensible. By passing off the purchase of an alcoholic gift by a 14-month old child, don’t they see how they’re incriminating themselves by buying beer for a minor. In isolation, I could just about stand this. But they were also being short-sighted of the implications their actions would have on the innocently unwitting parties, such as the retailer who sold it; and more significantly, their own son himself.
Of course, in order to verify the exact level of moral and legal untoward that occurred, I must remember to take a surreptitious check of the young boy’s savings balance for any value-corresponding transactions. Then I’ll be able to tell if he was personally the monetary (therefore legal), purchaser of these beverages. If I see the price of a four pack of Guinness has been withdrawn from his balance, it will technically be some transactional evidence of alcohol having been bought by an underage. Which is a shame, because the appropriation of a fantasy fairy-tale world where a nephew obliges his uncle with gifts of Guinness, is a world-view I see as being rather beneficial for me.
But sadly the law is still the law. Lest we forget, in real terms this is a customer that isn’t even 18 months old yet, let alone 18 years. And rules are put in place for a reason, no matter how pedantic and unnecessary their technical implications may seem. They still need to be obliged by everyone, for the sake of a soundly functioning society. It doesn’t matter whether they’re family or not.
Don’t get me wrong, my nephew is very clever and is clearly developing at a pace more rapid than his age. But considering that he cannot articulate anything more than a clumsy delivery of the most rudimentary words and often needs assistance getting certain shaped blocks of plastic into correspondent holes, I suspect he may not have bought this gift his self. Being 14 months old, I can’t see how even the most liberal of off-license retailers would have served him. I strongly suspect this is a sham and it was in fact his parents were the ones who actually decided upon and purchased this gift.
I have always been in awe of my sibling and her husband’s devoted parenting skills, but I worry they are now sabotaging this high esteem. In legal terms, they are technically claiming that their 14-month-old son has purchased four cans of Guinness. Surely this would not look very favorable towards him if this purchase ever came to light in any judicial process. They clearly haven’t thought the consequences of their actions through. For parents I hold in such high regard, such irresponsibility seems almost incomprehensible. By passing off the purchase of an alcoholic gift by a 14-month old child, don’t they see how they’re incriminating themselves by buying beer for a minor. In isolation, I could just about stand this. But they were also being short-sighted of the implications their actions would have on the innocently unwitting parties, such as the retailer who sold it; and more significantly, their own son himself.
Of course, in order to verify the exact level of moral and legal untoward that occurred, I must remember to take a surreptitious check of the young boy’s savings balance for any value-corresponding transactions. Then I’ll be able to tell if he was personally the monetary (therefore legal), purchaser of these beverages. If I see the price of a four pack of Guinness has been withdrawn from his balance, it will technically be some transactional evidence of alcohol having been bought by an underage. Which is a shame, because the appropriation of a fantasy fairy-tale world where a nephew obliges his uncle with gifts of Guinness, is a world-view I see as being rather beneficial for me.
But sadly the law is still the law. Lest we forget, in real terms this is a customer that isn’t even 18 months old yet, let alone 18 years. And rules are put in place for a reason, no matter how pedantic and unnecessary their technical implications may seem. They still need to be obliged by everyone, for the sake of a soundly functioning society. It doesn’t matter whether they’re family or not.
Wed 11th Mar 2009
I had to stay late at work tonight. There were some people who wanted to view the hall, and could not make it before 7.30pm, so I offered to hang on for a couple of hours because I’m rather nice. Typically my appointment turned up late, which made me feel like my good nature was being stretched. Additionally, it transpired that there were so many different people arriving for the viewing that it took ages to get them round the hall, as they’d keep stopping to chat and debate between themselves about their proposed event in punishing detail. I certainly did not foresee myself leaving work after half eight, but that’s exactly what happened.
In the end, I had to drop subtle hints by passing odd comments such as, “Oh well, better push on, otherwise my dinner’s in the dog.” just to hurry them up a little.
The Chinese whisper effect of “dinners in the dog” comment soon morphed around the collective and was soon being interpreted that my wife (who I haven’t got) had thrown my dinner in the bin. Should this strange assumption that I was married been taken as a compliment? I can’t really tell. At least I do not visibly exhude an air of being lonely and desperate I suppose. Or maybe I do, and that’s why they’d assumed I was married.
I am rubbish at the whole being complimented thing anyway. Never been able to trust them, to be honest. When I finally got the gaggle to the door ready to leave, one of them commented, “You look like you’ve lost a bit of weight since I last saw you.”
Now – although probably well intended - that’s actually the worst possible thing you can possibly say to a chronic hypochondriac! Rather than interpreting this as a good thing, I immediately started questioning why the comment had been chosen. My gym regime has slackened of late. I have been eating more desserts than ever. I’m drinking Guinness like a fish (not that fish drink Guinness- it would be like cannibalism with all them finings). What could possibly have bought on such weight loss? The only rational explanation I could think of was that I was succumbing to some sort of terminal illness.
At least it gave me something to dwell on when I finally got back home.
In the end, I had to drop subtle hints by passing odd comments such as, “Oh well, better push on, otherwise my dinner’s in the dog.” just to hurry them up a little.
The Chinese whisper effect of “dinners in the dog” comment soon morphed around the collective and was soon being interpreted that my wife (who I haven’t got) had thrown my dinner in the bin. Should this strange assumption that I was married been taken as a compliment? I can’t really tell. At least I do not visibly exhude an air of being lonely and desperate I suppose. Or maybe I do, and that’s why they’d assumed I was married.
I am rubbish at the whole being complimented thing anyway. Never been able to trust them, to be honest. When I finally got the gaggle to the door ready to leave, one of them commented, “You look like you’ve lost a bit of weight since I last saw you.”
Now – although probably well intended - that’s actually the worst possible thing you can possibly say to a chronic hypochondriac! Rather than interpreting this as a good thing, I immediately started questioning why the comment had been chosen. My gym regime has slackened of late. I have been eating more desserts than ever. I’m drinking Guinness like a fish (not that fish drink Guinness- it would be like cannibalism with all them finings). What could possibly have bought on such weight loss? The only rational explanation I could think of was that I was succumbing to some sort of terminal illness.
At least it gave me something to dwell on when I finally got back home.
Mon 9th Mar 2009
We’ve been asked to ensure our offices are manned at all times throughout the working day, so there is always someone to answer the phones.
Well, durr!!
It seemed an odd and unnecessary request. I share mine with 2 other colleagues, which means there is always perpetually at least one person in the office at all times. I took mock offence in the underlying implication that we must be frequent ‘skivers’ and ‘deserters’.
“I didn’t mean it like that…” he stuttered, “I’m just saying.. One of you could go off for dinner… and sure, there’d still be two of you here to keep an eye on the phones. But what if both of you needed the toilet? The office would be unmanned then wouldn’t it?”
You’ve got to admire this attempt of justification, but it didn’t make the statement any less bizarre. Are two of us really that likely to head off to the toilet at the same time? I suppose it is possible, but in reality it’s neither very likely nor practical. For starters, how would it work exactly? Assumedly one would sit down on the porcelain first, then the other would have to try and aim their spray of urine into the hole between their legs. This seems like a difficult skill to master. And I for one have neither the time nor inclination to bother trying. Even if I could manage such an action, I’d probably just keep it to myself rather than inviting a work colleague to join me in a tandem toilet trip. I’d rather be accused of being a deserter than a pervert.
Well, durr!!
It seemed an odd and unnecessary request. I share mine with 2 other colleagues, which means there is always perpetually at least one person in the office at all times. I took mock offence in the underlying implication that we must be frequent ‘skivers’ and ‘deserters’.
“I didn’t mean it like that…” he stuttered, “I’m just saying.. One of you could go off for dinner… and sure, there’d still be two of you here to keep an eye on the phones. But what if both of you needed the toilet? The office would be unmanned then wouldn’t it?”
You’ve got to admire this attempt of justification, but it didn’t make the statement any less bizarre. Are two of us really that likely to head off to the toilet at the same time? I suppose it is possible, but in reality it’s neither very likely nor practical. For starters, how would it work exactly? Assumedly one would sit down on the porcelain first, then the other would have to try and aim their spray of urine into the hole between their legs. This seems like a difficult skill to master. And I for one have neither the time nor inclination to bother trying. Even if I could manage such an action, I’d probably just keep it to myself rather than inviting a work colleague to join me in a tandem toilet trip. I’d rather be accused of being a deserter than a pervert.
Sat 7th Mar 2009
Got taken to a shop on an industrial retail park today. The shop was called ‘Sports World’. I had never been to ‘Sports World’ before. For it is not the type of shop name that I’d presume to have much relevance to me.
For some reason (possibly due to its moniker), I imagined ‘Sports World’ would sell ‘Sports’ from around the ‘World’. Or at least various equipment from the ‘World’ of ‘Sports’. There was a little bit of sporting equipment – a few balls, and some other bits and bobs. But not much. At least not enough to justify a name called ‘Sports World’.
Mostly, ‘Sports World’ sold a range of clothes and footwear. The type of clothes and footwear sold at ‘Sport World’ were those I see most commonly adorned by people who populate the queue in the pasty shop ‘Greggs’, with their tracksuits and their trainers and their pale greasy faces.
To be honest, those people do not look particularly indulgent of a ‘World’ of ‘Sport’. Is the name ‘Sports World’ actually supposed to be ironic?
Given such logic, and liberal license, maybe Greggs could rename themselves ‘The Health Food’ shop.
For some reason (possibly due to its moniker), I imagined ‘Sports World’ would sell ‘Sports’ from around the ‘World’. Or at least various equipment from the ‘World’ of ‘Sports’. There was a little bit of sporting equipment – a few balls, and some other bits and bobs. But not much. At least not enough to justify a name called ‘Sports World’.
Mostly, ‘Sports World’ sold a range of clothes and footwear. The type of clothes and footwear sold at ‘Sport World’ were those I see most commonly adorned by people who populate the queue in the pasty shop ‘Greggs’, with their tracksuits and their trainers and their pale greasy faces.
To be honest, those people do not look particularly indulgent of a ‘World’ of ‘Sport’. Is the name ‘Sports World’ actually supposed to be ironic?
Given such logic, and liberal license, maybe Greggs could rename themselves ‘The Health Food’ shop.
Fri 6th Mar 2009
This evening I met up with some old friends at the pub. I have not seen some of them very much of over the last seven or eight years, yet fourteen years ago this particular collection of people would have often been spotted together round a table of a Saturday night. Inevitably we have all moved on since then, and nowadays most of them have family commitments. I must confess I became overwhelmed with by an indulgent epiphany. I know it is a cliché to mention, but it feels strange that we have aged. Glancing round the table, I noticed how flabby our faces had become, how far our hairlines had receeded and our guts expanded. Back then, we talked about football, pop music and drunken incidents from the previous week. Nowadays we seemed to talk about work, houses or wives and children. In fact as if to emphasise how much older we’d become, one of them even talked about a hip operation he was due, which is the type of aged conversation we would never have even anticipated entering the agenda all those years ago. It suppose it seemed particularly poignant because at least four of those six decaying faces were the same ones who had taken me to my first ever concert in 1993. I was only a mid-teenager back then and what an experience it had been. I remember how much I’d been looking forward to the show for months beforehand. Then the day finally arrived and I hurried into the venue, heading straight over to the merchandise stand to buy myself a t-shirt (most of which were too expensive for my paperboy’s wage, but thankfully they were selling some left-over cheaply that had last year’s tour dates printed on the back). I remember my friends stood in the bar ordering pints. At the time they were old enough, but I was still too young to drink (of course when I say drink, I specifically mean alcohol. I was allowed other liquids, and in fact have found them rather necessary in order for survival.) I remember the anticipation I felt whilst standing in the midst of the tight crowd waiting for the band to come on, trying to slip my precious new discount t-shirt over the top of my other clothing since it seemed the easiest way to ‘carry’ it. I distinctly remember the struggle, trying to peel it over by other layers of clothing in a desperate search to find the arm-hole; then when I eventually located it, I pushed my arm through it with such vigor, I ended up punching the person next to me in the face. I remember the profuse level of apologies leaving my mouth as I secretly prayed to myself that I hadn’t inadvertently started a fight, (particularly as I only still had one arm in a sleeve so felt too vulnerable protect myself). I remember trying to get my other arm in and then accidentally punching someone else in the face on the other side and following that with a similar ritual of apology (though at least I would be in a better equipped to shield myself this time should any attacks have happened). I remember trying to scramble towards the front and the atmosphere when the band finally took to the stage. I remember the volume of the PA. I remember the big lights. I remember all the sweat (I was wearing three layers after all). I remember the adrenalin of the crowd surge. Yes - that first surge you get near the front of a gig crowd was truly thrilling, and if I’m honest, a little bit frightening too. It was like a strange loss of control, as the tide of people pulled me from left to right. Maybe it was the fear that made it so thrilling, but I do also genuinely remember spending the first five minutes apologizing to the people around me for treading on their toes. But no-body seemed to care. In fact, they were treading all over my feet too, without the slightest hint of concern. I know it now seems weird and sad that I stood there trying to apologise in the middle of a ‘mosh pit’, but you have to remember I was virginal at the time (to concerts I mean, although the more authentic use of the word would also have been just as appropriate).
Nevertheless I clearly must have enjoyed myself because after that night I used to don my paper bag to brave the wind and the rain or stand elbow-deep in a greasy washing up bowl, driven by the glimmer of hope from the next concert ticket I could afford. It seemed like a time of such simple dreams. Fast forward to now, and ironically I am working at that very same concert hall. But rather than saving money to spend my leisure time there, it is now my job to be there, and by default I cannot wait for the working day to finish so I can leave the place. Strange how things turn out.
So as we sat around the table together, it felt weird how lives had changed. For starters we were now all old enough to drink. We all had different concerns now, and the passage of time has subdued us. We would certainly not be going to a concert or a nightclub afterwards either. Our hips just couldn’t take all that pushing and shoving nowadays. And the most depressing thing about it is that for one of our party, this is actually a genuine statement, completely devoid of irony.
Nevertheless I clearly must have enjoyed myself because after that night I used to don my paper bag to brave the wind and the rain or stand elbow-deep in a greasy washing up bowl, driven by the glimmer of hope from the next concert ticket I could afford. It seemed like a time of such simple dreams. Fast forward to now, and ironically I am working at that very same concert hall. But rather than saving money to spend my leisure time there, it is now my job to be there, and by default I cannot wait for the working day to finish so I can leave the place. Strange how things turn out.
So as we sat around the table together, it felt weird how lives had changed. For starters we were now all old enough to drink. We all had different concerns now, and the passage of time has subdued us. We would certainly not be going to a concert or a nightclub afterwards either. Our hips just couldn’t take all that pushing and shoving nowadays. And the most depressing thing about it is that for one of our party, this is actually a genuine statement, completely devoid of irony.
Thu 5th Mar 2009
This year has not just the year in which I have had a new mug; it is a whole new ‘tea making’ dawn. We have had our office kettle replaced. I will miss the charm of the old one. It was like a small plastic chimney of dirty white, and I’d almost become accustomed to the small crutons of lime-scale with which it used to garnish your beverage. But I am generally more pleased with the new investment. It is undeniably more aesthetic; smaller, rounder and silvery new. Much conventionally closer to how you’d expect a kettle to appear.
A new kettle may well seem a triviality, but its differing shape inevitably means the hissing noise emitted whilst heating is slightly different, which has an impact that should not be underestimated. Its sound has the power to bring a whole new ambience to the office. And as for the act of tea-making itself? Well, this model has its handle arched over the top of the cylinder - our old one was more a hole in the side. The switch on the new one is longer and has a rather gentle, and thoroughly more satisfying ‘click’. It is pleasing to operate. Given time, I suspect the novelty of this switch may fade. Otherwise it might become an obsession that’s on and off for years to come.
A new kettle may well seem a triviality, but its differing shape inevitably means the hissing noise emitted whilst heating is slightly different, which has an impact that should not be underestimated. Its sound has the power to bring a whole new ambience to the office. And as for the act of tea-making itself? Well, this model has its handle arched over the top of the cylinder - our old one was more a hole in the side. The switch on the new one is longer and has a rather gentle, and thoroughly more satisfying ‘click’. It is pleasing to operate. Given time, I suspect the novelty of this switch may fade. Otherwise it might become an obsession that’s on and off for years to come.
Wed 4th Mar 2009
Hope University in Liverpool today announced that they will start offering an Arts Degree in studies about The Beatles. Yes that’s right – you didn’t read the sentence incorrectly – they really are offering an academic degree on the life and work of the pop band The Beatles. Alas it appears that the life & work of Cud has been cruelly overlooked again. I am not sure what qualifications are required as a pre-requisite to getting on the course, but do not fret if you are not very academic, as there are other similar (but slightly inferior) routes to take. For instance you could do an NVQ qualification in Oasis studies.
Ha Ha – I am hilarious.
Facetiousness aside, I believe it is important The Beatles should be discussed in an educational context, given the historical, cultural, artistic, sociological and musical impact of their legacy. However, I’d have thought the impact of their legacy would have been studied within an existing academic context; such as history, sociology, Cultural Studies, Art, English literature film studies or music rather than something in its own entity. Is it all part of Liverpool’s development as a mawkish theme park, whose ‘theme’ is concerned specifically with its own historical and cultural self-promotion? I certainly can’t image what sort of career would follow the attainment of a Beatles degree (at least a study of the life and work of Cud may at some point lead to financial gain if one were to find themselves at a particular quiz machine).
Although why should I be placing so much importance on the relationship between education and careerism? Sure, a theoretical subject like Theology can be a career-path to a big business. But at least there is more evidence that The Beatles actually existed in real life than God. And when you think about it, given their continuing influence on contemporary culture this makes the Beatles comparatively more relevant, significant and viable as a subject of study. Not that I am suggesting that The Beatles are bigger than Jesus Christ or anything. That would be a stupid thing to say.
Ha Ha – I am hilarious.
Facetiousness aside, I believe it is important The Beatles should be discussed in an educational context, given the historical, cultural, artistic, sociological and musical impact of their legacy. However, I’d have thought the impact of their legacy would have been studied within an existing academic context; such as history, sociology, Cultural Studies, Art, English literature film studies or music rather than something in its own entity. Is it all part of Liverpool’s development as a mawkish theme park, whose ‘theme’ is concerned specifically with its own historical and cultural self-promotion? I certainly can’t image what sort of career would follow the attainment of a Beatles degree (at least a study of the life and work of Cud may at some point lead to financial gain if one were to find themselves at a particular quiz machine).
Although why should I be placing so much importance on the relationship between education and careerism? Sure, a theoretical subject like Theology can be a career-path to a big business. But at least there is more evidence that The Beatles actually existed in real life than God. And when you think about it, given their continuing influence on contemporary culture this makes the Beatles comparatively more relevant, significant and viable as a subject of study. Not that I am suggesting that The Beatles are bigger than Jesus Christ or anything. That would be a stupid thing to say.
Tue 3rd Mar 2009
You’ve got to have a hobby. Some people play sports. Others view the miraculous heavens through a telescope. Mine is to collect amusing Spam. By Spam, I do not mean the pinkish-grey tubes of meat, but rather the cold-call emails that often offer to expand one’s pinkish-grey tubes of meat. I even have a special email folder for storing any particular favourite subject lines. Messages are more likely to qualify for the ‘keepers’ list if they fall under one of the following categories; 1) absurd innuendo 2) appallingly explicit misogyny 3) descriptive vileness 4) genuine wit.
Here are my top 10 favourite Sapam messages so far this year:-
Number 10
“3 ways to turn any woman to a fountain of response and desire.”
Number 9
“Beat her womb with your new big rod, so that she knew who wears the pants!”
Number 8
“If you've got a small dic'k, don't blame your parents, just think how to increase it”
Number 7
“Slap that ass of hers!.”
”
Number 6
Don't you think it's time you stopped being a loser with a tiny pen!s?
Number 5
“Fill her twat to the limits”
Number 4
“Pound your lady into submission nightly”
Number 3
“If your warrior of love is too small, you may lose this war”
Number 2 (a close 2nd)
Your new pecker in the mail
But my favourite SPAM message of the year so far, has to be…
Number 1
“The Loin King”
A blog is a great place to utilize these otherwise lost little gems. Please let me know if you happen to chance upon any great Spam message titles (or indeed fake sender's names) that you’d like to share.
Here are my top 10 favourite Sapam messages so far this year:-
Number 10
“3 ways to turn any woman to a fountain of response and desire.”
Number 9
“Beat her womb with your new big rod, so that she knew who wears the pants!”
Number 8
“If you've got a small dic'k, don't blame your parents, just think how to increase it”
Number 7
“Slap that ass of hers!.”
”
Number 6
Don't you think it's time you stopped being a loser with a tiny pen!s?
Number 5
“Fill her twat to the limits”
Number 4
“Pound your lady into submission nightly”
Number 3
“If your warrior of love is too small, you may lose this war”
Number 2 (a close 2nd)
Your new pecker in the mail
But my favourite SPAM message of the year so far, has to be…
Number 1
“The Loin King”
A blog is a great place to utilize these otherwise lost little gems. Please let me know if you happen to chance upon any great Spam message titles (or indeed fake sender's names) that you’d like to share.
Mon 2nd Mar 2009
I had a day off work today which I took in lieu from working late on Friday. Ironically, I ended up doing more sweating than I would do at work. It was ‘good sweat’ though. After treating myself to a lie in I went to the gym (obviously it is the gym where I did my sweating, silly; what could I have possibly been doing in bed to have caused such a sweat?)
It was nice going in the daytime when the gym is not quite so busy. The difference in the experience is immense; the gym actually seems like a leisurely pastime rather than a grinding, hellish health necessity. I managed 3 miles on the treadmill followed by another 9 on the exercise bike and followed my exercise regime with a nice sauna to relax afterwards (as much as the claustrophobic feeling of being boiled and suffocated alive can possibly be deemed as relaxing). I even managed to procure a parking space really near to the entrance. Bonus! I’m not sure why this pleased me so much (after doing a collective 12 miles, did I really fear that the extra 100 meters might have seen me off?) but it did nonetheless. I would like to tell you more but I can’t be bothered. This is my day off remember – I’ve got much better things to do than sit here writing this.
It was nice going in the daytime when the gym is not quite so busy. The difference in the experience is immense; the gym actually seems like a leisurely pastime rather than a grinding, hellish health necessity. I managed 3 miles on the treadmill followed by another 9 on the exercise bike and followed my exercise regime with a nice sauna to relax afterwards (as much as the claustrophobic feeling of being boiled and suffocated alive can possibly be deemed as relaxing). I even managed to procure a parking space really near to the entrance. Bonus! I’m not sure why this pleased me so much (after doing a collective 12 miles, did I really fear that the extra 100 meters might have seen me off?) but it did nonetheless. I would like to tell you more but I can’t be bothered. This is my day off remember – I’ve got much better things to do than sit here writing this.
Sun 1st Mar 2009
Empty time requires the mind to fill it. A good thing if you're a real thinker like Nichze, Karl Marx, Sigmund Frued, Charles Darwin or even Clive Sinclair. Not so good if you're devoid of any intellectual ideas whatsoever. In my mundane existence, more time to think only ever equates as more time to worry. And let's make no mistake, worrying is something I am able to embark upon with much gusto. Particularly regarding matters of health.
Any time my brain becomes alerted to a new disease through say, the media, or just general conversation, it begins to adopt certain characteristic symptoms; apparently just for it’s own sadistic amusement.
In this particularly dark corner of my psychological make-up, knowledge is certainly not power. And since it's literally impossible to sail through the day without overhearing about one illness or another, the very maintenance of sanity is fraught with difficulties. I’d really want to start clutching my ears and squeezing my eyelids and humming inanely if someone were to tell me about a sick friend (even though I’m fully aware how clutching your ears, clenching eyelids and humming inanely would be the least appropriate response in this situation). I also have to change channel or dive behind the sofa whenever morbid sob-or-shock medical programmes come on the telly, like 'Doctors', 'Alice Roberts' Don't Die Young', or, 'Rolf's Animal Hospital'.
I used to get so worked up about things I’d end up at the doctors quite a lot, believing such visits were governed by a faultless, “best to get checked out if only to put your mind at ease” kind of logic. But rationality is of no real relevance to neurosis. The sad, simple truth about hypochondria is that once one perceived illness has been quashed, there’s always a new one ready to take its place. Believe me – I’ve had an almost monolithic ability to envisage most terrible afflictions upon myself over the years, irrespective of how unlikely or absurd they turned out to be. I’ve talked myself into testicular cancer (which actually turned out to be epididymitis, a common, harmless condition which causes swelling in the urinal tract). Irritable bowel syndrome convinced me I had stomach cancer. Suspected heart-attacks were just minor palpitations (probably caused by anxieties over the other health worries listed above). There’s others too. My last bout of hypochondria followed a TV advertising campaign last year, telling of a new fangled disease, most notable for the fact that it has NO SYMPTOMS WHATSOEVER. This disease was called Chlamydia.
In real terms, my chances of having anything like this were very minimal. Try picturing the offspring of a lusty encounter between two randomly matched minor celebrities. Go on, try it. Now imagine that those two celebrities were say, Nicholas Lyndhurst (Rodney of Only Fools and Horses fame) and Tracy Thorn (vocalist in 90's pop duo Everything But The Girl). Holding that thought? Not very pretty is it? Yet for the last 30 years, that very image is the I've found shrieking back at me every time I’ve walked past a mirror. Owning such a weary fizzog, there are certain ailments I should expect to have unconditional immunity from. After all, shouldn't this be my one consolation for leading such a life of such yearning loneliness and aching frustration?
Of course, I am churlishly exaggerating this sense of self-loathing here, However the point is, for someone like me, the ‘selling point’ with Chlamydia was not based in on sexual history, but simply on the premise that if something has no symptoms (like it said on the advert), exactly how are you supposed to tell if you've got it or not unless you get tested? This may sound a tad paranoid, but after two suspected cancers and a potentially lethal cardiac complication, learning to fear this infection was a doddle.
Recently I seemed get better at controlling these mental afflictions; but today I am once again going through one of my ‘phases’ having found a new obsession with yet another lethal illness. This is immensely frustrating because I’m well aware I’m wasting my limited (but hopefully not too limited) time on this Earth by spending so much of it worrying. I also realise my morbid conviction would seem pretty insensitive towards genuine sufferers and their friends and families. In the long term, the troubles in my imagination are probably a far greater health risk than the actual troubles within my body. I need to start appreciating the here and now a bit more and cease speculating on all the bad things that might happen. Until bad things do happen, they're simply wasted worries. I hope my rational mind is able to properly triumph over this strange, psychosomatic tendency.
Any time my brain becomes alerted to a new disease through say, the media, or just general conversation, it begins to adopt certain characteristic symptoms; apparently just for it’s own sadistic amusement.
In this particularly dark corner of my psychological make-up, knowledge is certainly not power. And since it's literally impossible to sail through the day without overhearing about one illness or another, the very maintenance of sanity is fraught with difficulties. I’d really want to start clutching my ears and squeezing my eyelids and humming inanely if someone were to tell me about a sick friend (even though I’m fully aware how clutching your ears, clenching eyelids and humming inanely would be the least appropriate response in this situation). I also have to change channel or dive behind the sofa whenever morbid sob-or-shock medical programmes come on the telly, like 'Doctors', 'Alice Roberts' Don't Die Young', or, 'Rolf's Animal Hospital'.
I used to get so worked up about things I’d end up at the doctors quite a lot, believing such visits were governed by a faultless, “best to get checked out if only to put your mind at ease” kind of logic. But rationality is of no real relevance to neurosis. The sad, simple truth about hypochondria is that once one perceived illness has been quashed, there’s always a new one ready to take its place. Believe me – I’ve had an almost monolithic ability to envisage most terrible afflictions upon myself over the years, irrespective of how unlikely or absurd they turned out to be. I’ve talked myself into testicular cancer (which actually turned out to be epididymitis, a common, harmless condition which causes swelling in the urinal tract). Irritable bowel syndrome convinced me I had stomach cancer. Suspected heart-attacks were just minor palpitations (probably caused by anxieties over the other health worries listed above). There’s others too. My last bout of hypochondria followed a TV advertising campaign last year, telling of a new fangled disease, most notable for the fact that it has NO SYMPTOMS WHATSOEVER. This disease was called Chlamydia.
In real terms, my chances of having anything like this were very minimal. Try picturing the offspring of a lusty encounter between two randomly matched minor celebrities. Go on, try it. Now imagine that those two celebrities were say, Nicholas Lyndhurst (Rodney of Only Fools and Horses fame) and Tracy Thorn (vocalist in 90's pop duo Everything But The Girl). Holding that thought? Not very pretty is it? Yet for the last 30 years, that very image is the I've found shrieking back at me every time I’ve walked past a mirror. Owning such a weary fizzog, there are certain ailments I should expect to have unconditional immunity from. After all, shouldn't this be my one consolation for leading such a life of such yearning loneliness and aching frustration?
Of course, I am churlishly exaggerating this sense of self-loathing here, However the point is, for someone like me, the ‘selling point’ with Chlamydia was not based in on sexual history, but simply on the premise that if something has no symptoms (like it said on the advert), exactly how are you supposed to tell if you've got it or not unless you get tested? This may sound a tad paranoid, but after two suspected cancers and a potentially lethal cardiac complication, learning to fear this infection was a doddle.
Recently I seemed get better at controlling these mental afflictions; but today I am once again going through one of my ‘phases’ having found a new obsession with yet another lethal illness. This is immensely frustrating because I’m well aware I’m wasting my limited (but hopefully not too limited) time on this Earth by spending so much of it worrying. I also realise my morbid conviction would seem pretty insensitive towards genuine sufferers and their friends and families. In the long term, the troubles in my imagination are probably a far greater health risk than the actual troubles within my body. I need to start appreciating the here and now a bit more and cease speculating on all the bad things that might happen. Until bad things do happen, they're simply wasted worries. I hope my rational mind is able to properly triumph over this strange, psychosomatic tendency.
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