Following the activities detailed in the last entry, it was inevitable that I would end up discussing my paranormal experiences (or lack of) with curious colleagues. We talked about how conceptually strange it is that people feel a need to believe in ‘something else’. I guess lots of folk just find consolation from the thought that there is a spiritual state following physical life. Fair play to them - I can certainly see how an assurance of a ‘secondary existence’ makes mortality issues easier to handle. But what I find puzzling is how so many find it comforting that, following bereavement, their deceased loved ones will continue to be with them, watching over them in spirit form.
Personally, I am not inclined to subscribe to these ideas. Not because of any great philosophical or intellectual motive. It’s just that the thought of being permanently watched is not something I consider particularly comforting. Quite the opposite. I am socially anxious at the best of times, permanently worried about drawing attention to myself in public places. The thought that I can’t even assure my solitude in the comfort of my own bedroom because of some invisible omnipresence, is one I find truly horrifying. Especially considering some of the sordid self-debasing desires I sometimes oblige whilst alone in said bedroom. As Leslie Grantham would probably agree, some things are best kept private. And all he was doing was sucking his own finger! Imagine the terror of embarking on an act of onanism, whilst all your dead grand-dads, nans, great aunties, uncles perch themselves spectator-like at the foot of your bed, saying things like, “Hodge round Glenys, I’m trying to see what he’s doing”. And where would it stop? What if Nan invites all her mates from the old Bingo night too, all stood round chattering to one another; “who is you say? Glenys’s grandson?” Your room could be jam-packed with unprecedented occupants; previous owners of the house, the inhabitants of nearby graveyard, literally anyone!
Brrr. How awful to think you were only conducting private personal pleasure, then to realise you are actually the conductor of a public symphony of self-abuse. You couldn’t even manipulate thoughts like these to incorporate a strange boost of sexual frisson (not that I have tried). The whole thing’s enough to give you psychosexual problems for the rest of your life. And why? ... Because there’s always that one nagging doubt isn’t there... What if the believers actually turn out to be right?
Mind you, I don’t think believers themselves are THAT confident. If they were, then what’d be the point in bothering to commit their onanism in a discreet and private context? If you’re gonna be being watched anyway, then theoretically you might as well just indulge yourself wherever the urge takes you; shops, libraries, bus shelters, photocopiers, Girls Aloud concerts, scantily-clad summer streets, anywhere you like. And yet I never see any of them dare. Funny that.
Sun 24th May 2009 & Mon 25th May 2009
I spent the night at the hall I work at acting as the building’s key-holder for a group of paranormal investigators. They have visited before and reported some strange goings-on, the strangest of which apparently involving a moving light in the ceiling trusses coming to life of its own free will, visibly moving and glowing. The member of staff from the halls who was acting as guide for that night double checked whether there were any power supplies running. Everything was unplugged. To add to this inconceivable occurrence, upon his spoken request to for the spirit to repeat the trick, the light sprang into action a second time. You can read a report of it here. Personally, I have my own theories on this light incident; but am forced to concede that since I did not witness it myself, such theories would have little argumentative validity. The nearest thing I have to evidence about this bizarre happening is that it had the power to jolt said colleague from sceptic, to believer in the space of five minutes. You could quite literally say “he saw the light”. Tonight the paranormal investigators were returning at 9.30pm for a follow-up ‘dusk till dawn dead-hunt’ - and this time, I wanted in.
Now let me get this straight from the offset: I am a sceptic – plain and simple. Many people do really believe in ghouls, even fear them. But then many people also worry that swans can break your arms and yet I’ve never heard a solitary reported case of that. You may ask then - why was I doing this? If I was a “real” sceptic, surely I wouldn’t be bothering with such trifles. I’d just shrug and tell myself I had better things to do than go to work on a Bank Holiday Sunday looking for things I am so certain don’t exist. Am I just partaking as a means of having a few laughs at the expense of ‘them paranormal eccentrics’, scorning their ‘wacky’ behaviour, deconstructing their beliefs using rationality and hilarious condescending derision (as sceptics might like to read)? Or am I more uncertain about the spirit world than I care to admit; seeing this as an opportunity to perhaps question the very foundations of my ideology (as believers might like to imagine)? I’m not sure. It is certainly not my intent to make myself sound intellectually superior to believers (for me to proclaim or assume such intelligence would be more delusional than I could accuse any spiritualist of being). And neither do I genuinely anticipate any great revelations. I think of it more as an opportunity to test the confidence of my own scepticism. It’s an opportunity I feel I should embrace; otherwise my stance is grounded largely on unexplored ignorance.
Before I tell you about my experiences, I should warn you there is no grand motive behind what follows. It should be read for exactly what it is – one person’s personal account of a paranormal investigation; nothing more, nothing less. Undoubtedly my writings will be subjective and coloured by cynicism, but my main priority for this entry is to record a reasonably honest representation of how I perceived the events.
11.15pm – We are sitting on the balcony overlooking the hall in silence and darkness. Actually, not quite darkness; the scattered dull red and blue glows of the emergency lights and camcorder screens give just enough illumination to observe actions and reassure us against any human intervention or trickery. So – more correctly – we are sitting on the balcony, overlooking in the hall in near-darkness and in silence. Actually, not quite silence. The investigators are trying to engage with their spirit world by asking questions. A while ago, we started feeling tiny bumps under our feet where we are seated. They happen sporadically. Sometimes there’ll just be one thud at a time, sometimes two or three consecutively. They are certainly not caused by human contrivance; there’s no surreptitious foot-tapping or knuckle knocking from any of the crew. And even if you were to question my judgement on this (in fairness I would probably question yours, were it your report), it doesn’t actually feel like these raps are hitting down on the surface of the floor, it feels more like they are emanating upwards, as if someone is below is lightly tapping the balcony from underneath with a large broom. The psychic leader of the group asks her next question.
“Are you happy for us to stay here? Knock one for no or two for yes.”
With this prompt, there are two very specific audible knocks, followed by another silence. We sit intently. The psychic uses her next question to seek clarification:
“If you would like us to leave, knock three times”.
Incredibly, three knocks follow. Everyone around me inhales sharply in unison. One response could be co-incidence, but two in a row? The team pack up their camcorders, clipboards and K2 machines and we head off to explore the next area.
Please let me assure you, everything I have written so far is absolutely true. I may have misquoted the questions as they were specifically asked, but I have generally given an accurate report. And given such evidence, it would be difficult for some not to subscribe to the belief that those knocks had certain serendipity.
I have, however, so far omitted my account leading up to this event. If you’ll remember, I said the team were arriving at 9.45pm. The omission is quite deliberate. The time leading up to 11.15 was positively dull and barely worth mentioning. Sure, there was the bit we located whereabouts the knocking was coming from – that might have been of interest. But everything else was peripheral. Were I to summarise the proceeding hour and half, it would have consisted of long silences, dozens of questions from the psychic and dozens of temperamental, seemingly unrelated knocking noises. Any relationship between the question and the knocking would seem less to do with serendipity and more to do with statistical odds. And this might have spoiled the illusion, right? Far be it from me to discredit myths and spoil stories with statistical odds. What right does my little blog have to spoil the ‘game-plan’ of the common man, should he ever get on Deal or No Deal?
... Sorry... I promised not be snobbish, remember. What I’m trying to say is that it wouldn’t have been right to paint a scene in which a group of people ineffectively try to communicate with arbitrary noises. People talking to an empty room would just seem mental. Quite literally. Trying to hold court with no-one could possibly even lead to being committed. But then I’m not in the best position to be pushing the mental health issue. For I am a man who is choosing to watch people talk to an empty room; which is like voluntarily spectating fishermen holding their rods over a lake bereft of fish. I might believe their fishing futile, but at least the men believe they have a purpose. For me to know the pond is empty and yet carry on watching... well that’s even more absurd, isn’t it?
11.55pm – I should have mentioned this earlier, but the investigators actually explore the buildings in two different teams. I have a colleague who is also acting as a guide for the other group. People from either group are forbidden from conversing about their team’s findings in case it pollutes each other’s perceptions of the rooms. Both teams have been issued with a walkie talkie, presumably for emergencies, but primarily to keep each other abreast of their locations. Whenever one party wishes to move into another area, they radio to the other. That way, there can be no misconceptions of the sound of nearby footsteps or activity. I needed to bring you up to speed, because it is relevant to something that’s happening now.
The other group are currently in some toilets below ground level. It is claimed to be the area most rife with spirit activity. In fact a couple of the staff I work with actually refuse to go down there, opting to use alternative upstairs loos instead. We will be exploring the area ourselves later, but right now we are in the room where the fabled lighting incident occurred. Little has happened so far, irrespective of the team’s continuing plea to see a repeat of the last light show. I am discovering very little, other than apparently spirits like to be addressed as if they were shy children being shown off to family friends.
“Can you shine the lights for us? Come on don’t be shy. You did it for us last time. Why won’t you play with us? We’re not going to hurt you...”
At one point they even resort to a blackmail approach:
“We’re not leaving till you shine a light. We know you can do it. We’ll wait all night if we have to!”
But like I say, nothing much has happened. Well almost nothing. There have been some clicking noises through the walkie-talkie. Short spats of static through the speaker. I’ve made them aware that it’s probably interference from the radios of the passing late night bank holiday taxis, yet they have collectively decided - fuck it, in the absence of anything else, we might as well run with something. That’s the funny thing about the human mind. Like the hallucinations of a man in solitary confinement, it is easy to start ‘making’ activity happen just to dispel the sheer boredom. At this rate, we could be doing the foxtrot with Freddie Mercury come two o’clock.
It has been verified with the other team that no buttons are being accidently pressed on the corresponding radio to be making this noise, and now it is left to the spirit world to justify the clicks.
“Are you trying to communicate with us through the radio? Is there someone you would like to talk with?” the psychic asks. The radio clicks again. This is taken as a yes (obviously).
“Are you trying to talk to someone in particular? Are you trying to talk to me?” she continues. The radio remains silent. Determined to continue on this seemingly tenuous path, she begins a name-call for each attendee.
“Use the radio if you’re trying to talk to Wayne.” she says. We wait in anticipation. There is no noise.
“Use the radio if you’re trying to talk to Pam.” she perseveres.
Still nothing.
And similarly, nothing happens for Carol or Ken either. There is only one person left to be addressed. That person is me. Oddly enough, I am now feeling a little tense about it. Not because of a fear of spirits wanting to talk to me, but more that I’m afraid of the group’s focus will end up on me. I do not want to be exposed to their sole attentions for the next hour whilst they stand round making assumptions about me.
“Use the radio if you’re trying to talk to...”
I am suddenly startled as I sense a very real vibrating feeling against my leg. In fact ‘startled’ is too mild. I admit it - I almost lose my bowels; terrified I am about to have an enlightenment which will shake my tower of scepticism from its very foundations...
It is a just text message arriving. After a sharp breath of relief, I pull the phone from my trouser pocket. The text is from a friend curious to how the ghost-hunt is going:
“Have you shit yourself yet?” she asks. I slip the phone back and have a little chuckle.
“Almost Ceris”, I think to myself.
Almost.
12.55am - “Throw something on the floor.”
Officially speaking it is Monday. We are now nearing the end of the fable ‘witching hour’, but the psychics investigators are still looking for a morsel of action with which to feast. Lights, movements, anything; even sounds will do.
“Can you make a banging noise like this” one of the group asks, before thumping her fist on the floor to demonstrate. Yet another silence. Then she asks a question which seems particularly odd to me, “Ok then, could you make a whistling noise for us instead?”
I can just about handle the concept of the spirit world manifesting into electromagnetic energy, causing bumps and movements and appliances springing into action. But can spirits really whistle? Surely whistling is a more difficult skill to acquire than simply just, well... talking, actually? I know lots of people who can talk, but when you ask them to whistle they sound about as coherent as a loading ZX Spectrum game. I thought the key thing about spirits is that they are non-material. How on earth can something with no lips or breath be expected to transmit a whistle?
01:42am – We’ve sitting around in the darkness doing nothing for hours now so both groups have reconvened to take a break. Exactly what we are taking a break from I’m not too sure, given that we’ve been sitting around in the darkness doing nothing for hours. There really hasn’t been much to report. The only thing my group noticed was that the flushing of the upstairs urinals has been out of sync. Apparently each of the urinal walls ordinarily operate their automatic flush in turn, starting from left to right. Then there’ll be a good space of time before the next cycle starts. Tonight they have not only been flushing in a random order, there are times when two troughs have been flushing together. And the cycle has been constant too, meaning that there is at least some flushing going on at any one time. As you’ll agree - not exactly spine-tingling stuff. I can’t imagine Stephen King banging on our door anytime soon.
Whilst we are all together, I am curious to see if my colleague’s experiences with the other group fared any better. As you’ll remember, people from each group are forbidden to talk about these until the investigation is complete. Luckily, this only rule applies to the psychic investigators themselves so I collar him for an inquisition.
My fellow keyholder is a believer. Their investigation of the downstairs toilets has thrown up lots of intriguing incidents. The team’s K2 machines were going crazy. The ghost down there is called Harry, but likes to be called Edge (not too shocking in itself as I presume this is ‘information’ the psychic relayed). But Edge is a very playful spirit. The most intriguing claim is that he has touched every single one of them. I mean actually physically prodded them. My colleague advises that if I want to see just how playful ‘Edge’ actually is, I should roll the ball towards him to see what happens.
I’m excited by what I hear. Sceptic or not, who wouldn’t be? Make no mistake: these happenings are not tenuous ‘could-have-beens’, like floors knocking and radios clicking. These are the real deal. You could rationally explain away the sensation of being physically touched by something as a simple trick of the mind, but it becomes a lot more complex when defined as a collective experience. Similarly, imagine seeing a ball being rolled back towards you of its own accord. Whether scientific rationality comes to the rescue or not, that’s a pretty damn impressive spectacle. It sure beats standing in our toilets for the best part of an hour studying the plumbing.
02:45am – More disappointment. Edge may have been out earlier, but is certainly not willing to come out and play with our group. I am in the aforementioned ‘haunted’ toilets and disappointingly nothing physical has happened (now there’s a sentence I never wish to see being quoted out of context). But the scene is not completely devoid of drama. Bizarrely, the psychic is clutching her belly and rocking backwards and forwards whilst her friend is shouting things like “Leave her alone! Stop affecting her!” It’s all very odd. And very frustrating too. Can the psychic and her friend really believe a possession is happening? I wouldn’t be so bold as to accuse anybody of acting. Although if I was her, and we’d seen absolutely diddly-squat, I might be worried my followers would feel their evening completely wasted. One wasted evening too many and soon your flock will soon lose interest and start dispersing. Like I say, I’m not calling anyone a liar, but surely it’s not impossible that I’d be tempted to put on a little performance art? Just a little climactic treat to keep the enthusiasm going until the next hunt?
03:05am - I bid the investigators goodnight. There was no big pay-off or revelation. Before I arrived I was a sceptic, and had simply used every scrap of evidence presented as a means to reassure my ideological disposition. On the other hand, my fellow key-holder was a believer before he started and spent the night building every scrap of evidence to as a means to reassure HIS position. We both held our opposing viewpoints despite being there on the same night. A sceptic will always say “prove to me there’s something there”. A believer will always say “prove to me it’s not there”. It’s a circular argument that changes nothing really. Sometimes a viewpoint can be changed (as demonstrated by our previous keyholder quite literally seeing the light), but rarely are embedded values so flexible.
It’s later (or earlier) than I imagined. As I walk to my car, the dawn is cracking over the night sky. I wonder whether I’ll attend another investigation sometime. Give Edge and his ball rolling another shot. I decide I probably won’t.
Think about the beauty of the rainbow, the flowers in the garden and of all the creatures we share the Earth with; all the things we can see and touch. Think about all the mysteries from the smallest atoms to the mightiest planets. Think about a smile and a teardrop and everything in-between. Why would I need more? Hasn’t the world already presented us with enough complex puzzles to last us a lifetime? There is so much to be getting on with already, so many wonders to uncover in the living physical world. How could I possibly be bored enough to afford more leisure time in the dark? Why would I insist on looking for the un-findable when I haven’t yet mastered what’s before my very eyes? Let the investigators stay in their toilets and dark cellars. I wouldn’t tell them to do any different; if that’s what they like, fair play to them. But from now on, I think I’ll stick with the life that awaits outside.
Now let me get this straight from the offset: I am a sceptic – plain and simple. Many people do really believe in ghouls, even fear them. But then many people also worry that swans can break your arms and yet I’ve never heard a solitary reported case of that. You may ask then - why was I doing this? If I was a “real” sceptic, surely I wouldn’t be bothering with such trifles. I’d just shrug and tell myself I had better things to do than go to work on a Bank Holiday Sunday looking for things I am so certain don’t exist. Am I just partaking as a means of having a few laughs at the expense of ‘them paranormal eccentrics’, scorning their ‘wacky’ behaviour, deconstructing their beliefs using rationality and hilarious condescending derision (as sceptics might like to read)? Or am I more uncertain about the spirit world than I care to admit; seeing this as an opportunity to perhaps question the very foundations of my ideology (as believers might like to imagine)? I’m not sure. It is certainly not my intent to make myself sound intellectually superior to believers (for me to proclaim or assume such intelligence would be more delusional than I could accuse any spiritualist of being). And neither do I genuinely anticipate any great revelations. I think of it more as an opportunity to test the confidence of my own scepticism. It’s an opportunity I feel I should embrace; otherwise my stance is grounded largely on unexplored ignorance.
Before I tell you about my experiences, I should warn you there is no grand motive behind what follows. It should be read for exactly what it is – one person’s personal account of a paranormal investigation; nothing more, nothing less. Undoubtedly my writings will be subjective and coloured by cynicism, but my main priority for this entry is to record a reasonably honest representation of how I perceived the events.
11.15pm – We are sitting on the balcony overlooking the hall in silence and darkness. Actually, not quite darkness; the scattered dull red and blue glows of the emergency lights and camcorder screens give just enough illumination to observe actions and reassure us against any human intervention or trickery. So – more correctly – we are sitting on the balcony, overlooking in the hall in near-darkness and in silence. Actually, not quite silence. The investigators are trying to engage with their spirit world by asking questions. A while ago, we started feeling tiny bumps under our feet where we are seated. They happen sporadically. Sometimes there’ll just be one thud at a time, sometimes two or three consecutively. They are certainly not caused by human contrivance; there’s no surreptitious foot-tapping or knuckle knocking from any of the crew. And even if you were to question my judgement on this (in fairness I would probably question yours, were it your report), it doesn’t actually feel like these raps are hitting down on the surface of the floor, it feels more like they are emanating upwards, as if someone is below is lightly tapping the balcony from underneath with a large broom. The psychic leader of the group asks her next question.
“Are you happy for us to stay here? Knock one for no or two for yes.”
With this prompt, there are two very specific audible knocks, followed by another silence. We sit intently. The psychic uses her next question to seek clarification:
“If you would like us to leave, knock three times”.
Incredibly, three knocks follow. Everyone around me inhales sharply in unison. One response could be co-incidence, but two in a row? The team pack up their camcorders, clipboards and K2 machines and we head off to explore the next area.
Please let me assure you, everything I have written so far is absolutely true. I may have misquoted the questions as they were specifically asked, but I have generally given an accurate report. And given such evidence, it would be difficult for some not to subscribe to the belief that those knocks had certain serendipity.
I have, however, so far omitted my account leading up to this event. If you’ll remember, I said the team were arriving at 9.45pm. The omission is quite deliberate. The time leading up to 11.15 was positively dull and barely worth mentioning. Sure, there was the bit we located whereabouts the knocking was coming from – that might have been of interest. But everything else was peripheral. Were I to summarise the proceeding hour and half, it would have consisted of long silences, dozens of questions from the psychic and dozens of temperamental, seemingly unrelated knocking noises. Any relationship between the question and the knocking would seem less to do with serendipity and more to do with statistical odds. And this might have spoiled the illusion, right? Far be it from me to discredit myths and spoil stories with statistical odds. What right does my little blog have to spoil the ‘game-plan’ of the common man, should he ever get on Deal or No Deal?
... Sorry... I promised not be snobbish, remember. What I’m trying to say is that it wouldn’t have been right to paint a scene in which a group of people ineffectively try to communicate with arbitrary noises. People talking to an empty room would just seem mental. Quite literally. Trying to hold court with no-one could possibly even lead to being committed. But then I’m not in the best position to be pushing the mental health issue. For I am a man who is choosing to watch people talk to an empty room; which is like voluntarily spectating fishermen holding their rods over a lake bereft of fish. I might believe their fishing futile, but at least the men believe they have a purpose. For me to know the pond is empty and yet carry on watching... well that’s even more absurd, isn’t it?
11.55pm – I should have mentioned this earlier, but the investigators actually explore the buildings in two different teams. I have a colleague who is also acting as a guide for the other group. People from either group are forbidden from conversing about their team’s findings in case it pollutes each other’s perceptions of the rooms. Both teams have been issued with a walkie talkie, presumably for emergencies, but primarily to keep each other abreast of their locations. Whenever one party wishes to move into another area, they radio to the other. That way, there can be no misconceptions of the sound of nearby footsteps or activity. I needed to bring you up to speed, because it is relevant to something that’s happening now.
The other group are currently in some toilets below ground level. It is claimed to be the area most rife with spirit activity. In fact a couple of the staff I work with actually refuse to go down there, opting to use alternative upstairs loos instead. We will be exploring the area ourselves later, but right now we are in the room where the fabled lighting incident occurred. Little has happened so far, irrespective of the team’s continuing plea to see a repeat of the last light show. I am discovering very little, other than apparently spirits like to be addressed as if they were shy children being shown off to family friends.
“Can you shine the lights for us? Come on don’t be shy. You did it for us last time. Why won’t you play with us? We’re not going to hurt you...”
At one point they even resort to a blackmail approach:
“We’re not leaving till you shine a light. We know you can do it. We’ll wait all night if we have to!”
But like I say, nothing much has happened. Well almost nothing. There have been some clicking noises through the walkie-talkie. Short spats of static through the speaker. I’ve made them aware that it’s probably interference from the radios of the passing late night bank holiday taxis, yet they have collectively decided - fuck it, in the absence of anything else, we might as well run with something. That’s the funny thing about the human mind. Like the hallucinations of a man in solitary confinement, it is easy to start ‘making’ activity happen just to dispel the sheer boredom. At this rate, we could be doing the foxtrot with Freddie Mercury come two o’clock.
It has been verified with the other team that no buttons are being accidently pressed on the corresponding radio to be making this noise, and now it is left to the spirit world to justify the clicks.
“Are you trying to communicate with us through the radio? Is there someone you would like to talk with?” the psychic asks. The radio clicks again. This is taken as a yes (obviously).
“Are you trying to talk to someone in particular? Are you trying to talk to me?” she continues. The radio remains silent. Determined to continue on this seemingly tenuous path, she begins a name-call for each attendee.
“Use the radio if you’re trying to talk to Wayne.” she says. We wait in anticipation. There is no noise.
“Use the radio if you’re trying to talk to Pam.” she perseveres.
Still nothing.
And similarly, nothing happens for Carol or Ken either. There is only one person left to be addressed. That person is me. Oddly enough, I am now feeling a little tense about it. Not because of a fear of spirits wanting to talk to me, but more that I’m afraid of the group’s focus will end up on me. I do not want to be exposed to their sole attentions for the next hour whilst they stand round making assumptions about me.
“Use the radio if you’re trying to talk to...”
I am suddenly startled as I sense a very real vibrating feeling against my leg. In fact ‘startled’ is too mild. I admit it - I almost lose my bowels; terrified I am about to have an enlightenment which will shake my tower of scepticism from its very foundations...
It is a just text message arriving. After a sharp breath of relief, I pull the phone from my trouser pocket. The text is from a friend curious to how the ghost-hunt is going:
“Have you shit yourself yet?” she asks. I slip the phone back and have a little chuckle.
“Almost Ceris”, I think to myself.
Almost.
12.55am - “Throw something on the floor.”
Officially speaking it is Monday. We are now nearing the end of the fable ‘witching hour’, but the psychics investigators are still looking for a morsel of action with which to feast. Lights, movements, anything; even sounds will do.
“Can you make a banging noise like this” one of the group asks, before thumping her fist on the floor to demonstrate. Yet another silence. Then she asks a question which seems particularly odd to me, “Ok then, could you make a whistling noise for us instead?”
I can just about handle the concept of the spirit world manifesting into electromagnetic energy, causing bumps and movements and appliances springing into action. But can spirits really whistle? Surely whistling is a more difficult skill to acquire than simply just, well... talking, actually? I know lots of people who can talk, but when you ask them to whistle they sound about as coherent as a loading ZX Spectrum game. I thought the key thing about spirits is that they are non-material. How on earth can something with no lips or breath be expected to transmit a whistle?
01:42am – We’ve sitting around in the darkness doing nothing for hours now so both groups have reconvened to take a break. Exactly what we are taking a break from I’m not too sure, given that we’ve been sitting around in the darkness doing nothing for hours. There really hasn’t been much to report. The only thing my group noticed was that the flushing of the upstairs urinals has been out of sync. Apparently each of the urinal walls ordinarily operate their automatic flush in turn, starting from left to right. Then there’ll be a good space of time before the next cycle starts. Tonight they have not only been flushing in a random order, there are times when two troughs have been flushing together. And the cycle has been constant too, meaning that there is at least some flushing going on at any one time. As you’ll agree - not exactly spine-tingling stuff. I can’t imagine Stephen King banging on our door anytime soon.
Whilst we are all together, I am curious to see if my colleague’s experiences with the other group fared any better. As you’ll remember, people from each group are forbidden to talk about these until the investigation is complete. Luckily, this only rule applies to the psychic investigators themselves so I collar him for an inquisition.
My fellow keyholder is a believer. Their investigation of the downstairs toilets has thrown up lots of intriguing incidents. The team’s K2 machines were going crazy. The ghost down there is called Harry, but likes to be called Edge (not too shocking in itself as I presume this is ‘information’ the psychic relayed). But Edge is a very playful spirit. The most intriguing claim is that he has touched every single one of them. I mean actually physically prodded them. My colleague advises that if I want to see just how playful ‘Edge’ actually is, I should roll the ball towards him to see what happens.
I’m excited by what I hear. Sceptic or not, who wouldn’t be? Make no mistake: these happenings are not tenuous ‘could-have-beens’, like floors knocking and radios clicking. These are the real deal. You could rationally explain away the sensation of being physically touched by something as a simple trick of the mind, but it becomes a lot more complex when defined as a collective experience. Similarly, imagine seeing a ball being rolled back towards you of its own accord. Whether scientific rationality comes to the rescue or not, that’s a pretty damn impressive spectacle. It sure beats standing in our toilets for the best part of an hour studying the plumbing.
02:45am – More disappointment. Edge may have been out earlier, but is certainly not willing to come out and play with our group. I am in the aforementioned ‘haunted’ toilets and disappointingly nothing physical has happened (now there’s a sentence I never wish to see being quoted out of context). But the scene is not completely devoid of drama. Bizarrely, the psychic is clutching her belly and rocking backwards and forwards whilst her friend is shouting things like “Leave her alone! Stop affecting her!” It’s all very odd. And very frustrating too. Can the psychic and her friend really believe a possession is happening? I wouldn’t be so bold as to accuse anybody of acting. Although if I was her, and we’d seen absolutely diddly-squat, I might be worried my followers would feel their evening completely wasted. One wasted evening too many and soon your flock will soon lose interest and start dispersing. Like I say, I’m not calling anyone a liar, but surely it’s not impossible that I’d be tempted to put on a little performance art? Just a little climactic treat to keep the enthusiasm going until the next hunt?
03:05am - I bid the investigators goodnight. There was no big pay-off or revelation. Before I arrived I was a sceptic, and had simply used every scrap of evidence presented as a means to reassure my ideological disposition. On the other hand, my fellow key-holder was a believer before he started and spent the night building every scrap of evidence to as a means to reassure HIS position. We both held our opposing viewpoints despite being there on the same night. A sceptic will always say “prove to me there’s something there”. A believer will always say “prove to me it’s not there”. It’s a circular argument that changes nothing really. Sometimes a viewpoint can be changed (as demonstrated by our previous keyholder quite literally seeing the light), but rarely are embedded values so flexible.
It’s later (or earlier) than I imagined. As I walk to my car, the dawn is cracking over the night sky. I wonder whether I’ll attend another investigation sometime. Give Edge and his ball rolling another shot. I decide I probably won’t.
Think about the beauty of the rainbow, the flowers in the garden and of all the creatures we share the Earth with; all the things we can see and touch. Think about all the mysteries from the smallest atoms to the mightiest planets. Think about a smile and a teardrop and everything in-between. Why would I need more? Hasn’t the world already presented us with enough complex puzzles to last us a lifetime? There is so much to be getting on with already, so many wonders to uncover in the living physical world. How could I possibly be bored enough to afford more leisure time in the dark? Why would I insist on looking for the un-findable when I haven’t yet mastered what’s before my very eyes? Let the investigators stay in their toilets and dark cellars. I wouldn’t tell them to do any different; if that’s what they like, fair play to them. But from now on, I think I’ll stick with the life that awaits outside.
Sat 23rd May 2009
I utilised the nice weather by going on a 20 mile bike ride down the canals with my Dad and my Sister. We probably could have gone even further too, but the route was particularly bumpy and we started becoming victim to ‘saddle arse’ (well, not my Dad. In typical Dad-style, he’d had both the foresight and inhibition-less tenacity to apply Vaseline to his 'dark star' as he called it, before we set out). It was my sister who was the most vocal about this complaint. I was secretly pleased because it meant that I didn’t have to moan about my own saddle arse and look like it was me who wanted to give up first.
Whenever a woman moans in the company of men, I am always tempted to respond with the cheeky quip, “Why are you moaning so much? I thought fat women were supposed to be jolly?” Yeah, I know what you’re thinking – what with yesterday’s entry detailing lairy distress of the French and now this - have I got my eye on a on being some sort of heir to Jeremy Clarkson, but I like the idea of this joke. I would not think of saying it to someone recovering from an eating disorder or anything, but I don’t see it really being about weight. Response-wise, it’d work irrespective of a person’s size because the humour derives more from the kind of haplessly tactless audacity of the statement rather than of weight itself. Yet despite temptation I have always refrained from using it. Maybe when all is said and done l feel political uneasiness over whether such a joke could really be perceived as non-sexist and self-deprecatory. Or maybe I have just become too accustomed to the rotund, three-dimensional shape that my own testicles currently inhabit.
I’ve actually caught a touch of sunburn. I’ve got that (not entirely unpleasant) ‘Ready Brek’ glow which keeps you warm as you stroll around in the evening dusk. And when I walked through the doorway of the pub tonight I thought I was actually walking under a patio heater, because my forehead was so sensitive to the warmth of the indoor air. I’d almost forgotten what that feels like. I’m sure there must have been some sunny spells but the last two summers have seemed such an unremitting wasteland of overcast gloom, that whenever people commented that I ‘look like I have caught the sun a bit’, my disbelief and hypochondria kicked in to convince me I must simply have symptoms of high blood pressure. But today there is no question; it is sunburn, so I can be confidently liberated from any blood pressure fears and worry about something more worthwhile. Actually, given the nature of hypochondria, I’ll probably just worry about skin cancer instead. Technically speaking, this isn’t a prospect that’s any better; but then they do always say a change is as good as a rest.
Whenever a woman moans in the company of men, I am always tempted to respond with the cheeky quip, “Why are you moaning so much? I thought fat women were supposed to be jolly?” Yeah, I know what you’re thinking – what with yesterday’s entry detailing lairy distress of the French and now this - have I got my eye on a on being some sort of heir to Jeremy Clarkson, but I like the idea of this joke. I would not think of saying it to someone recovering from an eating disorder or anything, but I don’t see it really being about weight. Response-wise, it’d work irrespective of a person’s size because the humour derives more from the kind of haplessly tactless audacity of the statement rather than of weight itself. Yet despite temptation I have always refrained from using it. Maybe when all is said and done l feel political uneasiness over whether such a joke could really be perceived as non-sexist and self-deprecatory. Or maybe I have just become too accustomed to the rotund, three-dimensional shape that my own testicles currently inhabit.
I’ve actually caught a touch of sunburn. I’ve got that (not entirely unpleasant) ‘Ready Brek’ glow which keeps you warm as you stroll around in the evening dusk. And when I walked through the doorway of the pub tonight I thought I was actually walking under a patio heater, because my forehead was so sensitive to the warmth of the indoor air. I’d almost forgotten what that feels like. I’m sure there must have been some sunny spells but the last two summers have seemed such an unremitting wasteland of overcast gloom, that whenever people commented that I ‘look like I have caught the sun a bit’, my disbelief and hypochondria kicked in to convince me I must simply have symptoms of high blood pressure. But today there is no question; it is sunburn, so I can be confidently liberated from any blood pressure fears and worry about something more worthwhile. Actually, given the nature of hypochondria, I’ll probably just worry about skin cancer instead. Technically speaking, this isn’t a prospect that’s any better; but then they do always say a change is as good as a rest.
Fri 22nd May 2009
Tonight felt like the start of a ‘proper’ bank holiday. Seems a long time since its been warm enough to spend the evening drinking outside on the pub‘s patio (albeit the short while before the temperature dropped to a level forcing us back indoors again). But for an hour or so, this was the sort of night you’d expect to have to fly abroad to find nowadays. It is little wonder the Brits have drink so heavily when they go over to the continent. The novelty of consuming alcohol outside is simply too much to squander and the consistent warmth over the full duration of the continental evening gives the illusion that it is never gets late; like a perpetual post-dusk state. This is certainly how I remember feeling when my friends and I took a brief sojourn to a youth hostel in Nimes a couple of years ago. I also remember both the weather temperature and the previous night’s pre-flight lack of sleep had made me feel very lethargic by the time I arrived. No sooner had we checked into the hostel, I actually had to take a mid-afternoon nap for an hour or two in one of the shared dorms, just to get somewhere feeling vaguely near human again.
After a snooze and a shower, we spent the rest of the evening sitting on the patio and before we knew it the whole of the first day there had already disappeared. In fact most of the first night had disappeared too. We had lost the time eating copious amounts of cheese, smoking copious amounts of tobacco and drinking copious amounts of red wine. To be honest I am not sure whether this makes us typical lazy uncouth Brits, or tourists who were fully willing to embrace and consume the French culture. I like to believe it is the latter, but out of all the other international travellers at the hostel we were the last to retire to the shared dorms, and we were undoubtedly the most inebriated.
Despite my dizzy head, I managed to stumble in the darkness through the sleeping masses towards the bunk I’d napped in earlier. Unbuckling my belt, my trousers dropped round my ankles and drunkenly leaned back to sit myself on the bed. But as I did so, I was startled by a noise from beneath me. It sounded like someone crying “Non-non-non!” I also became conscious of two hands clasping my arse cheeks trying to push me back up to a standing position. I jumped up quickly, as the horror of the situation hit me; I had nearly sat on a Frenchman. But if I was filled with horror, it was surely nothing in comparison to the poor French lad himself. My arse is particularly hairy and he had effectively just been awoken to the sight of two giant granary baps slowly descending towards his face – a breakfast in bed that not even the continentals would want to suffer. I pulled up my trousers and scrambled away to another bunk.
It was a bit embarrassing at the time. I always feared the French lad thought my behaviour as a shameful example of s ‘Brit on the piss’ oafishness. I hope not. I don’t like thinking in terms of national stereotypes. I’d prefer it if he sees the incident as a befitting tribute to the classic French bedroom farce that they all find so incredible humorous. Like I say, I am the type of tourist who makes effort to embrace local culture.
After a snooze and a shower, we spent the rest of the evening sitting on the patio and before we knew it the whole of the first day there had already disappeared. In fact most of the first night had disappeared too. We had lost the time eating copious amounts of cheese, smoking copious amounts of tobacco and drinking copious amounts of red wine. To be honest I am not sure whether this makes us typical lazy uncouth Brits, or tourists who were fully willing to embrace and consume the French culture. I like to believe it is the latter, but out of all the other international travellers at the hostel we were the last to retire to the shared dorms, and we were undoubtedly the most inebriated.
Despite my dizzy head, I managed to stumble in the darkness through the sleeping masses towards the bunk I’d napped in earlier. Unbuckling my belt, my trousers dropped round my ankles and drunkenly leaned back to sit myself on the bed. But as I did so, I was startled by a noise from beneath me. It sounded like someone crying “Non-non-non!” I also became conscious of two hands clasping my arse cheeks trying to push me back up to a standing position. I jumped up quickly, as the horror of the situation hit me; I had nearly sat on a Frenchman. But if I was filled with horror, it was surely nothing in comparison to the poor French lad himself. My arse is particularly hairy and he had effectively just been awoken to the sight of two giant granary baps slowly descending towards his face – a breakfast in bed that not even the continentals would want to suffer. I pulled up my trousers and scrambled away to another bunk.
It was a bit embarrassing at the time. I always feared the French lad thought my behaviour as a shameful example of s ‘Brit on the piss’ oafishness. I hope not. I don’t like thinking in terms of national stereotypes. I’d prefer it if he sees the incident as a befitting tribute to the classic French bedroom farce that they all find so incredible humorous. Like I say, I am the type of tourist who makes effort to embrace local culture.
Wed 20th May 2009
I spent the day in the fresh air, putting leaflets and posters about with our promotional distribution guy pictured here. He is called Jim The Bastard (specifically pronounced bar-stad, to acknowledge his Southampton accent). Even though he is clearly of senior years, this nickname seems to have found a zeitgeist with the rest of my office colleagues, seeming to get adopted quickly. There are good reasons why this monicker seems appropriate too. Firstly, because his job involves putting up posters. When I worked in the North, this was a risky game. It has been widely reported that there are actually territorial ‘poster mafias’ in some areas, who believe no act seems too sadistic in the procurement of oft-specialist pop-culture promotional space. We just can’t afford the risk of Jim walking round the mean streets of Dudley, Stourbridge or Gornal without some sort of rough and ready moniker. And although he is clearly of advancing years, I reckon that with his bald head he could just about pass off as the type of old back-street roughish sort of fellow you might find in Eastenders. With a little name manipulation he is no longer a vulnerable old man, but a street-ready stalwart demanding respect. His face and nickname blend together to immunise him; not implying he's capable of inflicting much violence himself, but that behind his cheery demeanour lies a man with a dodgy past and a old-guard loyal kinship with some nasty underw
orld types who’d kill on his behalf in a heart-beat. Secondly, I call him Jim the Barstad he like guns and line-dancing and he plays loud authentic country music in his van, which makes being a passenger feel like you're a red-neck outlaw continually being chased by the police. And finally, although this is probably a more personal association, whenever I look at his head, I can’t help but be reminded of the last scene in Return of the Jedi when Darth Vader takes his mask off.
Anyway, as we wandered round the streets together, I questioned him about his long stint on local radio. These were the old-school days when they were DJ’s rather than presenters. He told me that through the 80’s and 90’s, he was doing shows for 6 hours a day, six days a week. I was intrigued by the tales of his radio years, and was eager to gauge his level of local celebrity. I asked if he used to do those Radio ‘Roadshow’ things that were big in the 80’s, where they’d play some records from a lorry with a stage and there’d be a host in between to work the crowd up to euphoric hysteria by giving them a chance to win a car sticker. He said he did. I asked if he was ever asked for his autograph. He said he was. I asked if any females had ever offered to fellate him. He said only old ones. I’ve given this some thought and after tallying up I have rated his fame level as 3 out of 10 (which is co-incidentally
one mark lower than the town of Dudley, but only because I presume Dudley has seen a more indiscriminate willingness towards casual fellatio). Still, I’m not knocking the fella. He was certainly affable and enough to hold court with radio listeners for six hours a day. Maybe George Lamb should take heed.
Actually on second thoughts, I really hope he doesn’t. Imagine having to endure Lamb for six hours! I couldn’t think of anything worse. And lest we forget, I even say that with a mental image of Jim the Barstad’s fellatio still freshly imprinted on my mind.
orld types who’d kill on his behalf in a heart-beat. Secondly, I call him Jim the Barstad he like guns and line-dancing and he plays loud authentic country music in his van, which makes being a passenger feel like you're a red-neck outlaw continually being chased by the police. And finally, although this is probably a more personal association, whenever I look at his head, I can’t help but be reminded of the last scene in Return of the Jedi when Darth Vader takes his mask off.Anyway, as we wandered round the streets together, I questioned him about his long stint on local radio. These were the old-school days when they were DJ’s rather than presenters. He told me that through the 80’s and 90’s, he was doing shows for 6 hours a day, six days a week. I was intrigued by the tales of his radio years, and was eager to gauge his level of local celebrity. I asked if he used to do those Radio ‘Roadshow’ things that were big in the 80’s, where they’d play some records from a lorry with a stage and there’d be a host in between to work the crowd up to euphoric hysteria by giving them a chance to win a car sticker. He said he did. I asked if he was ever asked for his autograph. He said he was. I asked if any females had ever offered to fellate him. He said only old ones. I’ve given this some thought and after tallying up I have rated his fame level as 3 out of 10 (which is co-incidentally
one mark lower than the town of Dudley, but only because I presume Dudley has seen a more indiscriminate willingness towards casual fellatio). Still, I’m not knocking the fella. He was certainly affable and enough to hold court with radio listeners for six hours a day. Maybe George Lamb should take heed.Actually on second thoughts, I really hope he doesn’t. Imagine having to endure Lamb for six hours! I couldn’t think of anything worse. And lest we forget, I even say that with a mental image of Jim the Barstad’s fellatio still freshly imprinted on my mind.
Mon 18th May 2009
Working life, what a drag eh? Cheer up. You can always rely on the fact that there’s someone worse off than you. If the Monday blues have hit you, remember that someone somewhere today will be earning their lucre whilst elbow deep in shit. Just think about that. You’ll be feeling ashamed of your self-indulgent musings in no time at all.
I am talking about vocational nightmares because today I met someone who worked on The Chris Moyles Radio 1 show. Naturally my instinct was to just grab her and hold her close and tell her everything will be ok, promising she’ll find relief just as soon as her cursed and wretched life is over.
For me this seemed a naturally instinctive response, because if I am unfortunate enough to hear the Chris Moyles show then within five minutes, I find myself struck by an overwhelming desire to take a cheese grater to my own genitalia just from the shamefulness of my own maleness. If such level of despair is possible in five minutes, then being subjected to that throughout your DAY-TO-DAY LIFE must be an existence so mentally torturous, it would make being a victim of Guantanamo Bay seem a reasonable leisure pursuit. But the strange thing was that the woman wasn’t depressed or anything. I’d even go as far as to say that she was even sort of happy, despite having been dealt such adversity by the cruel hand of fate. What a brave soul. Just goes to show the resilient strength of the human spirit.
I used to think I had the perfect solution to the alcohol industry. With my idea I could simultaneously reduce alcoholism and binge drinking, whilst saving the fledging pub trade. Quite simply, I’d lower the wholesale prices on beer in pubs and raise the retail prices for the supermarket and off-license traders. Better still, give the off-license trade exclusively to the pubs, to sell at pub prices. That way, more people will be able to afford to go out and drink in a more sociable setting, which at least has a degree of supervision. There’ll be less people developing alcohol problems whilst drinking uncontrollably alone at home, alcohol would be less available to minors and the pub industry would be thriving again. It seemed so simple. But then, with one off-hand remark, the broadcaster John Humphrys bought my whole theory tumbling to its knees. It was his simple observation that the programme of Chris Moyles, his more popular airtime rival, sounded a bit like a bunch of friends engaged in the kind of frivolous banter you hear in pubs.
So that’s what our pubs – the places we willingly go to and spend our leisure time money in – actually sound like? Well in that case, fuck the pub trade. Let the nation drown alone at home under a sea cheap spirits and despairing tears. Civilisation is clearly over. In fact let’s just fuck humanity. Fuck it quicker than Russell Brand would fuck a grand-daughter. Because apparently 6.79 million people listen actually listen to Moyles of their own free will. The human’s soul deserves no sympathy. It isn’t resilient at all. Turns out it’s just covered in the same shit that those hypothetical elbows were up to earlier.
Still – as our death knoll rings out over our culturally condemned lives, let us always remember one thing.
At least he wasn’t as bad as George Lamb.
I am talking about vocational nightmares because today I met someone who worked on The Chris Moyles Radio 1 show. Naturally my instinct was to just grab her and hold her close and tell her everything will be ok, promising she’ll find relief just as soon as her cursed and wretched life is over.
For me this seemed a naturally instinctive response, because if I am unfortunate enough to hear the Chris Moyles show then within five minutes, I find myself struck by an overwhelming desire to take a cheese grater to my own genitalia just from the shamefulness of my own maleness. If such level of despair is possible in five minutes, then being subjected to that throughout your DAY-TO-DAY LIFE must be an existence so mentally torturous, it would make being a victim of Guantanamo Bay seem a reasonable leisure pursuit. But the strange thing was that the woman wasn’t depressed or anything. I’d even go as far as to say that she was even sort of happy, despite having been dealt such adversity by the cruel hand of fate. What a brave soul. Just goes to show the resilient strength of the human spirit.
I used to think I had the perfect solution to the alcohol industry. With my idea I could simultaneously reduce alcoholism and binge drinking, whilst saving the fledging pub trade. Quite simply, I’d lower the wholesale prices on beer in pubs and raise the retail prices for the supermarket and off-license traders. Better still, give the off-license trade exclusively to the pubs, to sell at pub prices. That way, more people will be able to afford to go out and drink in a more sociable setting, which at least has a degree of supervision. There’ll be less people developing alcohol problems whilst drinking uncontrollably alone at home, alcohol would be less available to minors and the pub industry would be thriving again. It seemed so simple. But then, with one off-hand remark, the broadcaster John Humphrys bought my whole theory tumbling to its knees. It was his simple observation that the programme of Chris Moyles, his more popular airtime rival, sounded a bit like a bunch of friends engaged in the kind of frivolous banter you hear in pubs.
So that’s what our pubs – the places we willingly go to and spend our leisure time money in – actually sound like? Well in that case, fuck the pub trade. Let the nation drown alone at home under a sea cheap spirits and despairing tears. Civilisation is clearly over. In fact let’s just fuck humanity. Fuck it quicker than Russell Brand would fuck a grand-daughter. Because apparently 6.79 million people listen actually listen to Moyles of their own free will. The human’s soul deserves no sympathy. It isn’t resilient at all. Turns out it’s just covered in the same shit that those hypothetical elbows were up to earlier.
Still – as our death knoll rings out over our culturally condemned lives, let us always remember one thing.
At least he wasn’t as bad as George Lamb.
Sun 17th May 2009
I spend every working weekday looking forward to the work-free weekend so I can have some time just for myself. A couple of days free of obligation, doing things I want to do, rather than things I have to do. I crave for some “me” time, if you like.
But it turns out that my “me” time is actually like the mildest, most un –tantalising chicken korma ever. A bland porridge with no sugar; made with water instead of milk. Or one of those anticlimactic veggie burgers comprised of mashed potato and peas (a reference mainly for the veggoes - but aren’t those discs of non-meat emulation just the most anticlimactic culinary cop-out ever?).
When the weekend finally arrives, it’s almost like I become over-awed with all the possibilities of all the things I could do, and yet nothing I can think of doing ever seems anything other than wasteful. Like making good headway into that book I borrowed from the library, or say, watching that that film that’s been stuck on the freeview box for months, or finally cleaning those white splatters of winged-creature poo off my car (which incidentally are so gigantic it almost seems infeasible they came from a bird’s tiny anus. I am starting to hope that human’s aren’t the only living beings currently hit by an obesity crisis, because such excremental levels would otherwise imply that pterodactyls have made a return to the living world, and chose to reside in my tiny, non-descript, middle-class village).
But all of these things take an investment of seemingly unaffordable time. They just seem like a diversion from a path of greater fulfilment. And these ideas always fall short of my grandiose intent. They distract me from starting work on my first major literary work, or learning a new language, or going feral for a couple of days to experience the richness of real life outside my tiny, non-descript, middle-class village. All of which I genuinely intend to do. Just not right now. But definitely soon.
And there lies the rub. I am basically cursed by an opposing lure of frivolous tasks and leisure pursuits against bigger projects so grand they’re actually just too intimidating to tackle. And by the time I’ve finished fretting about the most beneficial usage for my free time, I realise I’ve just lost eight hours blankly staring at the “Price Drop TV” channel; and once again the day’s only achievement was the onset of a state of bored self-loathing.
Sometimes I wish there was a supervisory ‘caretaker’ who could take over the direction of my life now and again, leaving me to drift along in autopilot whist a diary of activity is imposed by an authoritative voice making all my decisions for me. Some of the more libertarian readers might argue how this would effectively eradicate the “free-will”; the beautiful essence of what it is to be human in the first place. But I disagree. Time is to be appreciated and our existence is precious. We are incomprehensibly lucky to even have our brief spell in the universe. So I reckon when someone like me comes along with a complete inability to take the reins of their own life, then surely time is better filled by any means possible rather than so haplessly frittered?
POSTSCRIPT
(...actually now I’ve had a chance to think, this entry might sound like a dark plea for the onset of schizophrenia, rather than the gentle ‘sat nav for the soul’ schlock I’d originally envisaged. Maybe it’s best we disregard everything I’ve written so far and make a fresh start tomorrow, where we can all turn a new leaf. A brand new week, where anything could happen. Yes, that sounds rather liberating. Perhaps this will be the week I’ll finally start on one of my major tasks.)
But it turns out that my “me” time is actually like the mildest, most un –tantalising chicken korma ever. A bland porridge with no sugar; made with water instead of milk. Or one of those anticlimactic veggie burgers comprised of mashed potato and peas (a reference mainly for the veggoes - but aren’t those discs of non-meat emulation just the most anticlimactic culinary cop-out ever?).
When the weekend finally arrives, it’s almost like I become over-awed with all the possibilities of all the things I could do, and yet nothing I can think of doing ever seems anything other than wasteful. Like making good headway into that book I borrowed from the library, or say, watching that that film that’s been stuck on the freeview box for months, or finally cleaning those white splatters of winged-creature poo off my car (which incidentally are so gigantic it almost seems infeasible they came from a bird’s tiny anus. I am starting to hope that human’s aren’t the only living beings currently hit by an obesity crisis, because such excremental levels would otherwise imply that pterodactyls have made a return to the living world, and chose to reside in my tiny, non-descript, middle-class village).
But all of these things take an investment of seemingly unaffordable time. They just seem like a diversion from a path of greater fulfilment. And these ideas always fall short of my grandiose intent. They distract me from starting work on my first major literary work, or learning a new language, or going feral for a couple of days to experience the richness of real life outside my tiny, non-descript, middle-class village. All of which I genuinely intend to do. Just not right now. But definitely soon.
And there lies the rub. I am basically cursed by an opposing lure of frivolous tasks and leisure pursuits against bigger projects so grand they’re actually just too intimidating to tackle. And by the time I’ve finished fretting about the most beneficial usage for my free time, I realise I’ve just lost eight hours blankly staring at the “Price Drop TV” channel; and once again the day’s only achievement was the onset of a state of bored self-loathing.
Sometimes I wish there was a supervisory ‘caretaker’ who could take over the direction of my life now and again, leaving me to drift along in autopilot whist a diary of activity is imposed by an authoritative voice making all my decisions for me. Some of the more libertarian readers might argue how this would effectively eradicate the “free-will”; the beautiful essence of what it is to be human in the first place. But I disagree. Time is to be appreciated and our existence is precious. We are incomprehensibly lucky to even have our brief spell in the universe. So I reckon when someone like me comes along with a complete inability to take the reins of their own life, then surely time is better filled by any means possible rather than so haplessly frittered?
POSTSCRIPT
(...actually now I’ve had a chance to think, this entry might sound like a dark plea for the onset of schizophrenia, rather than the gentle ‘sat nav for the soul’ schlock I’d originally envisaged. Maybe it’s best we disregard everything I’ve written so far and make a fresh start tomorrow, where we can all turn a new leaf. A brand new week, where anything could happen. Yes, that sounds rather liberating. Perhaps this will be the week I’ll finally start on one of my major tasks.)
Wed 13th May 2009
If I am subjected to that awful “In for the Kill” song by La Roux on the radio again, I think I may actually end up scream at a glass-shattering pitch. Not that you’d be able to notice. It’d be aurally invisible against that hackle-raising atrocity. My God, that woman’s blood-curdling, dentist’s drill of a screech! And that God-awful parping backing track! It’s the aural equivalent of a cretinous hen-party, fuelled by too much WKD. Or being half way through a rudimentary computer game and having your mum hollering up the stairs to tell you your chicken kievs are ready. That is not so much my idea of a dizzying pop thrill, so much as a bloody flustering nightmare.
Is it just me? Am I just getting old? Surely not. I was always at the very thudding pulse of popular culture. You''d have thought I'd still be at least little bit hip with the kids. But others must actually really like that La Roux din, as I believe the song is currently residing at number 2 of the hit parade. So maybe popular culture has moved on without me? Well – y’know what kids? You can keep all your vacuous nonsense. From this point I am positively vacating your space. If anyone wants me, I’m off to buy up all of Del Amitri’s back catalogue. What’s that? You’ve never heard of them? Well, they’re like an more left-field version of Scouting For Girls. From the 80’s. And no, they’re not very cool, or exciting. Not even ironically so. But at least they offer some solace from you and your bloody ringtone charts!
Is it just me? Am I just getting old? Surely not. I was always at the very thudding pulse of popular culture. You''d have thought I'd still be at least little bit hip with the kids. But others must actually really like that La Roux din, as I believe the song is currently residing at number 2 of the hit parade. So maybe popular culture has moved on without me? Well – y’know what kids? You can keep all your vacuous nonsense. From this point I am positively vacating your space. If anyone wants me, I’m off to buy up all of Del Amitri’s back catalogue. What’s that? You’ve never heard of them? Well, they’re like an more left-field version of Scouting For Girls. From the 80’s. And no, they’re not very cool, or exciting. Not even ironically so. But at least they offer some solace from you and your bloody ringtone charts!
Mon 11th May 2009
I can see the numbers of entries per day gradually slipping as each month passes. I need to get back into the swing of things as I have not been writing much of late. I hope this entry will bring a new bout of motivation. I need to get back in the saddle on my metaphorical horse. In theory, this should be made rather easy for me, as my name actually means “lover of horses” in Ancient Greek. Straight up. That’s absolutely true; and must be so, as it is listed on the unquestionable oracle of all truths that is Wikipedia.
But this just proves what little relevance a name actually has. I’m actually rather ambivalent towards horses. And it’s not exactly much to be proud of when you think in terms of some of the other names from ancient Greece. It’s certainly more humble than say, Hercules, who slew loads of supposedly infallible monsters and impregnated loads of women. Or Icarus, as you’ll remember had the ingenuity to make them feather wings which enabled him to fly. Even Sisyphus had that big boulder to eternally roll around, which although seems a tedious and pointless life plan, would have at least assured him some nice firm pecks and biceps. But you can’t help wondering how on Earth the original Greek Philip earned his moniker? Presumably he was so dull, that the most significant thing his contemporaries could say to describe him as “that chap... you know him... that one who hangs round the stables. Yeah course you know him... he really loves horses”. How tragic it is that this is the only thing that is ever mentioned about old Philip. Nothing more, nothing less.
And thinking about it, the term ‘lover’ is so vague it’s almost unsettling. Exactly how much did he love horses? Did it ever spill over into something more sinister? I have scoured the internet high and low and it is never really established. I am glad I only have my metaphorical horse, with whom I must once again stress, I’ve a totally platonic relationship with. I’ve absolutely nothing to feel guilty about (although with the benefit of hindsight, the introduction to this older post now seems somewhat ill-advised).
So in short, I have a shit name, which may or may not have parallels to be drawn with Peter Schaffer’s “Equus”. But in fairness when it comes to other potential Ancient Greek names, I suppose I have come off rather lightly. A quick glance through some of the others shows names, such as:-
Jason – (no thanks).
Hercules – (too grandiose).
Sisyphus – (well that sounds too much like the name of a certain sexually transmitted disease NOT to be adopted for playground usage).
And of course, the less said about Oedipus the better.
But this just proves what little relevance a name actually has. I’m actually rather ambivalent towards horses. And it’s not exactly much to be proud of when you think in terms of some of the other names from ancient Greece. It’s certainly more humble than say, Hercules, who slew loads of supposedly infallible monsters and impregnated loads of women. Or Icarus, as you’ll remember had the ingenuity to make them feather wings which enabled him to fly. Even Sisyphus had that big boulder to eternally roll around, which although seems a tedious and pointless life plan, would have at least assured him some nice firm pecks and biceps. But you can’t help wondering how on Earth the original Greek Philip earned his moniker? Presumably he was so dull, that the most significant thing his contemporaries could say to describe him as “that chap... you know him... that one who hangs round the stables. Yeah course you know him... he really loves horses”. How tragic it is that this is the only thing that is ever mentioned about old Philip. Nothing more, nothing less.
And thinking about it, the term ‘lover’ is so vague it’s almost unsettling. Exactly how much did he love horses? Did it ever spill over into something more sinister? I have scoured the internet high and low and it is never really established. I am glad I only have my metaphorical horse, with whom I must once again stress, I’ve a totally platonic relationship with. I’ve absolutely nothing to feel guilty about (although with the benefit of hindsight, the introduction to this older post now seems somewhat ill-advised).
So in short, I have a shit name, which may or may not have parallels to be drawn with Peter Schaffer’s “Equus”. But in fairness when it comes to other potential Ancient Greek names, I suppose I have come off rather lightly. A quick glance through some of the others shows names, such as:-
Jason – (no thanks).
Hercules – (too grandiose).
Sisyphus – (well that sounds too much like the name of a certain sexually transmitted disease NOT to be adopted for playground usage).
And of course, the less said about Oedipus the better.
Sun 3rd May 2009
Today was the last game of the football season for our home team, Wolverhampton Wanderers. They have won the league this year and are due to be promoted to the premiership, so I joined my friends for a post-match celebratory drink in the town.
Given my documented anti-football stance, you would imagine that voluntarily placing myself in such close proximity of hollering, swollen orange bellies exhaling the stale aroma of cheap burger van onions, Stella Artois and ill-conceived reactionary opinions, would be the last thing on my agenda. But if anyone deserves to bask in the reflected glory of the team’s success it’s definitely me. Just because I didn’t go to any games or even proclaim to have the slightest care about any of the scores, doesn’t mean I haven’t made my own investments in the football industry. I’ll have you know, I used to work at the team’s ground when I was a student, doing torturous 14 hour washing up shifts. So don’t try and tell me about the hard life of the football fan. I’ve quite literally invested more sweat into the team than any of them so-called supporters - which is quite an achievement when you think about their disgusting, clammy, pasty-bloated faces.
Even now, years later, I am still obliged to suffer the hardships and emotional journey that the football season entails. Just think about all those countless Saturday nights in pubs, spoiled by my friends endlessly crapping on about “today’s game” – a 90 minute affair, they can somehow stretch to over three hours of analysis – and their tedious waffle left me longing for something more humane to happen; like a terrorist explosion strong enough to rip my eardrums out.
Think about all those frustrating match day traffic queues and parking problems in the City Centre I’ve been forced to endure, just because I’m an innocent bystander who doesn’t happen to be au fait with the fixtures list? Think about the inconveniences I’ve suffered at the hands of TV scheduling changes, made to accommodate the extension of a 0-0 draw? (A particularly perplexing irritation - as if football wasn’t dull enough, they cancel programmes to extend the most tedious games of all. We might as well be watching looping camera footage of Gary Lineker and his pals pissing all over the latest copy of the Radio Times – which would at least have some sort of concise metaphorical narrative value).
So yes - I reckon I truly deserved my place in the festivities. This was neither glory-hunting nor bandwagon jumping. It was my own private celebration. And the end of the ever-tedious football season is always worth raising a glass to.
Cheers!
Given my documented anti-football stance, you would imagine that voluntarily placing myself in such close proximity of hollering, swollen orange bellies exhaling the stale aroma of cheap burger van onions, Stella Artois and ill-conceived reactionary opinions, would be the last thing on my agenda. But if anyone deserves to bask in the reflected glory of the team’s success it’s definitely me. Just because I didn’t go to any games or even proclaim to have the slightest care about any of the scores, doesn’t mean I haven’t made my own investments in the football industry. I’ll have you know, I used to work at the team’s ground when I was a student, doing torturous 14 hour washing up shifts. So don’t try and tell me about the hard life of the football fan. I’ve quite literally invested more sweat into the team than any of them so-called supporters - which is quite an achievement when you think about their disgusting, clammy, pasty-bloated faces.
Even now, years later, I am still obliged to suffer the hardships and emotional journey that the football season entails. Just think about all those countless Saturday nights in pubs, spoiled by my friends endlessly crapping on about “today’s game” – a 90 minute affair, they can somehow stretch to over three hours of analysis – and their tedious waffle left me longing for something more humane to happen; like a terrorist explosion strong enough to rip my eardrums out.
Think about all those frustrating match day traffic queues and parking problems in the City Centre I’ve been forced to endure, just because I’m an innocent bystander who doesn’t happen to be au fait with the fixtures list? Think about the inconveniences I’ve suffered at the hands of TV scheduling changes, made to accommodate the extension of a 0-0 draw? (A particularly perplexing irritation - as if football wasn’t dull enough, they cancel programmes to extend the most tedious games of all. We might as well be watching looping camera footage of Gary Lineker and his pals pissing all over the latest copy of the Radio Times – which would at least have some sort of concise metaphorical narrative value).
So yes - I reckon I truly deserved my place in the festivities. This was neither glory-hunting nor bandwagon jumping. It was my own private celebration. And the end of the ever-tedious football season is always worth raising a glass to.
Cheers!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)