As you may have gathered from previous entries I am not really the type of person who believes in superstitions, fate, ghosties, ghoulies, Deities or any such nonsense. As far as I’m concerned the universe is a random set of events and we are all spinning round in a fortunately habitable environment until we eventually reach our inevitable eternal demise. Honestly, I’m a right laugh at parties I tell you.
So it was a great surprise to me when my mate Al called the other day.”Hello Al, how are things?” I asked. “Well... “, he said (ensuring that the vocal pause of three dots had been fulfilled), “To be honest, remember last week when we were coming back from Nottingham, and you had the car radio on at volume 13?”
“Yes?” I said (partially true - I remembered the trip but not such specific level of detail).
“Well...” he continued (again punctuated with the aural equivalent of three dots), “I should have said something at the time, but... well, you know.”
I couldn’t for the life of me anticipate what he was about to say. If you are anything like me, you’d expect him to accuse me of somehow impairing his hearing. But volume 13 on my car radio is not, as you might have assumed, two levels higher that the 11th setting like the amps on Spinal Tap or something. My car radio volume levels go up to about 30, so you’ll appreciate that setting 13 is not even remotely ‘rude boy’; it is less than half way on a moderately priced stereo and speaker system.
“What’s wrong?” I pressed.
“Well, it’s just that ever since then, everything has been going wrong.”
There followed a brief silence. It took me a while to work out what his actual point was. But when I did, it of course seemed most absurd to be blaming my stereo setting for a week’s worth of his own miserable misfortune. It is funny to think that during the drive I was completely oblivious whilst he sat there looking at volume 13, considering to whether to mention his disquiet over the setting, and then thinking back to it, silently fuming whenever misfortune befell him over the next week. How was I to respond to these allegations? Did I laugh derisively? Did I contradict his superstitions through a lecture based on reason and rational thought about the random nature of the universe? Did I give a pitying sneer to suggest he should, at 32 years old, probably start taking responsibility for his own actions? No – I did none of these- I simply apologised. That’s right, I actually sodding APOLOGISED!! And the weirdest thing of all was that I felt twinges of guilt and responsibility too!! Ridiculous behaviour. I tell you, militant rationalists like Richard Dawkins must be shitting themselves with me around. And for weeks I just couldn’t figure out why this was my initial reaction, but then today it struck me. The reason was empathy, pure and simple. For even I, “Mr-tell-the-kids-there’s-no-Santa-and spoil-Christmas”, can from time to time, fall victim to this mild superstition-belied obsessive compulsive disorder.
I actually noticed my own behavioural quirk at the gym. On the treadmill there is a digital display with a calorie-counter on it. I must admit that whenever the counter passes 66.6 calories, I am often mildly relieved. For some reason I never fail to convince myself there is a small chance that 66.6 calories, I might suffer a heart attack. Or worse still, get somehow wrong-footed and end up falling off the end of the treadmill. I never want to go through a humiliation like that again. Of course, realistically speaking the danger should be much worse when I hit 666 calories, rather than 66.6. But then if I get to a point where I have clocked up 666 calories on the treadmill, a heart-attack is realistically more a scientific and physical danger rather than a superstitious one.
So there you have it. My mind is both stupidly delusional and pathetically irrational. I give it four months before I’m caught with my dick in the caviar jar, trying to create myself an upper-class mermaid.
Revelling In The Sheer Insignificance Of My Actions
I have been a bit stressed of late. Mainly due to work worries to be honest. In case you have not guessed from my previous entries, I do worrying particularly well. I’ve started this week feeling to get a bit more levelled though. I think my pattern of behaviour is basically to worry myself into near-illness, then to suddenly take the camera lens of my life, and metaphorically zoom out to see my concerns in light of a much grander context. Soon enough, on a contemporary global scale, the things I worry about at any given moment seem to have about as much significance as a single grain of sand on a whole beach. And realising the sheer insignificance of my actions always becomes a great comfort to me. I appreciate that celebrating one’s sense of personal futility seems a rather odd way of looking at things. But this should not come as any surprise. I remember writing in an earlier blog about how most people find comfort through believing that their deceased friends and relatives watch over them; whereas I find the finality of existence much more agreeable (citing the example about how it would be of absolutely of no comfort to me to imagine my dead relatives watching over my indulgences of lustful onanism). Clearly, I must be wired differently to the common man. I guess this must mean I am probably a genius. Not that I'd want such a burden you understand; obviously if I were a genius I couldn't stand the responsibility of my own significance. But I can’t see any other reason why I’d hold such contrary views to the general consensus. Unless I was just your run-of-the mill psychopath. But I feel too calm to be one of them.
Talking of which, my current sense of tranquillity will be of great relief to my colleague Simon with whom I share an office, for he has had to bear witness my unpleasant moods for the last couple of weeks or so. Things came to a head last Thursday when – with him generally fed up with my wearying curmudgeonly face - we ended up having a bit of a row. It is quite uncommon for me to row. But I suppose a row now and again when one is under stress is inevitable. After all, I am cocooned for eight hours a day, five days a week with just Simon for company. I am under duress to spend more conscious time with him than I do with anyone other single person in my life. Which means effectively he is the closest thing I have to a wife. Ignoring how fundamentally depressing and warped as this sounds, it does mean make the odd row rather inevitable. But it didn’t stop me feeling guilty. When I applied for my current job, amongst other things I wrote on my CV that my character was “non-aggressive”, “honest”, “patient” and “even-tempered”. I probably should have written that I was “generally laid back but had a tendency towards repressed passive-aggressive behaviour which manifests in an occasionally irate temperament”, but at the time it didn’t seem a very enduring thing to put in a job application. Although sadly, since I also wrote I was “honest” I inadvertently wrote in a clause which obliges me to demonstrate all the other virtues I listed. Failing to do so could technically be a breach of contract, for which I could lose my job over. I think that’s how CV’s work anyway. Otherwise what would stop people writing a load of self-aggrandising bollocks?
I suppose what I am basically saying is that if you have had to bear witness to my screwed-up miserable stress-face over the course of the last two weeks, then I can only apologise, But although I am sorry, lest we forget what big news we’ve all learned here today. For if you agree with the notion that I might actually be genius, then let’s be honest, it must be quite an honour for you humble folk to have witnessed the live torturous workings of a genius’ mind. But if you find such proclamations absurdly delusional, then by proxy, you must believe me a psychopath. In which case, it would be equally ill-advised to condemn my failings.
Talking of which, my current sense of tranquillity will be of great relief to my colleague Simon with whom I share an office, for he has had to bear witness my unpleasant moods for the last couple of weeks or so. Things came to a head last Thursday when – with him generally fed up with my wearying curmudgeonly face - we ended up having a bit of a row. It is quite uncommon for me to row. But I suppose a row now and again when one is under stress is inevitable. After all, I am cocooned for eight hours a day, five days a week with just Simon for company. I am under duress to spend more conscious time with him than I do with anyone other single person in my life. Which means effectively he is the closest thing I have to a wife. Ignoring how fundamentally depressing and warped as this sounds, it does mean make the odd row rather inevitable. But it didn’t stop me feeling guilty. When I applied for my current job, amongst other things I wrote on my CV that my character was “non-aggressive”, “honest”, “patient” and “even-tempered”. I probably should have written that I was “generally laid back but had a tendency towards repressed passive-aggressive behaviour which manifests in an occasionally irate temperament”, but at the time it didn’t seem a very enduring thing to put in a job application. Although sadly, since I also wrote I was “honest” I inadvertently wrote in a clause which obliges me to demonstrate all the other virtues I listed. Failing to do so could technically be a breach of contract, for which I could lose my job over. I think that’s how CV’s work anyway. Otherwise what would stop people writing a load of self-aggrandising bollocks?
I suppose what I am basically saying is that if you have had to bear witness to my screwed-up miserable stress-face over the course of the last two weeks, then I can only apologise, But although I am sorry, lest we forget what big news we’ve all learned here today. For if you agree with the notion that I might actually be genius, then let’s be honest, it must be quite an honour for you humble folk to have witnessed the live torturous workings of a genius’ mind. But if you find such proclamations absurdly delusional, then by proxy, you must believe me a psychopath. In which case, it would be equally ill-advised to condemn my failings.
Cold Hearted Traditions
My Dad press-ganged me into going to a fireworks display in Penkridge. He was quite insistent as he is a big kid at heart. I was quite reticent, as I am an old man at heart. But sadly I was not as reticent as he was insistent. Which means I am not as old as he is childish. So I win. I think.
It seemed a bit sad for a single 31 year old man to spend his Saturday night being taken to a fireworks display with his Dad. But he promised there was a bar so at least I’d be able to drink myself into alcohol induced fug, to temporarily mask the despair of my dismal existence. So with no other real plans with which to counter his proposed ideas, I found myself donning my coat to brave the freezing conditions of a particularly uncompromising November evening.
Turned out the display would be very popular indeed. There was a long traffic queue up the road, just to get into the car park. On the face of it, such disruption would appear as poor organisation, but I suspect it was actually very cleverly premeditated. A three-point-turn would be impossible even if I’d wanted. Meaning we were trapped in our car, waiting for the inevitable entrance fee collectors. It wasn’t long before a young lady approached with a bucket. I wound the window down.
“That’s £8 please” she said. I scrambled about in my pocket. “Could you pay mine for me, I’ve got no change?” asked my Dad. Well what could I say? He was my Dad, who had co-created me, kept me in food, clothes and shelter for the formative years of my life. It should be nothing short of an honour to make such a paltry repayment for man who had made so many sacrifices through the years on my behalf.
“Yes that’s £8 each then please. It’s for a Children’s charity” she said. As I dropped the money in her bucket, I gave her a kindly smile. But inside I was secretly fuming. Sixteen quid for a few blood-curdling bangs abound the night sky? I used to get them for free when I lived in Penn Fields. Our carriage had been drawn to a halt and now I was being robbed! Apparently it seemed the bloodline of Dick Turpin was alive and well, and living in Penkridge. I don’t care if this was for charity. If anything, that just made it seem manipulative. I don’t even like children for Christ’s sake! And don’t come with all that “Maybe so, but childhood is an integral formative step to becoming an adult” or all that “You were a child once, you know” bollocks. That holds no water with me. It’s precisely that little sod’s fault I’ve turned out the way I am. Consequently I have nothing but resentment for the young.
The fireworks could best have been described as brief. Thankfully since you couldn’t get within 200 feet of the bonfire itself, the cold weather soon deterred my Dad from wanting a lengthy stay. Presumably this slightly over zealous fencing arrangement was for reasons of public safety. Quite ironic considering the possible onset of hypothermia that would threaten my Dad. It appears that age catches up with us all eventually.
Thank God for that.
It seemed a bit sad for a single 31 year old man to spend his Saturday night being taken to a fireworks display with his Dad. But he promised there was a bar so at least I’d be able to drink myself into alcohol induced fug, to temporarily mask the despair of my dismal existence. So with no other real plans with which to counter his proposed ideas, I found myself donning my coat to brave the freezing conditions of a particularly uncompromising November evening.
Turned out the display would be very popular indeed. There was a long traffic queue up the road, just to get into the car park. On the face of it, such disruption would appear as poor organisation, but I suspect it was actually very cleverly premeditated. A three-point-turn would be impossible even if I’d wanted. Meaning we were trapped in our car, waiting for the inevitable entrance fee collectors. It wasn’t long before a young lady approached with a bucket. I wound the window down.
“That’s £8 please” she said. I scrambled about in my pocket. “Could you pay mine for me, I’ve got no change?” asked my Dad. Well what could I say? He was my Dad, who had co-created me, kept me in food, clothes and shelter for the formative years of my life. It should be nothing short of an honour to make such a paltry repayment for man who had made so many sacrifices through the years on my behalf.
“Yes that’s £8 each then please. It’s for a Children’s charity” she said. As I dropped the money in her bucket, I gave her a kindly smile. But inside I was secretly fuming. Sixteen quid for a few blood-curdling bangs abound the night sky? I used to get them for free when I lived in Penn Fields. Our carriage had been drawn to a halt and now I was being robbed! Apparently it seemed the bloodline of Dick Turpin was alive and well, and living in Penkridge. I don’t care if this was for charity. If anything, that just made it seem manipulative. I don’t even like children for Christ’s sake! And don’t come with all that “Maybe so, but childhood is an integral formative step to becoming an adult” or all that “You were a child once, you know” bollocks. That holds no water with me. It’s precisely that little sod’s fault I’ve turned out the way I am. Consequently I have nothing but resentment for the young.
The fireworks could best have been described as brief. Thankfully since you couldn’t get within 200 feet of the bonfire itself, the cold weather soon deterred my Dad from wanting a lengthy stay. Presumably this slightly over zealous fencing arrangement was for reasons of public safety. Quite ironic considering the possible onset of hypothermia that would threaten my Dad. It appears that age catches up with us all eventually.
Thank God for that.
My Expenses Shame
Today I had a long overdue hair trim. It was good riddance to the Roy Cropper look I have been sporting over the last month or so. I have also shaved away the goatee that has adorned my face, and having done so, I’m not sure why I ever grew it in the first place. In retrospect the most positive thing I can say about it, is that it was the closest my mouth has been to a vagina in quite some time. Ha ha - actually, that’s not a bad line. If only I’d thought of it three months ago there might have at least been some humorous point to carrying my ludicrous facial growth around.
The problem is I am not a vain man. I fail to gauge any self-awareness about the way I look until I am smacked in the face by my own ridiculous, erm, face. The latest occurrence of this happened last Thursday. A promoter from London had arrived to see a show she had booked with us. That’s right - of all the places of the tour she had chosen to visit Wolverhampton.
In order to somewhat compensate for such misfortune, it was agreed I would take her for a curry on council expenses. I know this is not a very popular thing to say in the current media climate. But it was, after all, a short-term expense with a greater long-term intent. A good impression is all for the good of the Wolverhampton entertainment scene. And let’s be honest, nepotistic bribery is the best we can possibly aspire to offer.
As we sat down for our meal, things genuinely seemed to be going well and we had a good chat. In fact, there were even compliments being bandied about. Obviously having no concept of how to process a compliment I could feel my cheeks flushing a little. Or at least that’s what I thought was happening. But one thing I had neglected to anticipate was the fact that currys are generally quite spicy, and I had inadvertently seemed to have picked one of the hottest on the menu. There were whole chillis in it for God’s sake! Not that I realised they were whole chillis. This only became apparent to me after I’d eaten some, and my initial flush had developed into a spontaneous and un-quenchable sweat-fest. I felt sparkles appear across my face and in a concerted effort of damage limitation, I hurried to the toilets and try and dry the moisture off my head with toilet roll. But now my shaggy unkempt hair was now completely flattened to my head. As I returned to the table the self-consciousness of my evident perspiration made me sweat even more. As I felt the little runny liquid trails sliding down the back of my neck, I knew I had already used the get-out toilet guise once, so to announce I was instantly returning would have looked weird. All I could do was sit back down and admit defeat, as my hair started to resemble some sort of bizarre skull cap; albeit a skull cap where the material is starting to look quite worn and thin around the forehead area. I started making weak excuses about being too full, for I could not possibly risk devouring any more torturous spices.
On the way out I happened to catch my reflection in the mirror. As my hair hung limply and greasily down the side of head, I couldn’t help thinking that I looked rather like a man who you would probably wish to avert children away from in the street. Believe me, this is not the ideal situation to become aware of your need for a haircut. I had been wishing to make an impression that night, but I am not sure the sweating and slightly sinister man was quite impression I had intended. I am just grateful that there were no expenses-claim-hyped journalists or photographers out that evening. This would not have been an endearing look to accompany a “Council worker in curry shame” headline.
In future, just to be on the safe side, I should take any promoters or agents for something less spicy. And I will have an appropriate haircut with which to eat it. Can’t think of many other types of restaurants in Wolverhampton though. Might have to be Subway sandwich or something. It goes without saying, I will hold the jalapenos. In fact to be on the safe side, I’ll probably just have lettuce and nothing else. It may not be glamorous, but at least it is safe.
The problem is I am not a vain man. I fail to gauge any self-awareness about the way I look until I am smacked in the face by my own ridiculous, erm, face. The latest occurrence of this happened last Thursday. A promoter from London had arrived to see a show she had booked with us. That’s right - of all the places of the tour she had chosen to visit Wolverhampton.
In order to somewhat compensate for such misfortune, it was agreed I would take her for a curry on council expenses. I know this is not a very popular thing to say in the current media climate. But it was, after all, a short-term expense with a greater long-term intent. A good impression is all for the good of the Wolverhampton entertainment scene. And let’s be honest, nepotistic bribery is the best we can possibly aspire to offer.
As we sat down for our meal, things genuinely seemed to be going well and we had a good chat. In fact, there were even compliments being bandied about. Obviously having no concept of how to process a compliment I could feel my cheeks flushing a little. Or at least that’s what I thought was happening. But one thing I had neglected to anticipate was the fact that currys are generally quite spicy, and I had inadvertently seemed to have picked one of the hottest on the menu. There were whole chillis in it for God’s sake! Not that I realised they were whole chillis. This only became apparent to me after I’d eaten some, and my initial flush had developed into a spontaneous and un-quenchable sweat-fest. I felt sparkles appear across my face and in a concerted effort of damage limitation, I hurried to the toilets and try and dry the moisture off my head with toilet roll. But now my shaggy unkempt hair was now completely flattened to my head. As I returned to the table the self-consciousness of my evident perspiration made me sweat even more. As I felt the little runny liquid trails sliding down the back of my neck, I knew I had already used the get-out toilet guise once, so to announce I was instantly returning would have looked weird. All I could do was sit back down and admit defeat, as my hair started to resemble some sort of bizarre skull cap; albeit a skull cap where the material is starting to look quite worn and thin around the forehead area. I started making weak excuses about being too full, for I could not possibly risk devouring any more torturous spices.
On the way out I happened to catch my reflection in the mirror. As my hair hung limply and greasily down the side of head, I couldn’t help thinking that I looked rather like a man who you would probably wish to avert children away from in the street. Believe me, this is not the ideal situation to become aware of your need for a haircut. I had been wishing to make an impression that night, but I am not sure the sweating and slightly sinister man was quite impression I had intended. I am just grateful that there were no expenses-claim-hyped journalists or photographers out that evening. This would not have been an endearing look to accompany a “Council worker in curry shame” headline.
In future, just to be on the safe side, I should take any promoters or agents for something less spicy. And I will have an appropriate haircut with which to eat it. Can’t think of many other types of restaurants in Wolverhampton though. Might have to be Subway sandwich or something. It goes without saying, I will hold the jalapenos. In fact to be on the safe side, I’ll probably just have lettuce and nothing else. It may not be glamorous, but at least it is safe.
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