Like most right-thinking young men I hate shopping. I hate shopping, I detest crowds, and I have nothing but contempt for modern shopping centres. When I want a new pair of jeans, however, I'm left with very little other choice. I did look on ebay first, but when the appearance and fit is so important one has to resign one's self to leaving the house and having contact with other human beings.
I don't know how long this particular abomination has been in existence or how far widespread but what I saw yesterday sickened me. Trainers with little wheels in the heels, I think Sketchers. At first I thought it was cute, and if anything might get kids to take more exercise -- but then I saw what really happened. One kid was being literally towed by her Mum. She was just leaning back and having her Mum tow her along. While it may be a good workout for a parent to be dragging their child around all day, it's not good parenting.
I'd like to propose some changes to our society.
Firstly, I want to introduce wolves into our shopping centres. Yes, wolves. They will eat lazy or unruly children, and keep crowds to a minimum.
In a similar vein, I would like to reintroduce large predators to our towns and suburbs. Cougars and other similar big cats would be ideal, they would control crowds (especially if we could keep the percentage of predators in line with the people population), also reduce anti-social behaviour such as loitering and jogging. Since our schools have been turned into mini-fortresses to protect against "The Paedophile Menace", so long as they are in school our children won't be eaten by leopards.
However, kids that leave school to go the chip shop at lunch time will take their lives into their own hands. Parents who try to deliver fast food to the children through the school gates will also be open to attack by marauding lions. If they don't want healthy school dinners, they will risk being an afternoon snack themselves.
Other measures against anti-social behaviour, including the spread of the chav in our towns and cities, will be packs of ostriches. These will be replacing the current PCSOs, who only have the power to raise their voice to criminals and ask them politely to stop it. Ostriches are notoriously bad tempered and aggressive -- not unlike chavs -- and there will now be violent pecking of the Burberry-clad morons who sit on the church wall and drink cider.
I would also like to propose a motion to encourage phone sex in public. We need to move with the times, people have busy lives and don't have the time or patience for elaborate courting rituals -- like paying for her cinema ticket in the hope of a shag -- and would rather skip the mess of actually having sex with another person, in person. The unprecedented growth of MySpace has led to an exponential rise of phone sex -- after all, it's the next level of commitment after one-handed typing.
But it needn't be a taboo, so I feel we should have a national advertising campaign encouraging phone sex in public -- on the bus, commuters on the tube, in the queue for the checkout. All of these times when you might be bored and waiting, you could be talking filth down the phone to someone who probably has a face like the back end of a bus.
And in other news, I found a perfect pair of jeans and got them ridiculously cheap in the sale. The jeans look great, however I look a mess. Now taking paypal donations towards a gym membership.
Sunday 31 December 2006
Saturday 30 December 2006
Can't stand me now
It's not easy to know where this story begins. I guess really it is the story of one man, and not about me. Or about how lives intertwine.
His name was Chris -- probably still is -- and all I knew of him was he was some friend of a friend that got a job in the pub where I worked. He seemed like a nice enough guy -- and I'd vaguely known him before this, as you do in this town with almost anyone -- but even know I can identify he always had an attitude about him. He always had a chip on his shoulder. He was always hard done by, and shouldn't have to work. Or, indeed, whatever. I never knew him that well to really go into too deep an analysis.
Skip ahead; he quit the job he had because he couldn't stand to be bossed around by our mutual friend. That was his tough luck, he took the job, she'd earned her position. And he'd left almost as suddenly as he started, taking his attitude with him. And he faded back into the background of someone you know but aren't really friends with.
And as a disclaimer, it's my libellous belief he was, is, or has been screwing Deb. That's a whole other story.
Skip way on ahead to Christmas eve, a night like most others I'm walking to the pub with a few friends. As we approach the cash machine, Chris is already ahead of us. With a sneer and a snarky comment he says he doesn't need to guess where we are headed that night -- yes, I know, I don't like that my friends won't go anywhere else either. And maybe I felt defensive, as while my friends stayed quiet I told him "Yes, your mum has a special offer going tonight -- two for the price of one". He warned me not to make comments like that. Oh, so I shouldn't say things like "..." and here I omit details for the sake of anonymity. He told me he would warn me again, but there wouldn't be a third time.
I paused. I considered it. What's the worst that could happen? I weighed up the options and figured being punched in the face probably wasn't worth pushing my luck over. When he and Deb turned up at the pub about 5 minutes behind us, I did feel slightly justified in combatting his sarcatic tone of voice, but forgot about it. Jon mentioned to me that Chris was actually adopted, hasn't handled it very well and apparently -- so it would seem -- doesn't react well to comments about his mum. This was all news to me. If it hadn't been, I might not have said it.
On the other hand, I can make pretty damn insensitive comments if so inclined.
Almost a week later, I'd pretty much forgotten all about it. I was out playing pool and I saw Chris arrive with some of his friends. It hadn't really struck me as that odd that although people had seen me, nobody had acknowledged me. Even Deb arriving with Chris didn't. Even Laura -- whom I'd worked with for however many years and am still close to, didn't acknowledge me. As I say, I didn't think anything of it. Until I ran into Chris at the bar.
Maybe I was naive, or underestimated quite how much I'd annoyed him. I wasn't about to try and be the best of friends with him, but I called his name and he seemed to ignore me. At first. Then before he left the bar he came over, stood over me and told me that the next time I said anything like that again and didn't have my friends with me, he would put my nose through the back of my head. He poked my face and told me to remember that, and walked away. I called his name once, if only to ask what the fuck. But I quickly remembered my 'warnings'.
And it's funny, because part of me is still amused he reacted to such a stupid comment. Comments I make to my very closest friends all the time. Part of me wants to tell him to just get the fuck over it, nobody cares who the fuck his parents are -- or aren't. I might have been tempted to apologise for any offence caused, before he reacted the way he did. Now I'm torn. Part of me wants to be very zen about it, tells me that my holding a grudge against someone that apparently holds a completely ludicrous grudge is not only absurd, but bad karma. It tells me that hate is a disease that will kill you, and harbouring bad feelings only makes you sick. Part of me is all fucking zen master about it.
But the other part is funnier still, because he has really no idea how close sometimes I am to the very edge of sanity.
He has absolutely no idea that while I might be standing smiling and playing pool, I'm thinking about burning down his house. I'm told the difference really lies no with people who would think of it, but the people who actually would go through with it. Those who would go through with it probably aren't those who turn to writing for an emotional release.
To me, the whole thing is a symptom. A symptom of this town, this county, this whole damn life here. Why I want to move out, move away, skip the whole country and watch it carry on sinking into the sea.
But for now, what does this mean? Be careful whose mothers you suggest offer sexual favours for money (and to think if I wanted to be really insulting I could have tried to drop in some reference to the Suffolk strangler), don't be so sarcastic to people, watch your back. And if he will ever get over it, I don't know.
His name was Chris -- probably still is -- and all I knew of him was he was some friend of a friend that got a job in the pub where I worked. He seemed like a nice enough guy -- and I'd vaguely known him before this, as you do in this town with almost anyone -- but even know I can identify he always had an attitude about him. He always had a chip on his shoulder. He was always hard done by, and shouldn't have to work. Or, indeed, whatever. I never knew him that well to really go into too deep an analysis.
Skip ahead; he quit the job he had because he couldn't stand to be bossed around by our mutual friend. That was his tough luck, he took the job, she'd earned her position. And he'd left almost as suddenly as he started, taking his attitude with him. And he faded back into the background of someone you know but aren't really friends with.
And as a disclaimer, it's my libellous belief he was, is, or has been screwing Deb. That's a whole other story.
Skip way on ahead to Christmas eve, a night like most others I'm walking to the pub with a few friends. As we approach the cash machine, Chris is already ahead of us. With a sneer and a snarky comment he says he doesn't need to guess where we are headed that night -- yes, I know, I don't like that my friends won't go anywhere else either. And maybe I felt defensive, as while my friends stayed quiet I told him "Yes, your mum has a special offer going tonight -- two for the price of one". He warned me not to make comments like that. Oh, so I shouldn't say things like "..." and here I omit details for the sake of anonymity. He told me he would warn me again, but there wouldn't be a third time.
I paused. I considered it. What's the worst that could happen? I weighed up the options and figured being punched in the face probably wasn't worth pushing my luck over. When he and Deb turned up at the pub about 5 minutes behind us, I did feel slightly justified in combatting his sarcatic tone of voice, but forgot about it. Jon mentioned to me that Chris was actually adopted, hasn't handled it very well and apparently -- so it would seem -- doesn't react well to comments about his mum. This was all news to me. If it hadn't been, I might not have said it.
On the other hand, I can make pretty damn insensitive comments if so inclined.
Almost a week later, I'd pretty much forgotten all about it. I was out playing pool and I saw Chris arrive with some of his friends. It hadn't really struck me as that odd that although people had seen me, nobody had acknowledged me. Even Deb arriving with Chris didn't. Even Laura -- whom I'd worked with for however many years and am still close to, didn't acknowledge me. As I say, I didn't think anything of it. Until I ran into Chris at the bar.
Maybe I was naive, or underestimated quite how much I'd annoyed him. I wasn't about to try and be the best of friends with him, but I called his name and he seemed to ignore me. At first. Then before he left the bar he came over, stood over me and told me that the next time I said anything like that again and didn't have my friends with me, he would put my nose through the back of my head. He poked my face and told me to remember that, and walked away. I called his name once, if only to ask what the fuck. But I quickly remembered my 'warnings'.
And it's funny, because part of me is still amused he reacted to such a stupid comment. Comments I make to my very closest friends all the time. Part of me wants to tell him to just get the fuck over it, nobody cares who the fuck his parents are -- or aren't. I might have been tempted to apologise for any offence caused, before he reacted the way he did. Now I'm torn. Part of me wants to be very zen about it, tells me that my holding a grudge against someone that apparently holds a completely ludicrous grudge is not only absurd, but bad karma. It tells me that hate is a disease that will kill you, and harbouring bad feelings only makes you sick. Part of me is all fucking zen master about it.
But the other part is funnier still, because he has really no idea how close sometimes I am to the very edge of sanity.
He has absolutely no idea that while I might be standing smiling and playing pool, I'm thinking about burning down his house. I'm told the difference really lies no with people who would think of it, but the people who actually would go through with it. Those who would go through with it probably aren't those who turn to writing for an emotional release.
To me, the whole thing is a symptom. A symptom of this town, this county, this whole damn life here. Why I want to move out, move away, skip the whole country and watch it carry on sinking into the sea.
But for now, what does this mean? Be careful whose mothers you suggest offer sexual favours for money (and to think if I wanted to be really insulting I could have tried to drop in some reference to the Suffolk strangler), don't be so sarcastic to people, watch your back. And if he will ever get over it, I don't know.
Wednesday 27 December 2006
She never loved me, why should anyone
It's funny, it's the little things you aren't expecting that can really knock you off course. Things with San as far as I was concerned were fine. The San situation was over, there was no situation to speak of, I was over it and over her.
I was talking to her yesterday, after she'd been away for something like a week in Egypt with her new boyfriend, or whatever he is. I've stopped caring, and I've stopped asking. One evening towards the end of last week I got a text message from San, telling me she'd been quad biking through the desert canyons at dusk. She said it had reminded her of me and the thesis I wrote on the wilderness. At the time I think I replied with something along the lines of "it sounds cool", but what I thought was "where was this girl when I was dating you?".
So yesterday we were talking and I was doing the polite thing and asking about her holiday. I made mention to her scuba diving and quad biking and said what I had been thinking before. San then mentioned she was going skiing in the new year, again with new boyfriend person. At first I laughed it off -- the thought of her skiing, after she was always so against the idea of winter sports because it would be cold and she could hurt herself. But no, she was serious.
Strangely, I felt -- feel -- more annoyed than anything else. I asked her why she would never have gone with me, "You never invited me" she said. I never got the chance to go myself while we were still dating, but she was always against it when I mentioned it. Perhaps she thinks I should have taken her when I went snowboarding this year, when we weren't even going out.
It's not that I'm annoyed she's doing these things with someone new and not me -- I could really care less what she does, or with whom -- but I'm annoyed that with me she wouldn't so much as sit on the grass. And yet when I ask her why she wouldn't do things like that with me she makes out like I wouldn't take her.
She's said before that I spoiled her, that I let her get away with too much or take advantage. I let her be a princess; she took the idea and ran with it.
I spent the last couple of days uploading and backdating posts from my old diary, and it gave me an interesting perspective on our relationship was. At the time I thought it was important we'd get back together every time we broke up, San thought it was more significant we kept breaking up. Now I'm not so sure who was right.
What her new relationship is like I don't know, but it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth that while we were together we -- or at least I -- could never afford to do these things, I couldn't afford to take her out to expensive restaurants or west end shows or lend her money for foreign holidays. It would be unkind and very unfair to suggest that these things were more important to her than being with me, but sometimes it can feel like it.
This isn't a "I miss her" post, or an "I want her back" train of thought. I'm just pissed off about it, and I can't exactly explain why.
I was talking to her yesterday, after she'd been away for something like a week in Egypt with her new boyfriend, or whatever he is. I've stopped caring, and I've stopped asking. One evening towards the end of last week I got a text message from San, telling me she'd been quad biking through the desert canyons at dusk. She said it had reminded her of me and the thesis I wrote on the wilderness. At the time I think I replied with something along the lines of "it sounds cool", but what I thought was "where was this girl when I was dating you?".
So yesterday we were talking and I was doing the polite thing and asking about her holiday. I made mention to her scuba diving and quad biking and said what I had been thinking before. San then mentioned she was going skiing in the new year, again with new boyfriend person. At first I laughed it off -- the thought of her skiing, after she was always so against the idea of winter sports because it would be cold and she could hurt herself. But no, she was serious.
Strangely, I felt -- feel -- more annoyed than anything else. I asked her why she would never have gone with me, "You never invited me" she said. I never got the chance to go myself while we were still dating, but she was always against it when I mentioned it. Perhaps she thinks I should have taken her when I went snowboarding this year, when we weren't even going out.
It's not that I'm annoyed she's doing these things with someone new and not me -- I could really care less what she does, or with whom -- but I'm annoyed that with me she wouldn't so much as sit on the grass. And yet when I ask her why she wouldn't do things like that with me she makes out like I wouldn't take her.
She's said before that I spoiled her, that I let her get away with too much or take advantage. I let her be a princess; she took the idea and ran with it.
I spent the last couple of days uploading and backdating posts from my old diary, and it gave me an interesting perspective on our relationship was. At the time I thought it was important we'd get back together every time we broke up, San thought it was more significant we kept breaking up. Now I'm not so sure who was right.
What her new relationship is like I don't know, but it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth that while we were together we -- or at least I -- could never afford to do these things, I couldn't afford to take her out to expensive restaurants or west end shows or lend her money for foreign holidays. It would be unkind and very unfair to suggest that these things were more important to her than being with me, but sometimes it can feel like it.
This isn't a "I miss her" post, or an "I want her back" train of thought. I'm just pissed off about it, and I can't exactly explain why.
Sunday 24 December 2006
The year, in 25 points or less
An idea stolen from the captivating Madame Boffin, who used this formula to mark her blogiversary about a month ago. I don't remember when my blogiversary is (I think maybe February), so I'm just doing this now since it seems as good a time as any. The year, in a random order.
1. Last Christmas day I was working in a pub. By Easter, I had quit my job and gone to work unpaid in London for a multinational PR company, in the hope of bettering myself. Whether it paid off remains to be seen.
2. In February, bored and restless, I bought a snowboard and took myself off to the French Alps. I suck at snowboarding -- only slightly less than how much I suck at surfing -- but I'd never been to Switzerland or France before. Highlights included travelling by bus from Geneva to Le Arcs, in France, while listening to Johnny Cash and getting pissed with a couple of other guys I had vaguely spoken to on some snowboard forum in a bar above the clouds and thousands of feet above sea level.
3. I saw Pearl Jam play the Astoria in London, after Jon managed to beat the odds and get two tickets. I took the day off work, stating I had "family commitments".
4. In August for the first time in years I camped at the Reading festival, and, yes drank a lot. I rocked out to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Twilight Singers and the Arctic Monkeys -- but Pearl Jam were unrivalled in their brilliance. I am still wearing my weekend wristband pass, four months later.
5. I spent the whole year free of any medication for depression. I don't see any shame in taking the medication if it's needed, but at the same time I like not having to take any. I like the lack of side effects the most.
6. I started going to the gym a lot, and started to look and feel better for it. I then stopped going altogether when I changed jobs and could no longer make it. I'm now probably more unfit than I was this time last year.
7. I went on a couple of dates with girls. I went for noodles with a cute Kiwi girl named Philippa, then I took her to the hospital. She always had excuses not to see me again and eventually stopped replying to me. I also met Jade, by all accounts an Oxford-educated lawyer doing pro-bono work for the disabled until her high-powered job started in the Autumn. We met for mohitos on Brick Lane, and funnily enough she too had excuses not to see me again.
8. Via the miracle medium of the internet I started talking to a girl who lived vaguely locally and was really eager to meet me. After only a couple of days I decided she was way too eager when she was planning picnics in the park and telling me she cared. I'm still not sure if I sabotaged a good thing, or had a lucky escape -- because needless to say we didn't meet.
9. I met Fiona for the first time in years, managed to avoid making a twat of myself and though I was left with a vague feeling of longing, think I handled it all reasonably well.
10. A statement that can not be applied to my friendship with San -- it's pretty incredible we remain friends at all, when we seemed to think that carrying on with some sort of quasi-open-relationship over the summer wasn't going to end in tears.
11. Aside from Pearl Jam and various bands at Reading festival, this year I have also seen Juliette & The Licks, Twilight Singers, Incubus, Foo Fighters, Motorhead, Terrorvision and probably some I'm forgetting.
12. I left my job in PR in London to work in a call centre in Essex. This was not necessarily through choice.
13. I have been to countless job interviews, and have been rejected for more jobs that I can count. There were at least three jobs as trainee assistant managers for three separate pub chains, about five different PR agencies, and an assortment of other jobs including junior photographer, picture desk assistant, a couple of newspaper feature writer positions and one media sales job.
I have met even more recruitment consultants, and am even still in vague contact with a couple of them. Even though I don't think any are still looking for work for me.
15. I have taken ownership of a skateboard, even though I can't skate. I haven't decided yet if I might learn, but I think it's nice to look at.
16. I have tried and failed to sell my snowboard. I successfully sold my widescreen tv and surround sound dvd player to my parents for their new flat, because I was broke. I have considered selling my body to get a job in marketing. I have wondered if working in marketing equalled selling my soul.
17. I have failed to sell my art, even to my parents. I wanted a print on canvas for their flat so I had something tangible to show for what I am doing with my life -- especially since my brother has laid the floors and plastered the walls. They decided it was too expensive.
18. I have proved myself free of any sexually transmitted infections or disease, and bought a new book with the gift voucher I was given in payment for taking part in a clinical trial on the day.
19. In a continuing exhibitionist theme, I have taken off all my clothes and posed nude for an art class, along with a group of strangers all also doing it for the first time.
20. I have discovered a new passion for live ice hockey. Having had a passing interest in the sport for years, I started going with my friends to see our local team play.
21. Posted various personals ads online, quoting various songs, attempting to be funny or just be "myself": all to varying degrees of limited success.
22. Inspired by Jason Lee as Earl Hickey, I started on a campaign of my own to be a better person. I apologised to a guy in the pub who I was a dick to at school, he said he had no memory of it and brushed it off. I also emailed a girl I went to school with, she said she forgave me years ago. In a similar vein, I was inspired by Danny Wallace to "say yes more", I can't report of anything particularly life-changing coming out of either episode. A self hypnosis CD managed to convince me for a few days I was the warm little centre that the life of this world crowded around. The effect wears off if you don't keep listening to it.
23. I rubbed shoulders with overpaid and overexposed celebrities at a PR event. I tried to think of something interesting to say to Natalie Imbruglia, I'll let you know when I have come up with something.
24. I have been drunk many times over the course of the year. But it was the work Halloween party with the vodka luge that really takes the crown for drunk and disorderly. I have only very hazy memories of buying Burger king, hiccuping on the train, losing my travelcard, and throwing up in someone's hedge. Classy.
And number 25: I started blogging here permanently, after diary-x died. I also came to think of this as my new home online and not a temporary measure. This is in no small part to some of the great friends I have made through my blog.
1. Last Christmas day I was working in a pub. By Easter, I had quit my job and gone to work unpaid in London for a multinational PR company, in the hope of bettering myself. Whether it paid off remains to be seen.
2. In February, bored and restless, I bought a snowboard and took myself off to the French Alps. I suck at snowboarding -- only slightly less than how much I suck at surfing -- but I'd never been to Switzerland or France before. Highlights included travelling by bus from Geneva to Le Arcs, in France, while listening to Johnny Cash and getting pissed with a couple of other guys I had vaguely spoken to on some snowboard forum in a bar above the clouds and thousands of feet above sea level.
3. I saw Pearl Jam play the Astoria in London, after Jon managed to beat the odds and get two tickets. I took the day off work, stating I had "family commitments".
4. In August for the first time in years I camped at the Reading festival, and, yes drank a lot. I rocked out to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Twilight Singers and the Arctic Monkeys -- but Pearl Jam were unrivalled in their brilliance. I am still wearing my weekend wristband pass, four months later.
5. I spent the whole year free of any medication for depression. I don't see any shame in taking the medication if it's needed, but at the same time I like not having to take any. I like the lack of side effects the most.
6. I started going to the gym a lot, and started to look and feel better for it. I then stopped going altogether when I changed jobs and could no longer make it. I'm now probably more unfit than I was this time last year.
7. I went on a couple of dates with girls. I went for noodles with a cute Kiwi girl named Philippa, then I took her to the hospital. She always had excuses not to see me again and eventually stopped replying to me. I also met Jade, by all accounts an Oxford-educated lawyer doing pro-bono work for the disabled until her high-powered job started in the Autumn. We met for mohitos on Brick Lane, and funnily enough she too had excuses not to see me again.
8. Via the miracle medium of the internet I started talking to a girl who lived vaguely locally and was really eager to meet me. After only a couple of days I decided she was way too eager when she was planning picnics in the park and telling me she cared. I'm still not sure if I sabotaged a good thing, or had a lucky escape -- because needless to say we didn't meet.
9. I met Fiona for the first time in years, managed to avoid making a twat of myself and though I was left with a vague feeling of longing, think I handled it all reasonably well.
10. A statement that can not be applied to my friendship with San -- it's pretty incredible we remain friends at all, when we seemed to think that carrying on with some sort of quasi-open-relationship over the summer wasn't going to end in tears.
11. Aside from Pearl Jam and various bands at Reading festival, this year I have also seen Juliette & The Licks, Twilight Singers, Incubus, Foo Fighters, Motorhead, Terrorvision and probably some I'm forgetting.
12. I left my job in PR in London to work in a call centre in Essex. This was not necessarily through choice.
13. I have been to countless job interviews, and have been rejected for more jobs that I can count. There were at least three jobs as trainee assistant managers for three separate pub chains, about five different PR agencies, and an assortment of other jobs including junior photographer, picture desk assistant, a couple of newspaper feature writer positions and one media sales job.
I have met even more recruitment consultants, and am even still in vague contact with a couple of them. Even though I don't think any are still looking for work for me.
15. I have taken ownership of a skateboard, even though I can't skate. I haven't decided yet if I might learn, but I think it's nice to look at.
16. I have tried and failed to sell my snowboard. I successfully sold my widescreen tv and surround sound dvd player to my parents for their new flat, because I was broke. I have considered selling my body to get a job in marketing. I have wondered if working in marketing equalled selling my soul.
17. I have failed to sell my art, even to my parents. I wanted a print on canvas for their flat so I had something tangible to show for what I am doing with my life -- especially since my brother has laid the floors and plastered the walls. They decided it was too expensive.
18. I have proved myself free of any sexually transmitted infections or disease, and bought a new book with the gift voucher I was given in payment for taking part in a clinical trial on the day.
19. In a continuing exhibitionist theme, I have taken off all my clothes and posed nude for an art class, along with a group of strangers all also doing it for the first time.
20. I have discovered a new passion for live ice hockey. Having had a passing interest in the sport for years, I started going with my friends to see our local team play.
21. Posted various personals ads online, quoting various songs, attempting to be funny or just be "myself": all to varying degrees of limited success.
22. Inspired by Jason Lee as Earl Hickey, I started on a campaign of my own to be a better person. I apologised to a guy in the pub who I was a dick to at school, he said he had no memory of it and brushed it off. I also emailed a girl I went to school with, she said she forgave me years ago. In a similar vein, I was inspired by Danny Wallace to "say yes more", I can't report of anything particularly life-changing coming out of either episode. A self hypnosis CD managed to convince me for a few days I was the warm little centre that the life of this world crowded around. The effect wears off if you don't keep listening to it.
23. I rubbed shoulders with overpaid and overexposed celebrities at a PR event. I tried to think of something interesting to say to Natalie Imbruglia, I'll let you know when I have come up with something.
24. I have been drunk many times over the course of the year. But it was the work Halloween party with the vodka luge that really takes the crown for drunk and disorderly. I have only very hazy memories of buying Burger king, hiccuping on the train, losing my travelcard, and throwing up in someone's hedge. Classy.
And number 25: I started blogging here permanently, after diary-x died. I also came to think of this as my new home online and not a temporary measure. This is in no small part to some of the great friends I have made through my blog.
Tuesday 19 December 2006
Jesus Christ Pose
I should make a label for posts that are just random. Like the posts where I take a day off work to go to the clap clinic, despite being sure I was clean. Or like my last post about the disco and the boat club. Or, for example this post, detailing how I finished work early so I could post for a "life drawing" class in a group with a bunch of strangers.
People asked me last night how I happened to discover the First Time Club, and I tell them I don't really remember. I tell them I was browsing the internet for something I can't recall and stumbled onto a place called Hannah's Cafe -- a number of projects pioneered by an artist named Hannah, which include starting chats with strangers on the tube and of course the First Time Club. Nothing at all with what you might think (and certainly nothing to do with www.firstimeclub.com), but instead exactly what it says on the tin -- a group of people just doing things for the first time. I liked the idea, I wanted to get out more, do more, meet new people. So I signed up.
And what a month to start; I could have joined on the month when they performed at an open mike poetry night, or when they went to the dog tracks. But instead my first time with the club is posing nude for an art class. Whoever thought it would be so difficult?
I'd carefully planned the day; swapped shifts with a guy at work so I could finish early, surruptiously stowed my dressing gown in my car and let anyone know who needed to know I was going out with some "friends" after work. These things never do run smoothly. It was all going well when I went back to my car and swapped my messenger bag for the bag with my dressing gown and packed up a few other essential items; my journal, a book of poetry and a bottle of wine -- a christmas present from work that I was going to give away as a "secret santa" present. I caught the train without incident, although was tight for time by the time I got into the city -- and running even later by the time I got to the appropriate station and had no idea what way to go. I was running very late by the time I got the bar, but nobody seemed to mind or be waiting for me. We stood around and made some polite conversation for a little while, before Hannah decided it was time for us all to get naked. I disappeared off -- with a number of others -- to the toilets to "change" into my dressing gown. Dropped my bag onto the floor -- and paused. I hoped when I opened the bag that maybe my dressing gown had cushioned the bottle, but instead as I reached into my bag I put my hand into a pile of broken glass. How I escaped lacerating myself I don't know, especially as I unloaded the broken bits of bottle into the bin in the toilets. It was bad enough that I had broken the secret santa present I'd brought. It wasn't ideal that my bag was now full of white wine and broken glass. It was at best inconvenient that my tatty dressing gown was now not only tatty but also half-soaked in wine. But remember the book of poetry and my journal that I had also put in my bag? Guess which had been liberally doused with wine. Luckily for me, neither seems to be damaged -- at least not too much -- but they do now smell of grapes.
The class itself was...interesting. Obviously I have never taken all my clothes off and posed naked in front of an artist before, and I certainly have never posed naked with a group of complete strangers in front of a whole class of people. First we posed for a series of one-minute poses as a whole group, before moving on to a series of longer group poses in smaller numbers. The first thing I have to admit is I had no idea how hard it would be -- what seemed like a perfectly reasonable pose to take, after more than a minute you realise sitting on your foot wasn't such a great idea. Your knee keeps slipping a little on the rug, your ankle is screaming, you're starting to wobble and can feel beads of perspiration running down your arms. And all the time I'm thinking "that artist hates me, I keep wobbling" or "I bet I look fat in this picture". It isn't until you're standing naked in front of people that you suddenly remember all the things you overlook everyday -- I was wondering if any drawings would choose to depict the large scars on my stomach and across my side. Trying to stand up straight and keep my shoulders back and stomach in and not look at anyone else.
The evening climaxed as it were with a 15-minute pose for the whole group.
The artists had started to ask for more variety, more challenging poses -- more interaction between the models, and considering all of us were men (apart from Hannah, of course) many of us were reluctant to interact or intertwine with each other while nude. It sort of ended up looking a bit like a bizarre school picture -- with a line of people along the back, and people kneeling or sitting or intertwining in the front. Along the back we put our arms around each other's shoulders, and as I stood with my arms around the shoulders of the men either side of me. Because the fellows flanking me were both slightly taller, my arms were raised in a kind of V around their shoulders. As we stood there in silence, solemnly being sketched for all the world to see, I spoke up with: "I feel like I'm being crucified"
"At least you get to be Jesus" someone said
"Shut up and pose" Hannah told us.
So we did. At the end of 15 minutes with muscles screaming and limbs stretched it was over. I wasted no time putting my clothes back on to catch my train home again. The only issue now would be how I could get into the house and get my dressing gown that was now soaked with wine and smelling of cigarette smoke into the wash without anyone asking why... I might post later a photo I took on my phone of the final sketch. It's safe for work.
People asked me last night how I happened to discover the First Time Club, and I tell them I don't really remember. I tell them I was browsing the internet for something I can't recall and stumbled onto a place called Hannah's Cafe -- a number of projects pioneered by an artist named Hannah, which include starting chats with strangers on the tube and of course the First Time Club. Nothing at all with what you might think (and certainly nothing to do with www.firstimeclub.com), but instead exactly what it says on the tin -- a group of people just doing things for the first time. I liked the idea, I wanted to get out more, do more, meet new people. So I signed up.
And what a month to start; I could have joined on the month when they performed at an open mike poetry night, or when they went to the dog tracks. But instead my first time with the club is posing nude for an art class. Whoever thought it would be so difficult?
I'd carefully planned the day; swapped shifts with a guy at work so I could finish early, surruptiously stowed my dressing gown in my car and let anyone know who needed to know I was going out with some "friends" after work. These things never do run smoothly. It was all going well when I went back to my car and swapped my messenger bag for the bag with my dressing gown and packed up a few other essential items; my journal, a book of poetry and a bottle of wine -- a christmas present from work that I was going to give away as a "secret santa" present. I caught the train without incident, although was tight for time by the time I got into the city -- and running even later by the time I got to the appropriate station and had no idea what way to go. I was running very late by the time I got the bar, but nobody seemed to mind or be waiting for me. We stood around and made some polite conversation for a little while, before Hannah decided it was time for us all to get naked. I disappeared off -- with a number of others -- to the toilets to "change" into my dressing gown. Dropped my bag onto the floor -- and paused. I hoped when I opened the bag that maybe my dressing gown had cushioned the bottle, but instead as I reached into my bag I put my hand into a pile of broken glass. How I escaped lacerating myself I don't know, especially as I unloaded the broken bits of bottle into the bin in the toilets. It was bad enough that I had broken the secret santa present I'd brought. It wasn't ideal that my bag was now full of white wine and broken glass. It was at best inconvenient that my tatty dressing gown was now not only tatty but also half-soaked in wine. But remember the book of poetry and my journal that I had also put in my bag? Guess which had been liberally doused with wine. Luckily for me, neither seems to be damaged -- at least not too much -- but they do now smell of grapes.
The class itself was...interesting. Obviously I have never taken all my clothes off and posed naked in front of an artist before, and I certainly have never posed naked with a group of complete strangers in front of a whole class of people. First we posed for a series of one-minute poses as a whole group, before moving on to a series of longer group poses in smaller numbers. The first thing I have to admit is I had no idea how hard it would be -- what seemed like a perfectly reasonable pose to take, after more than a minute you realise sitting on your foot wasn't such a great idea. Your knee keeps slipping a little on the rug, your ankle is screaming, you're starting to wobble and can feel beads of perspiration running down your arms. And all the time I'm thinking "that artist hates me, I keep wobbling" or "I bet I look fat in this picture". It isn't until you're standing naked in front of people that you suddenly remember all the things you overlook everyday -- I was wondering if any drawings would choose to depict the large scars on my stomach and across my side. Trying to stand up straight and keep my shoulders back and stomach in and not look at anyone else.
The evening climaxed as it were with a 15-minute pose for the whole group.
The artists had started to ask for more variety, more challenging poses -- more interaction between the models, and considering all of us were men (apart from Hannah, of course) many of us were reluctant to interact or intertwine with each other while nude. It sort of ended up looking a bit like a bizarre school picture -- with a line of people along the back, and people kneeling or sitting or intertwining in the front. Along the back we put our arms around each other's shoulders, and as I stood with my arms around the shoulders of the men either side of me. Because the fellows flanking me were both slightly taller, my arms were raised in a kind of V around their shoulders. As we stood there in silence, solemnly being sketched for all the world to see, I spoke up with: "I feel like I'm being crucified"
"At least you get to be Jesus" someone said
"Shut up and pose" Hannah told us.
So we did. At the end of 15 minutes with muscles screaming and limbs stretched it was over. I wasted no time putting my clothes back on to catch my train home again. The only issue now would be how I could get into the house and get my dressing gown that was now soaked with wine and smelling of cigarette smoke into the wash without anyone asking why... I might post later a photo I took on my phone of the final sketch. It's safe for work.
Sunday 17 December 2006
Eddie Don't Like Furniture
I did consider today a Serial Killer Sunday post about the killer the papers are calling "The Suffolk Strangler", it's not very often you will get the opportunity to write about a serial killer while they are still active. But this feels different: I can't explain it, it just feels sad, instead of fascinating.
Last night was another one of those sorts of nights. The kind of Saturday night where you find yourself at a boat club at the end of a very long and very dark country road, in a very small town. At a Christmas disco, DJ'd by the half-deaf, semi-retarded older brother of a boy you once went to school with but with whom you were never friends.
His whole family are moving -- although the boy I once went to school with now lives in a trailer somewhere in the Midwest USA -- and it was to be the last ever disco this guy would ever do. Jon has to work with him, and despite saying we were going because there was no excuse not to go, I think we all went because we knew how much it would mean.
The boat club was like one of those extended family gatherings, but instead of your family the room is filled with badly-ageing strangers.
We stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, since all the chairs and tables had long ago been taken. Aware of people looking at us and wondering who we were. The bar was cheap, but deservedly so -- the pints of lager tasted strange. The first pint of Stella tasted decidedly like pineapple. My friends switched to large measures of house vodka, I drank bottles of Spanish lager.
At one point, a lady I'd never met came over to me and asked if I would like to sign this card she had. A card for the guy who was the DJ: it was his birthday as well that night. I might have bought him a card had I known, but more likely I would have thought about it and forgotten anyway. But sure, I said, I'd sign it -- and followed her over to a table to lean on and sign it.
We got talking; "How do you know John?" she asked "Are you a friend of his? I don't know who is and who isn't, here"
"I went to school with his brother", I told her
"How old is Paul now?" she wanted to know, and I told her he was 25/26
She started asking me questions about school, about who my tutors had been and mentioned who her daughter was.
Vicky. Pretty, but quiet is how I remember her. We sat next to each other in our French class, and I don't think we had a single conversation, ever. I once asked her out on a date, and she said no. That might have made conversation uncomfortable, if we'd ever spoken to each other. Vicky is now apparently living in LA and has just passed her law exams. And here I am on a Saturday night, at a Christmas disco in a boat club in the middle of nowhere, making conversation with her Mum.
Later her Mum came over to me again and asked me my name, she said she was texting her daughter and wanted to tell her she'd met me. I told her my name, and shouted after her: "She won't remember me"
I mentally prepared myself after that for what I thought the inevitable question would be; "So what are you doing now?". I considered my options: I work in insurance, which is true. I work in marketing, which is no longer true but I would rather it, and consider this just a temporary set-back. Or just be more economical and say "I'm an artist".
I do consider myself an artist. I'm a writer and a photographer. Although I do neither professionally, and neither is likely to ever be profession, that doesn't make them less true. Last night, however, I was going to say I was a sculptor. I don't know why this idea is lodged in my subconscious, I've had dreams before where I've been at parties or whatever and told people I'm a sculptor. I guess I just really want to be an artist. Some people tell me to "just do it then". But you can't just decide to be a sculptor -- especially if you already know you suck. I would paint watercolours, but I can't draw worth shit -- and sculpting things, actually making them? Let's just say there are children who would laugh at my efforts.
I'm still going to tell people I'm an artist, though.
Last night was another one of those sorts of nights. The kind of Saturday night where you find yourself at a boat club at the end of a very long and very dark country road, in a very small town. At a Christmas disco, DJ'd by the half-deaf, semi-retarded older brother of a boy you once went to school with but with whom you were never friends.
His whole family are moving -- although the boy I once went to school with now lives in a trailer somewhere in the Midwest USA -- and it was to be the last ever disco this guy would ever do. Jon has to work with him, and despite saying we were going because there was no excuse not to go, I think we all went because we knew how much it would mean.
The boat club was like one of those extended family gatherings, but instead of your family the room is filled with badly-ageing strangers.
We stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, since all the chairs and tables had long ago been taken. Aware of people looking at us and wondering who we were. The bar was cheap, but deservedly so -- the pints of lager tasted strange. The first pint of Stella tasted decidedly like pineapple. My friends switched to large measures of house vodka, I drank bottles of Spanish lager.
At one point, a lady I'd never met came over to me and asked if I would like to sign this card she had. A card for the guy who was the DJ: it was his birthday as well that night. I might have bought him a card had I known, but more likely I would have thought about it and forgotten anyway. But sure, I said, I'd sign it -- and followed her over to a table to lean on and sign it.
We got talking; "How do you know John?" she asked "Are you a friend of his? I don't know who is and who isn't, here"
"I went to school with his brother", I told her
"How old is Paul now?" she wanted to know, and I told her he was 25/26
She started asking me questions about school, about who my tutors had been and mentioned who her daughter was.
Vicky. Pretty, but quiet is how I remember her. We sat next to each other in our French class, and I don't think we had a single conversation, ever. I once asked her out on a date, and she said no. That might have made conversation uncomfortable, if we'd ever spoken to each other. Vicky is now apparently living in LA and has just passed her law exams. And here I am on a Saturday night, at a Christmas disco in a boat club in the middle of nowhere, making conversation with her Mum.
Later her Mum came over to me again and asked me my name, she said she was texting her daughter and wanted to tell her she'd met me. I told her my name, and shouted after her: "She won't remember me"
I mentally prepared myself after that for what I thought the inevitable question would be; "So what are you doing now?". I considered my options: I work in insurance, which is true. I work in marketing, which is no longer true but I would rather it, and consider this just a temporary set-back. Or just be more economical and say "I'm an artist".
I do consider myself an artist. I'm a writer and a photographer. Although I do neither professionally, and neither is likely to ever be profession, that doesn't make them less true. Last night, however, I was going to say I was a sculptor. I don't know why this idea is lodged in my subconscious, I've had dreams before where I've been at parties or whatever and told people I'm a sculptor. I guess I just really want to be an artist. Some people tell me to "just do it then". But you can't just decide to be a sculptor -- especially if you already know you suck. I would paint watercolours, but I can't draw worth shit -- and sculpting things, actually making them? Let's just say there are children who would laugh at my efforts.
I'm still going to tell people I'm an artist, though.
Saturday 16 December 2006
They said there'd be snow this Christmas, they said there'd be peace on earth
#"They said there'd be snow at Christmas, they said there'd be peace on earth
But instead it just kept on raining, a veil of tears for the Virgin Birth"#
Greg Lake, "I Believe in Father Christmas"
Some Christmas songs annoy me. I have nothing against Christmas, and I don't hate all Christmas songs -- not working in retail helps with that -- but some songs I do dislike. My major problem -- one of the major problems, for there are several -- one of my many major problems about "Feed The World" is the line "there won't be snow in Africa this Christmas". Call me a pedant, but I like to bring up that there will be snow in Africa this Christmas, Mount Kilimanjaro is snow-capped for a start. And why should "they" care if it's Christmas if they don't follow Christianity? We may as well ask "Do they know it's Divali at all?" (even though it's not) for all the relevance it has. That said "Feed the world" is a nice message, so I appreciate the gesture.
The "commercialism" of Christmas doesn't really bother me -- commercialisation in general does bother me (ironic coming from the guy who worked in marketing and would do again), but after a while I get "outrage fatigue", being annoyed all the time. The commercialisation of "the holiday" doesn't bother me any more than the Christian hijacking of pagan festivals -- like I say, you just end up being outraged all the time.
But I heard "I Believe In Father Christmas" on the radio and it made me sad. Not annoyed or irritated or outraged. Just sad.
"They said there'd be snow this Christmas...instead it just kept on raining"
That sounds a lot like Christmas here, it doesn't snow -- it's not even particularly cold. Sometimes it snows at New Year, but generally it doesn't snow before February. And with climate change, it might just keep raining.
"They said there'd be peace on earth"
I'm not going to talk about Iraq. Or Afghanistan. Or any of the number of countries where people are declaring "to man the weapon, to heaven the victory". There is no peace on earth, instead this Christmas there is a serial killer on the streets of Suffolk, murdering prostitutes.
There's no grand point to this, no large gesture, no lasting comment on this holiday season. I enjoy giving gifts and sending cards to people I care about, I enjoy the spirit of the holiday. But it makes me sad to think about snow at Christmas and peace on earth.
Wednesday 13 December 2006
Solitude lengthens and flames
My last post was an example in itself of what I meant in the first paragraph, how the last post can seem ominous or to grow in weight and/or significance the longer it is left as my last post.
Since then I have considered posts about ice hockey -- I really, really need to start posting about the Chieftain games, but other than the score and the emotion they would be fairly short on details -- considered and rejected numerous subjects for Musical Monday, felt bored enough by work to not want to relive it in blog form later, and everything in between.
Instead I won't update about any of it. I've been having fun creating labels for my blog, then assigning them to posts -- it's not unlike with my gmail. Having to decide how many times one person has to occur before they get promoted to having their own label -- then there's competition between labels, feeling some people should have more posts than others, not wanting work to have as many, wondering if "depression" should have its own label. And if it does, which posts get labelled as such and which just get labelled "blue". Maybe there should be labels like "self-indulgent whining" and "How long has it been since she dumped you? Get over it!".
There are so many more labels needed. But I also want to upload (repost) all of my old diary-x entries. I don't believe there will ever be a viable replacement for d-x any more, I don't believe my old entries will ever see the light of day again if I don't repost them. But then maybe it's depressing to see how far I don't move on?
I have application forms for working abroad in Australia and Canada, but I hesitate. Despite hesitating because at this point I don't have the initial funds they require to start the process, I also hesitate because I'm bothered by the words "what then?" -- say I do go abroad, what do I do then? Obviously, being abroad couldn't be much worse than being here -- but what happens when I come back? It seems in England the closer you get to 30 without solid career experience, in something, the less employable you are. That's what the work experience/internship was meant to be about.
Am I scared of failing, and so instead do nothing? I want to leave, I want to get away -- but I don't want to come back a year older, with my tail between my legs with nothing solid to get my "career" on track. I don't really want to have to come back at all, but that's not really the point -- and probably not even an option. I just don't know where this leaves me. My current job is only a limited 3-month contract -- that's both a blessing and a curse, in some ways.
It strikes me sometimes as absurd that I should want to know what I'm going to do with my life -- if I look at my parents' lives, I don't think their 'careers' were what they would have said "Yes, that's what I shall do with my life", but that doesn't change a thing for me now. I always say it's Step One: Get a job. Step Two: Move out. And from there, it doesn't matter.
But maybe it should instead be "Move out" first, and then "Get a job"? Live dangerously, throw myself into the hands of the fates and see what happens.
But "what happens" so far has tended to be ending up back here, in this black hole of a town.
I'm desperately now trying to think of something to lighten the mood -- I hate it when this blog just seems to be saying "Wah! Life sucks", because it really isn't so bad. I want to capture the feeling of getting out of work and driving home -- even though it's just one day and it's a 6am start again the next morning, the feeling of driving home with my music playing and a smile on my face. Or the feeling of just playing a song I love. I need more moments like that.
Since then I have considered posts about ice hockey -- I really, really need to start posting about the Chieftain games, but other than the score and the emotion they would be fairly short on details -- considered and rejected numerous subjects for Musical Monday, felt bored enough by work to not want to relive it in blog form later, and everything in between.
Instead I won't update about any of it. I've been having fun creating labels for my blog, then assigning them to posts -- it's not unlike with my gmail. Having to decide how many times one person has to occur before they get promoted to having their own label -- then there's competition between labels, feeling some people should have more posts than others, not wanting work to have as many, wondering if "depression" should have its own label. And if it does, which posts get labelled as such and which just get labelled "blue". Maybe there should be labels like "self-indulgent whining" and "How long has it been since she dumped you? Get over it!".
There are so many more labels needed. But I also want to upload (repost) all of my old diary-x entries. I don't believe there will ever be a viable replacement for d-x any more, I don't believe my old entries will ever see the light of day again if I don't repost them. But then maybe it's depressing to see how far I don't move on?
I have application forms for working abroad in Australia and Canada, but I hesitate. Despite hesitating because at this point I don't have the initial funds they require to start the process, I also hesitate because I'm bothered by the words "what then?" -- say I do go abroad, what do I do then? Obviously, being abroad couldn't be much worse than being here -- but what happens when I come back? It seems in England the closer you get to 30 without solid career experience, in something, the less employable you are. That's what the work experience/internship was meant to be about.
Am I scared of failing, and so instead do nothing? I want to leave, I want to get away -- but I don't want to come back a year older, with my tail between my legs with nothing solid to get my "career" on track. I don't really want to have to come back at all, but that's not really the point -- and probably not even an option. I just don't know where this leaves me. My current job is only a limited 3-month contract -- that's both a blessing and a curse, in some ways.
It strikes me sometimes as absurd that I should want to know what I'm going to do with my life -- if I look at my parents' lives, I don't think their 'careers' were what they would have said "Yes, that's what I shall do with my life", but that doesn't change a thing for me now. I always say it's Step One: Get a job. Step Two: Move out. And from there, it doesn't matter.
But maybe it should instead be "Move out" first, and then "Get a job"? Live dangerously, throw myself into the hands of the fates and see what happens.
But "what happens" so far has tended to be ending up back here, in this black hole of a town.
I'm desperately now trying to think of something to lighten the mood -- I hate it when this blog just seems to be saying "Wah! Life sucks", because it really isn't so bad. I want to capture the feeling of getting out of work and driving home -- even though it's just one day and it's a 6am start again the next morning, the feeling of driving home with my music playing and a smile on my face. Or the feeling of just playing a song I love. I need more moments like that.
Saturday 9 December 2006
Regrets; I've had a few -- but then again too few to mention
Sometimes if I don't update for a few days it can start to feel like my last post is just left hanging. Like an awkward pause in conversation, and the last thing you said is left hanging in the air. A passing thought -- that any other time might not even have been noted -- seems like a final statement, a declaration to be repeated day after day. Except it's not. Whoever I was thinking of at the time of my last post (and if anyone is wondering: if you read it, it's not you), it doesn't really matter.
The trouble is, sometimes things don't seem to much move forward. You get up, you go to work, you count down to your break, to your lunch, to time to leave. The the next day, do it all again. Lather, rinse, repeat. The days are punctuated by the changing menu in the canteen.
Financially, I still feel like I'm struggling although my friends think my concerns are unfounded -- Jon laughed at me when I said how much (or how little, to his mind) I had on my credit cards. I like to point out when they start to say I'm lucky that I only have so comparably little on them because of the fucking chavs who broke my jaw and the subsequent compensation pay out. I sometimes wonder if I could go back and relive that night, if I would do it differently. Would I cross the road and avoid them, and so miss out on being beaten to within an inch of my life and the resulting agoraphobia in the days that followed. But keep the debts. Or would I do it the same again, knowing that I'd survive what happened and would be able to pay off credit cards and an overdraft.
I guess the key -- as with anything in my life -- is acceptance. I can't change it. I can't change my past, or any of the number of things I regret. Sometimes before I go to sleep I quietly wish for some kind of miracle, that I'd wake up the morning I was going to Utah -- or the morning before I went to university in Derby. That I would be able to relive those last five, or seven, years. Perhaps powerless to change any international events, but able to recognise the situations when I should have done something differently.
If we could change our decisions, if we could cheat like I always did in the choose-your-own-adventure books -- by keeping my finger in the page with the decision, and returning to it to make a different choice when things went wrong -- would we be the same? Would I still be the person I am today without the experiences that happened to me?
And if I wasn't, would that necessarily be such a bad thing?
One could argue that we -- I -- have a central core, a soul, something that defines my personality. I've often rejected the idea of a soul, and I think with different experiences and circumstances my personality could mould or change and be completely different. I don't know if that's the same for everyone, and I don't know if it's a character defect -- and is even that subject to change?
The trouble is, sometimes things don't seem to much move forward. You get up, you go to work, you count down to your break, to your lunch, to time to leave. The the next day, do it all again. Lather, rinse, repeat. The days are punctuated by the changing menu in the canteen.
Financially, I still feel like I'm struggling although my friends think my concerns are unfounded -- Jon laughed at me when I said how much (or how little, to his mind) I had on my credit cards. I like to point out when they start to say I'm lucky that I only have so comparably little on them because of the fucking chavs who broke my jaw and the subsequent compensation pay out. I sometimes wonder if I could go back and relive that night, if I would do it differently. Would I cross the road and avoid them, and so miss out on being beaten to within an inch of my life and the resulting agoraphobia in the days that followed. But keep the debts. Or would I do it the same again, knowing that I'd survive what happened and would be able to pay off credit cards and an overdraft.
I guess the key -- as with anything in my life -- is acceptance. I can't change it. I can't change my past, or any of the number of things I regret. Sometimes before I go to sleep I quietly wish for some kind of miracle, that I'd wake up the morning I was going to Utah -- or the morning before I went to university in Derby. That I would be able to relive those last five, or seven, years. Perhaps powerless to change any international events, but able to recognise the situations when I should have done something differently.
If we could change our decisions, if we could cheat like I always did in the choose-your-own-adventure books -- by keeping my finger in the page with the decision, and returning to it to make a different choice when things went wrong -- would we be the same? Would I still be the person I am today without the experiences that happened to me?
And if I wasn't, would that necessarily be such a bad thing?
One could argue that we -- I -- have a central core, a soul, something that defines my personality. I've often rejected the idea of a soul, and I think with different experiences and circumstances my personality could mould or change and be completely different. I don't know if that's the same for everyone, and I don't know if it's a character defect -- and is even that subject to change?
Tuesday 5 December 2006
Thought
Do you ever have friends -- real life friends -- that you don't see very often and instead you only get to chat to them online or exchange text messages and sometimes... maybe it's you or maybe it's the air pressure or maybe it's nothing. But sometimes you just feel like you can't even remember why you are friends because they only annoy you.
And it's weird because you can go through whole stretches of just feeling irritated by them or feeling nothing about them.
And you know that when you'll see them next, and you do know it's a when-not-if, you know when you see them that it will be good. You will remember all the good things about each other and why you are friends and feel you should do it more often.
But you don't.
And before you know it, you're just back to thinking "What is it I like about them, again?"
Maybe that's only me being a curmudgeon.
And it's weird because you can go through whole stretches of just feeling irritated by them or feeling nothing about them.
And you know that when you'll see them next, and you do know it's a when-not-if, you know when you see them that it will be good. You will remember all the good things about each other and why you are friends and feel you should do it more often.
But you don't.
And before you know it, you're just back to thinking "What is it I like about them, again?"
Maybe that's only me being a curmudgeon.
Monday 4 December 2006
Musical Monday (#12)
There was a time, I think it was towards the end of the 1990's, that it felt like if you set up some speakers in your garden one summer and had a couple of bands play, then Feeder would probably turn up. The Brit rock band that were two-thirds Welsh and one-third Japanese, just three friends who had formed a band. It must have been exhausting for them, pretty much any festival going and they would be there playing. I smile now to think how they would usually be one of the first bands on the bill. I remember how I first saw them with my friends in around '97 or '98, supporting Terrorvision. We saw them play in small pubs in Essex -- pubs that, granted, had once hosted bands like Pearl Jam. You could be standing at arm's reach from the band, as they played their new single. I'm all nostalgic as I remember the band when Tangerine was a new single.
As happens with these bands, somewhere along the line they were catapulted to international stardom. I remember slight feelings of betrayal when they rereleased their first full length album after it was popular -- it felt like the fans who bought it originally weren't good enough, it was rereleased with different artwork and lyrics in the liner notes and some changes to the track listing. It was rereleased with the addition of their hit single High, which we'd all bought on single specifically because it wasn't on the album.
This isn't a rant about how the band turned their back on their first fans, because I don't really think they did. It's more likely the band themselves had no control over these things -- I remember from my discussions with Terrorvision being surprised how little control bands can sometimes have. You can ask old members of Terrorvision now if there's any plans to release their videos on DVD, and they'll tell you EMI own the rights to the videos, you'll have to ask them instead.
Feeder had a winning formula -- they came along at a good time for British music, riding a wave of indie rock with bands like Stereophonics, mixing catchy hooks with intelligent lyrics, and driving guitars with a live intensity that was hard to rival. And while the industry might have cooled to rock and the "Cool Britannia" wave broke and rolled back, Feeder still managed to stay ahead of the game. They might have opted to go a little more commercial -- songs like Buck Rogers were like a completely different band from their origins with Stereo World -- but sometimes you need to decide for yourself how much commercial success you want.
Things seemed to change after the suicide of drummer Jon Lee, in 2002. Although sometimes live there would be a second guitarist, Jon was one of the original three that made Feeder -- and I think the band came close to breaking up. But after a while they came back with a new album, Comfort in Sound. It was like a rebirth. It was grown up, sad, introspective -- the loss of Grant Nicholas' friend was obvious in his song writing, but with songs like Come Back Around and Just The Way I'm Feeling, it was some of the best songs the band had ever written. There were no three-minute catchy pop songs to bounce along to here, but as I say it is probably the best album they have ever made.
Ironically, perhaps, a b-side to "Just A Day" -- one of the band's big, singalong hits -- was a cover of "I Can't Stand Losing You". But interestingly the band chose not to sing the last line "I guess you'd call it suicide, but I'm too full to swallow my pride" -- I'm fairly sure this was made before Jon's death.
It's hard not to know who Feeder are any more, they have gone from playing first on the bill at festivals and pubs around the country, to headlining at Cardiff's Millennium Stadium.
I include today their third single and still my favourite song, Cement. This song didn't make it onto their "singles" compilation.
Feeder- Cement.mp3
Friday 1 December 2006
It's the wrong kind of place to be thinking of you
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This is something that should ideally be saved for Musical Monday, but I love the song too much to wait. 9 Crimes, by Damien Rice, is perhaps the most ridiculously-heartbreaking song I have heard in a long time -- beating even Mr Rice's own Cheers Darling.
Leonard Cohen should cover the song, just for added sadness.
It seems quite fitting that I'm also currently reading Nick Hornby's A Long Way Down. Luckily for me I'm reasonably emotionally robust at the moment. And there's no sharp objects near me at work.
Work? What's to say? Yelled at by some arsehole today whose claim wasn't even going to be validated, just because he wanted a new phone and we didn't get the claim form he faxed us. I was close to losing my temper with him, which is unusual. I'm a pretty even-tempered kind of person, but I have a darkness that scares even myself so I try not to let myself go.
I managed to find my wallet this morning, in the stupid bloody car. If it hadn't been light last night I might have been able to find it then, but moving the seats in the dark hadn't helped. This morning, I moved the passenger seat forwards and there was my wallet. Good that it's not lost, bad that I didn't find it before I cancelled all my cards.
I was discussing films over lunch today. The pretty girl sat next to me and I were expressing our love for Natural Born Killers and True Romance, and most of the rest of Tarantino's work (directed or not, as the case is with those two). The conversation moved onto the film The Basketball Diaries. This one guy hailed it as DiCaprio's best role, but although I haven't seen ...Diaries I said I felt The Departed was probably his best. I then brought up The Motorcycle Diaries -- because it had a similar title -- and asked my coworker, who was still banging on about DiCaprio, if he'd seen it.
He laughed, like I had told a joke, and in your fucking annoying boy-way said why would he want to see that? "It's about two blokes and a motorbike, innit?" I told him, actually it's an autobiographical account of the revolutionary Che Guevara's travels around South America. Not the same thing. He still didn't see the appeal. I mentioned it was in Spanish, and that was even funnier to him, it seemed.
What really topped it off for him and this other guy was when I mentioned I liked watching Spanish films -- my favourite being el Mariarchi. It was apparently uproariously funny that I don't speak Spanish. I pointed out the films are subtitled, and if I could give an award for the most stupid comment ever made, this guy would be high in the running.
"What's the point of that?" He said "You might as well just read a book."
I pause here to let that statement sink in.
Is anyone really so dense that they can't tell the difference between a subtitled film, and reading a book? As someone who had clearly never watched a film in a language other than English, I attempted to explain to him that -- believe it or not -- films made in other countries can have very different styles to American or English films. Spanish films are stylistically different to French films, Japanese films are different to Chinese films. I'm hardly a connoisseur of world cinema, and I can't say I have ever really ventured much of the beaten path of the mainstream, but it's clear enough to me. And besides any of that, I said, I love how Spanish sounds...
This weekend I have the house to myself again -- just me and the cat. Giving me time to fire off some job applications for work in journalism, and some speculative letters to work in PR. It's funny to me how I'm trying to play both sides -- my respective letters to each saying that I have experience of both sides of the coin, and now know where my heart belongs. And just to make things confusing, I'm thinking of looking work in a zoo. And looking to move to Canada.
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