I described last week's Chieftain's game as "scrappy", I believe -- although the Chieftains won, and that was what counted, their game was disappointing. This week the inevitable happened, and they lost.
The Milton Keynes Lightning had with them a vociferous army of supporters, banging their drums and dancing. Yes, dancing. It was that level of depravity.
The first period appeared to be passing again without score -- until the Lightning struck with two goals in relatively quick succession.
The Chieftains went into the second period on the back foot, but we tried to remain optimistic -- "It will just make their crushing defeat more humiliating" I said, and Jon reminded us of a game a few weeks back that started slowly, then saw the Chieftains fight back from a disadvantage to winning with a handsome margin.
Then in the opening minutes of the second period the Lightning scored again.
3 - 0 was not insurmountable. If any further goals could be prevented, a humiliating home defeat could be avoided.
It looked good, it really did. Further attacks were fought off, and the Chieftains seem to play well when you put the screws on them. Before long, instead of trailing 3 - 0, the Chieftains had closed the gap to just 3 - 2.
But there it stayed. There were penalties and sustained attacks on the goal, but the Chieftains just didn't get it together enough. The buzzer sounded, and before the drums of the Lightning had even faded we were leaving in disgust. There's always next week.
Tuesday, 30 January 2007
Sunday, 28 January 2007
Take my love, take my land
Today was a classic example of me. I was stood in the pub after work with my colleagues when one guy -- whom I like, and think he's cool -- asked me if I was interested in football. I was beginning to tell him no, not really, and would have steered the conversation round to ice hockey, when my well-meaning colleague Rhiannydd told him "He supports Derby County!". This is generally what I tell people to avoid talking about football, they're a Championship League team -- which means their games aren't big or ever really on television, and they're not even very good. I only say I support them because I still feel like Derby is sort of home. Steve apparently knows more about football then most people because he then turns to me and says "You're doing very well, I hear! Aren't you top of the division?". All I could say was, "I don't know, are we?" which made me look more than a little silly. My idea of supporting a team and every other football fan in the world's definition are obviously quite different. But I also wear my Coyotes jersey to the hockey every week, and couldn't even tell you who they have played recently. I guess I'm just never really going to be a "sport" person.
We were all sat around a short while later and another of my colleagues turns to me and asks me what my interests are, outside of work, since he said he didn't know anything about me. I'm generally a very quiet person, in a lot of social situations I'm happy to sit back and observe and listen, then force myself to the front or talk about myself. But I know that I am an interesting person, with several facets to who I am and some varied interests -- so I was secretly pleased to have an opportunity to talk a little bit about it. I didn't get very far, you never do in these sorts of situations, because someone will score a goal on the television or something and the moment will be gone and the conversation will take another turn. But it's only when someone asks me about myself that I ever really think about who I am. Don't fear, though, this isn't another post about feeling ordinary. In fact, that's sort of where that train of thought ends -- I've been over the same ground over and over before, about not knowing if there is part of us that makes us who we 'are'.
Work continues to be just...work. It's less interesting than working in PR, but better paid (in that I'm being paid at all) and less stressful, since there isn't much for me to screw up. It still bugs me when customers are mean, and I still don't enjoy declining a lot of claims. The job isn't what I want to be doing, but for now it's enough to keep my head above water and there isn't really anything else in the pipeline.
If I'm going to make this a general, rambling post I should probably mention girls. Except that's kind of all there is to mention. It was Fiona's birthday yesterday, and I sent her a card -- somewhere along the lines with her, over the years, I've got into a tradition of buying ordinary cards and then trying to write something funny about them. Rather than just buying a card that's supposed to be "funny". This year I bought her a card with a National Geographic picture of a couple of cheetahs. I didn't really think there would be much to say about it that would be amusing, but the caption I provided went something along the lines of "the cheetah on the left is saying to the one on the right 'if you tell me that joke about the two lions eating a clown one more time, I swear I will bite you'". Make of it what you will, but Fi said she liked it. I've no idea what, if anything she did to celebrate her birthday this year. Amusingly, I had a dream the other night she was dating a floppy-fringed emo boy called Ross. I've no idea where that came from, since her boyfriend is none of those things. On the other hand, there's San and there again is not a lot to say -- she leaves to go teach in Japan sometime in March. I think there's more with San than is spoken out loud -- a couple of weeks back when I saw her, apparently her Mum had later said to her "You still like him, don't you?". San tried to be all casual like "Of course I like him, he's my friend" but knew what she meant.
When San told me about it, I said to her that it didn't really matter any more -- because sometimes just liking someone isn't enough, when you've tried that relationship over and over again, and every time it fails. You can still like someone but know you are just terrible together.
In a wholly unrelated conversation the other day, I told her how I was watching Firefly for the first time and I liked it. She'd told me before that her boyfriend had made her watch it, and she didn't like it -- not because she didn't like it, but because he'd gone on about it so much, she was sick of it and didn't want to like it. She replied to my message that she did like it too, really, she just pretends not to.
"You pretend too much" I told her.
What else? There are...others on my mind. But I'm going to refrain from writing about them, for now, until things are a little clearer.
That about ticks all the boxes, right? Girls, work, random pop culture references and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning.
We were all sat around a short while later and another of my colleagues turns to me and asks me what my interests are, outside of work, since he said he didn't know anything about me. I'm generally a very quiet person, in a lot of social situations I'm happy to sit back and observe and listen, then force myself to the front or talk about myself. But I know that I am an interesting person, with several facets to who I am and some varied interests -- so I was secretly pleased to have an opportunity to talk a little bit about it. I didn't get very far, you never do in these sorts of situations, because someone will score a goal on the television or something and the moment will be gone and the conversation will take another turn. But it's only when someone asks me about myself that I ever really think about who I am. Don't fear, though, this isn't another post about feeling ordinary. In fact, that's sort of where that train of thought ends -- I've been over the same ground over and over before, about not knowing if there is part of us that makes us who we 'are'.
Work continues to be just...work. It's less interesting than working in PR, but better paid (in that I'm being paid at all) and less stressful, since there isn't much for me to screw up. It still bugs me when customers are mean, and I still don't enjoy declining a lot of claims. The job isn't what I want to be doing, but for now it's enough to keep my head above water and there isn't really anything else in the pipeline.
If I'm going to make this a general, rambling post I should probably mention girls. Except that's kind of all there is to mention. It was Fiona's birthday yesterday, and I sent her a card -- somewhere along the lines with her, over the years, I've got into a tradition of buying ordinary cards and then trying to write something funny about them. Rather than just buying a card that's supposed to be "funny". This year I bought her a card with a National Geographic picture of a couple of cheetahs. I didn't really think there would be much to say about it that would be amusing, but the caption I provided went something along the lines of "the cheetah on the left is saying to the one on the right 'if you tell me that joke about the two lions eating a clown one more time, I swear I will bite you'". Make of it what you will, but Fi said she liked it. I've no idea what, if anything she did to celebrate her birthday this year. Amusingly, I had a dream the other night she was dating a floppy-fringed emo boy called Ross. I've no idea where that came from, since her boyfriend is none of those things. On the other hand, there's San and there again is not a lot to say -- she leaves to go teach in Japan sometime in March. I think there's more with San than is spoken out loud -- a couple of weeks back when I saw her, apparently her Mum had later said to her "You still like him, don't you?". San tried to be all casual like "Of course I like him, he's my friend" but knew what she meant.
When San told me about it, I said to her that it didn't really matter any more -- because sometimes just liking someone isn't enough, when you've tried that relationship over and over again, and every time it fails. You can still like someone but know you are just terrible together.
In a wholly unrelated conversation the other day, I told her how I was watching Firefly for the first time and I liked it. She'd told me before that her boyfriend had made her watch it, and she didn't like it -- not because she didn't like it, but because he'd gone on about it so much, she was sick of it and didn't want to like it. She replied to my message that she did like it too, really, she just pretends not to.
"You pretend too much" I told her.
What else? There are...others on my mind. But I'm going to refrain from writing about them, for now, until things are a little clearer.
That about ticks all the boxes, right? Girls, work, random pop culture references and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning.
Wednesday, 24 January 2007
First snow of the year
Aurore Sandeau said recently she felt there should be a word for the first snow of the year, it's a beautiful concept and one I wholeheartedly support. If any Inuits read my blog, enquiring minds want to know what the word is. So yes, after something like 4 hours sleep I got up for work this morning, opened the curtains and saw the first dusting of powder this year. It's been so unseasonably warm to date, I had wondered if it was ever going to snow again -- which was daft, really, since it almost always without fail snows in February.
Yesterday, I took a day's holiday from work -- San and I had tickets to see Ben Folds, so originally I planned to just finish work early -- this changed however when I arranged a job interview for the morning, and it made sense to combine the trips. Unfortunately, on Monday I got a phone call to say my interview was cancelled because the position had been filled, but I figured I'd still take the whole day off -- I'd made plans, dammit. And, as planned, I headed into London early -- to buy cuff links, of all things. I also needed to buy a pair of gloves, I had checked a couple of local charity shops first, since I had some romantic notion about buying second hand gloves and imagining the stories of their previous wearers. Typically, I couldn't find any. Oxford Street was bitterly cold and I wished I had worn a scarf as I trudged up and down the road. At one point I was stopped by a monk -- you could tell he was a monk from the shaved head and the gown -- who introduced himself to me. I said hi, and asked how he was, and he enthusiastically asked if I was Irish. Confused, I told him I wasn't. Unfazed, he told me he was selling books on yoga -- and showed me one such book. I told him, "Thanks, but I'm good for books on yoga right now". The rest was uneventful; I found some gloves relatively cheaply and settled on a pair of obsidian set cuff links. I also bought a birthday card for Fiona. I met San on Oxford Street about 1, as she'd said she had errands to run and would meet me. I secretly hoped that her errands involved buying me a belated Christmas present, or an early birthday present. But if they were, she kept it very quiet.
San and I played scrabble most of the afternoon and watched music channels on the TV with the sound turned down.
The gig itself was good, if not exactly amazing or life-changing -- I wasn't a huge fan to begin with, and only agreed to go because San asked if I wanted to and since I was saying "yes" more. Off-topic, the "say yes more" thing? It's not easy. I'm reluctant to closely follow Danny Wallace's example, since I feel it was more luck than judgement that after running up several large credit card bills he still lived happily ever after. I've reluctantly said no to many things, Madame Boffin invited me on a month-long pilgrimage along the Spain/France border, but I had to turn it down as I can't afford to take a month off work. I frequently still say "no" to charity muggers, to junkies asking if I can "spare some change", and to phone calls asking if I want to work in media sales. I also ashamedly say no to going to the pub on a weeknight when I have to be up at 6am for work the next day. Or if I'm going to the gym that night.
But back on topic, San invited me to Ben Folds so I said yes. The music was catchy and quirky enough to hold my interest, even if I barely knew any of his solo stuff. Perhaps predictably, the crowd seemed more enthusiastic about his old Ben Folds Five material than his solo work. Support came from the eccentric Clem Snide, described as "alt.country/indie-pop" and named after the novel Naked Lunch, the particular highlights for me were the songs "I Wasn't Really Drunk", and "The Ballad of David Icke".
When I eventually got to my car, it was gone 1am and I had to chisel it out from a block of ice, I'd also parked in the farthest reaches of the station car park to make the walk that much colder. I rolled into bed about 1.30, and woke this morning to the snow...
Yesterday, I took a day's holiday from work -- San and I had tickets to see Ben Folds, so originally I planned to just finish work early -- this changed however when I arranged a job interview for the morning, and it made sense to combine the trips. Unfortunately, on Monday I got a phone call to say my interview was cancelled because the position had been filled, but I figured I'd still take the whole day off -- I'd made plans, dammit. And, as planned, I headed into London early -- to buy cuff links, of all things. I also needed to buy a pair of gloves, I had checked a couple of local charity shops first, since I had some romantic notion about buying second hand gloves and imagining the stories of their previous wearers. Typically, I couldn't find any. Oxford Street was bitterly cold and I wished I had worn a scarf as I trudged up and down the road. At one point I was stopped by a monk -- you could tell he was a monk from the shaved head and the gown -- who introduced himself to me. I said hi, and asked how he was, and he enthusiastically asked if I was Irish. Confused, I told him I wasn't. Unfazed, he told me he was selling books on yoga -- and showed me one such book. I told him, "Thanks, but I'm good for books on yoga right now". The rest was uneventful; I found some gloves relatively cheaply and settled on a pair of obsidian set cuff links. I also bought a birthday card for Fiona. I met San on Oxford Street about 1, as she'd said she had errands to run and would meet me. I secretly hoped that her errands involved buying me a belated Christmas present, or an early birthday present. But if they were, she kept it very quiet.
San and I played scrabble most of the afternoon and watched music channels on the TV with the sound turned down.
The gig itself was good, if not exactly amazing or life-changing -- I wasn't a huge fan to begin with, and only agreed to go because San asked if I wanted to and since I was saying "yes" more. Off-topic, the "say yes more" thing? It's not easy. I'm reluctant to closely follow Danny Wallace's example, since I feel it was more luck than judgement that after running up several large credit card bills he still lived happily ever after. I've reluctantly said no to many things, Madame Boffin invited me on a month-long pilgrimage along the Spain/France border, but I had to turn it down as I can't afford to take a month off work. I frequently still say "no" to charity muggers, to junkies asking if I can "spare some change", and to phone calls asking if I want to work in media sales. I also ashamedly say no to going to the pub on a weeknight when I have to be up at 6am for work the next day. Or if I'm going to the gym that night.
But back on topic, San invited me to Ben Folds so I said yes. The music was catchy and quirky enough to hold my interest, even if I barely knew any of his solo stuff. Perhaps predictably, the crowd seemed more enthusiastic about his old Ben Folds Five material than his solo work. Support came from the eccentric Clem Snide, described as "alt.country/indie-pop" and named after the novel Naked Lunch, the particular highlights for me were the songs "I Wasn't Really Drunk", and "The Ballad of David Icke".
When I eventually got to my car, it was gone 1am and I had to chisel it out from a block of ice, I'd also parked in the farthest reaches of the station car park to make the walk that much colder. I rolled into bed about 1.30, and woke this morning to the snow...
Monday, 22 January 2007
Musical Monday (#14)
Did anyone really ever "invent" punk? They call Iggy Pop the "Godfather of punk", but aside from embracing the do-it-yourself-attitude, the likes of the Stooges and the MC5 had very little in common with the British punk scene.The Sex Pistols in their prime were considered a threat to society, which isn't bad for some half-talented teenagers who just want to be in a band. They were cleverly and shrewdly managed and marketed, but really as with many of these bands it was the right time and the right place, and they expressed the anger and frustration of their generation.
For the record, I don't consider Sid Vicious to ever have really been a proper member of the Sex Pistols -- he wasn't involved with writing or making "Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's the Sex Pistols", and only joined the band after Glen Matlock left. Sid Vicious was about an image, about the bandwagon of punk and the cashing in.
"Never Mind the Bollocks..." is an album I can still play and don't consider it to sound particularly dated -- it doesn't sound as out of place like the 80s electro that eventually followed, or the prog rock epics that preceded it. Granted, the stripped-down sound has its place, and has been copied and adapted many times over -- and it wasn't necessarily a great feat of musical genius to begin with. I remember once thinking what a classic example of bad lyric writing the song "Bodies" was, with lyrics like "Her name was Pauline, she lived in a tree" -- until I found out the band really did know a girl named Pauline, from Birmingham, who lived in a tree.
Some of the songs do seem to run deeper, with songs like "Pretty Vacant" -- which you could speculate is either an attack on other bands of the time, or a rebuke against an assumption they must be stupid themselves. And there's "God Save The Queen" -- perhaps carrying as much weight today as it did in the 70s, with the royal family seeming to be increasingly obsolete.
It seems fitting I should post the song that caused the band so much trouble and so much controversy. I used to start a college radio show at the University of Utah every week with this song...
Sunday, 21 January 2007
I predict a riot
I've been threatening a hockey post for weeks, so here you are -- what might become a weekly slot, if there is enough to write about.
Tonight saw another home win for the Chieftains -- but what should have been a comfortable game against the Barons was instead scrappy and low-scoring. A first period with no goals at all hardly had the crowd on their feet, and the usual drums were strangely quietly as the fans had little to sing for.
A low-scoring game shouldn't necessarily make for an uninteresting one, but the Chieftains didn't seem on top of their game -- frequently losing their possession, and fouling up shots at the net. Things got worse as the Barons drew first blood with a lucky goal. There was the usual penalties for and against both times -- the usual refs with no idea what was actually going on, and several opportunities where it looked like there would be blood on the ice before the night was through.
Energy was low, even moving into the third period -- what usually spurs the Chieftain boys into an aggressive counter-strike this evening seemed to do little to encourage them. Everything changed when Randall evened the score, and suddenly with everything to play for we realised that we could still win this tonight. A 1-0 lead was hardly insurmountable, I've seen them recover spectacularly from far worse, but it was the equalising goal that I think the team needed to show them.
The Barons should never have been a match for the Chieftains, the game was stop-start all night, and I think the two combined are what made it seem so washed-out. It could have gone either way, but the victory was sealed by Palov's goal in the second half of the last period. With only 9 minutes remaining on the clock, the Baron's seemed to take the familiar approach of looking for trouble. They could still have equalised -- you could tell everyone there felt it, just as there was going to be tears before bedtime.
Despite a penalty in the closing minutes, the Chieftains secured their win -- but even with the game won, a fight broke out and it seemed like someone wasn't going to be happy without settling their own score...
Tonight saw another home win for the Chieftains -- but what should have been a comfortable game against the Barons was instead scrappy and low-scoring. A first period with no goals at all hardly had the crowd on their feet, and the usual drums were strangely quietly as the fans had little to sing for.
A low-scoring game shouldn't necessarily make for an uninteresting one, but the Chieftains didn't seem on top of their game -- frequently losing their possession, and fouling up shots at the net. Things got worse as the Barons drew first blood with a lucky goal. There was the usual penalties for and against both times -- the usual refs with no idea what was actually going on, and several opportunities where it looked like there would be blood on the ice before the night was through.
Energy was low, even moving into the third period -- what usually spurs the Chieftain boys into an aggressive counter-strike this evening seemed to do little to encourage them. Everything changed when Randall evened the score, and suddenly with everything to play for we realised that we could still win this tonight. A 1-0 lead was hardly insurmountable, I've seen them recover spectacularly from far worse, but it was the equalising goal that I think the team needed to show them.
The Barons should never have been a match for the Chieftains, the game was stop-start all night, and I think the two combined are what made it seem so washed-out. It could have gone either way, but the victory was sealed by Palov's goal in the second half of the last period. With only 9 minutes remaining on the clock, the Baron's seemed to take the familiar approach of looking for trouble. They could still have equalised -- you could tell everyone there felt it, just as there was going to be tears before bedtime.
Despite a penalty in the closing minutes, the Chieftains secured their win -- but even with the game won, a fight broke out and it seemed like someone wasn't going to be happy without settling their own score...
Tuesday, 16 January 2007
Something better change
I missed Musical Monday yesterday, I realise -- I had planned a post about Afghan Whigs and their Black Love album, but I couldn't think of a suitable simile for Greg Dulli's voice. But mostly I just wasn't motivated enough, and went to the gym instead.
This morning I woke from confused dreams regarding travel. The details are neither very interesting, nor very clear, but in my dream I couldn't remember where I was meant to be going. I knew I was going somewhere, just not where. That's probably symbolic of something in my life.
I was blogging at work today -- writing in notepad when I should have been taking FSA tests about money laundering and anti-trust laws. The post, although hardly written, was going to focus on how I felt unhappy today and wasn't sure why. But I've had a sort of shift of focus, following the comment from Chosha on an earlier post. Although I wasn't sure about the tone, it occurred to me that was the whole point of what she was trying to tell me. It's something I forget; that we have a degree of choice in how we feel. Now, I could choose to be offended -- just as I chose to believe San only called me because her boyfriend or whoever weren't available. I could just as easily choose to think she called me because she cares about me, values our friendship and that she missed me.
Almost exactly a year, I was having what I was calling a "quarter-century crisis" -- that I was turning 25, single, still living at home and working as a bar tender for minimum wage. I was frustrated and unhappy. What changed was that I found a mind-programming technique and realised how great I truly am. Fair enough, the feeling didn't last -- but that is because I stopped using it. Nobody gave me a lobotomy, or waved a magic wand and changed my brain chemistry -- I just chose to feel good about myself.
I often tell the same story, but there was a time I was depressed and on some quite strong medication for it. The medication didn't make me feel any happier -- and so the dosage would be increased -- but I ended up sort of dependent on it, in order to avoid the side-effects that came with not taking it. But in the end, I did stop -- with my doctor's permission, I realised I was no better for the medication and could do better with diet, exercise, sleep and some actual effort on my part. It was an interesting idea, and one that is far too easy to abandon when it's too much like hard work.
It's January, and naturally I'm out of shape. But following my "...Ordinary" post, I did realise that it's up to me to change what I don't like. I won't wake up one day to find I'm suddenly different (short of being bitten by a radioactive spider), so in the words of the Stranglers -- something better change. I'm working on getting back into shape again, and it can be demoralising to see where I previously got to and where I have sunk to. But dwelling on it won't help me, won't inspire me to work harder -- and the same does go for my emotional well being.
I need to take some responsibility again, which I think is what Chosha was trying to tell me. I can choose to think all kinds of things about San, and me, and whatever -- just as I can choose to think of any number of reasons why Fi doesn't want to see me any more, since I last met her. It's up to me; I can wallow and convince myself I am infectious human waste, or I can do something about it. This isn't yet a "mark your calendars, today I changed" post, but I recognise what needs to change.
This morning I woke from confused dreams regarding travel. The details are neither very interesting, nor very clear, but in my dream I couldn't remember where I was meant to be going. I knew I was going somewhere, just not where. That's probably symbolic of something in my life.
I was blogging at work today -- writing in notepad when I should have been taking FSA tests about money laundering and anti-trust laws. The post, although hardly written, was going to focus on how I felt unhappy today and wasn't sure why. But I've had a sort of shift of focus, following the comment from Chosha on an earlier post. Although I wasn't sure about the tone, it occurred to me that was the whole point of what she was trying to tell me. It's something I forget; that we have a degree of choice in how we feel. Now, I could choose to be offended -- just as I chose to believe San only called me because her boyfriend or whoever weren't available. I could just as easily choose to think she called me because she cares about me, values our friendship and that she missed me.
Almost exactly a year, I was having what I was calling a "quarter-century crisis" -- that I was turning 25, single, still living at home and working as a bar tender for minimum wage. I was frustrated and unhappy. What changed was that I found a mind-programming technique and realised how great I truly am. Fair enough, the feeling didn't last -- but that is because I stopped using it. Nobody gave me a lobotomy, or waved a magic wand and changed my brain chemistry -- I just chose to feel good about myself.
I often tell the same story, but there was a time I was depressed and on some quite strong medication for it. The medication didn't make me feel any happier -- and so the dosage would be increased -- but I ended up sort of dependent on it, in order to avoid the side-effects that came with not taking it. But in the end, I did stop -- with my doctor's permission, I realised I was no better for the medication and could do better with diet, exercise, sleep and some actual effort on my part. It was an interesting idea, and one that is far too easy to abandon when it's too much like hard work.
It's January, and naturally I'm out of shape. But following my "...Ordinary" post, I did realise that it's up to me to change what I don't like. I won't wake up one day to find I'm suddenly different (short of being bitten by a radioactive spider), so in the words of the Stranglers -- something better change. I'm working on getting back into shape again, and it can be demoralising to see where I previously got to and where I have sunk to. But dwelling on it won't help me, won't inspire me to work harder -- and the same does go for my emotional well being.
I need to take some responsibility again, which I think is what Chosha was trying to tell me. I can choose to think all kinds of things about San, and me, and whatever -- just as I can choose to think of any number of reasons why Fi doesn't want to see me any more, since I last met her. It's up to me; I can wallow and convince myself I am infectious human waste, or I can do something about it. This isn't yet a "mark your calendars, today I changed" post, but I recognise what needs to change.
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(copied and pasted entirely from an email today -- this will probably send my google hits soaring, even without porn)
Sunday, 14 January 2007
Wealth and fame, he's ignored; action is his reward
I'm reluctant to post this for similar reasons to why I am sometimes eager to post something new. Sometimes I need to update more, otherwise my last past can seem like a lasting statement -- when it was merely a passing thought. Likewise, I don't yet want to shift the focus away from my last post (as lacking in actual substance as it was).
But just the same, I'm self indulgent enough to want to post today with little more than just bits, pieces and stuff.
Before I dive straight in, I wanted to counter-balance the last post and open up for discussion this piece: The remote Himalayan kingdom of Bhutan is the only country in the world which puts happiness at the heart of government policy.
I wrote -- posted, ranted -- a few weeks back about San's new-found interests with her new boyfriend, and while I didn't miss her or want her back, it grated on me. When I saw her last week and we'd both had enough to drink to just talk completely freely, I told her how I felt about it. She said it was about her trying to be a better, different, more interesting person that was inspiring her to do these things. She also mentioned that it must have been very difficult dating her, sometimes.
Less than two days later she texted me to tell me how she'd just been rock climbing. Unable to just be enthusiastic for her, I replied with "I'm sure my replacement is very proud of you". But I told her to ignore me, that I was just being jealous -- more jealous of her getting to go climbing, or of having a girl that would want to, than anything else.
Our contact is minimal during the week, here and there San complains about not having any work and I try and draw parallels to how much she hated her last job. I know the feeling, it's the same old dilemma of hating work, but also hating being out of work. Friday she emailed me -- with a message titled "Desperation" -- asking for my advice, since she was having no luck finding work. I chose not to take offence that one would have to be "desperate" to ask for my thoughts and advice, and offered what I could -- don't rely on temp agencies, look for work on your own in various places, and consider work experience. If you've not got any work you might as well do something constructive, since you're not being paid either way one will be slightly better than the other. Perhaps don't make it last 6 months like I did, but just the same it's a good idea.
Not dissimilarly, Jon has been asking me for advice recently. It's disarming for me, to be asked by Jon for advice -- he's charming, good looking, easy to get along with and generally well-liked, so it confuses me when he turns to me. This could link back to the Life Less Ordinary post and the slow realisation that followed it -- perhaps none of us are accurate judges of our own worth, or of our influence in other people's lives. It's always surprised me if Jon ever said he admired me -- or, like in this case, where he'd talk to me about his work and ask for advice. I'm hardly making a great success of my life (I frequently feel like an abject failure in most areas), and don't know what to say when he asks "What would you do, if you were me?". But perhaps he feels the same way, and has some distorted view of what he's really like.
Friday night, it was just gone 11 and I was preparing to leave the pub with my friends, when I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. It wasn't just the brief buzz of a message, but the sustained pulsing of a phone call -- I pulled out the phone, and San was calling. I don't know where she was, drunk in some club somewhere in London, but she'd decided she really wanted to call me and talk to me. We didn't talk for long, mostly because as I say she was drunk and hadn't seemed to really want anything and, before too long, people had come looking for her.
I wondered if she only called me because her boyfriend was out of town -- I remember her mentioning something like that earlier in the week. After she'd gone, I sent her a message to say thanks for calling me, it was nice to talk to her, and I jokingly said I knew she called me because nobody else was available. The following morning, I found a text message I'd received -- and apparently read -- at 1am, disputing it. It read: "Not even, I'm just drawn to you". Interesting.
In other news, I am continuing with the story. I am really just plagiarising every idea I have ever had or anything I've ever written, now basing one character's narrative style and personality on the fictional diary I used to keep. And if anyone is interested, I have decided that it is sun spot/solar flare activity that will be the cause of the highly-implausible reanimation of the dead.
But whatever, works, right?
But just the same, I'm self indulgent enough to want to post today with little more than just bits, pieces and stuff.
Before I dive straight in, I wanted to counter-balance the last post and open up for discussion this piece: The remote Himalayan kingdom of Bhutan is the only country in the world which puts happiness at the heart of government policy.
I wrote -- posted, ranted -- a few weeks back about San's new-found interests with her new boyfriend, and while I didn't miss her or want her back, it grated on me. When I saw her last week and we'd both had enough to drink to just talk completely freely, I told her how I felt about it. She said it was about her trying to be a better, different, more interesting person that was inspiring her to do these things. She also mentioned that it must have been very difficult dating her, sometimes.
Less than two days later she texted me to tell me how she'd just been rock climbing. Unable to just be enthusiastic for her, I replied with "I'm sure my replacement is very proud of you". But I told her to ignore me, that I was just being jealous -- more jealous of her getting to go climbing, or of having a girl that would want to, than anything else.
Our contact is minimal during the week, here and there San complains about not having any work and I try and draw parallels to how much she hated her last job. I know the feeling, it's the same old dilemma of hating work, but also hating being out of work. Friday she emailed me -- with a message titled "Desperation" -- asking for my advice, since she was having no luck finding work. I chose not to take offence that one would have to be "desperate" to ask for my thoughts and advice, and offered what I could -- don't rely on temp agencies, look for work on your own in various places, and consider work experience. If you've not got any work you might as well do something constructive, since you're not being paid either way one will be slightly better than the other. Perhaps don't make it last 6 months like I did, but just the same it's a good idea.
Not dissimilarly, Jon has been asking me for advice recently. It's disarming for me, to be asked by Jon for advice -- he's charming, good looking, easy to get along with and generally well-liked, so it confuses me when he turns to me. This could link back to the Life Less Ordinary post and the slow realisation that followed it -- perhaps none of us are accurate judges of our own worth, or of our influence in other people's lives. It's always surprised me if Jon ever said he admired me -- or, like in this case, where he'd talk to me about his work and ask for advice. I'm hardly making a great success of my life (I frequently feel like an abject failure in most areas), and don't know what to say when he asks "What would you do, if you were me?". But perhaps he feels the same way, and has some distorted view of what he's really like.
Friday night, it was just gone 11 and I was preparing to leave the pub with my friends, when I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. It wasn't just the brief buzz of a message, but the sustained pulsing of a phone call -- I pulled out the phone, and San was calling. I don't know where she was, drunk in some club somewhere in London, but she'd decided she really wanted to call me and talk to me. We didn't talk for long, mostly because as I say she was drunk and hadn't seemed to really want anything and, before too long, people had come looking for her.
I wondered if she only called me because her boyfriend was out of town -- I remember her mentioning something like that earlier in the week. After she'd gone, I sent her a message to say thanks for calling me, it was nice to talk to her, and I jokingly said I knew she called me because nobody else was available. The following morning, I found a text message I'd received -- and apparently read -- at 1am, disputing it. It read: "Not even, I'm just drawn to you". Interesting.
In other news, I am continuing with the story. I am really just plagiarising every idea I have ever had or anything I've ever written, now basing one character's narrative style and personality on the fictional diary I used to keep. And if anyone is interested, I have decided that it is sun spot/solar flare activity that will be the cause of the highly-implausible reanimation of the dead.
But whatever, works, right?
Friday, 12 January 2007
Running The World
All the cool kids are doing it -- no not anal piercing, but commenting on the fucktard Bush's plans for Iraq. Rather than post something insightful and intelligent, I felt this was a good opportunity to wheel out Jarvis. I think he says it better than I can.
smash the system.
Wednesday, 10 January 2007
Musings
Yesterday morning, I woke from a vivid dream about zombies. It's rare for me to remember my dreams in any real detail, but every once in a while I will wake unexpectedly from some kind of night time theatre and think what a great story and, before going back to sleep, will resolve to write it down later. The only trouble is that in the light of day the idea will seem less fantastic. The idea loses its shine, and in days filled with boredom or frustration the whole thing gets forgotten.
But this one is different.
In my dream was a girl I haven't spoken to, or seen, in forever -- and in my dream her brother was dead. If she has an older brother, I couldn't tell you, and further more if she even does I seriously doubt if he is a heroin addict, like I saw. Both of these points were fairly incidental in the dream to the fact he was dead, but to make matters worse he had come back from the dead. I've described the idea as a kind of Night-of-the-Living-Dead-meets-Pet-Semetary.
And more or less, that's all there was to the dream, but the idea has set me off. Combining fragments of previous works -- like years ago the short story I once wrote about a bereaved boyfriend accidentally bringing his girlfriend back from the dead, and a poem (that started life as a song, back when I could play) about a girl repeatedly returning from the dead, unharmed and with no knowledge of what had happened to her. It sounds like I have some kind of obsession with the idea, but really all these things were written at completely different times and from different inspirations.
It's a funny thing, inspiration, or for me creativity, because I don't feel it comes from me. Where my creativity comes from, I don't know, but I can remember writing late into the night, just writing to get a story finished but not knowing what was going to be written until it was on the page. Like it was coming from some muse outside of myself. The same with poetry, lines or verses would come to me whole, and I'd feel like all I was doing was merely taking them down.
This story idea is completely different from my planned masterpiece about arson, revolution, art and love all bound together by the symbol of fire. I'd like to think there would be a way to combine the two ideas, but I really don't see it. The first thing is just to write this damn thing, as mentioned I have the ideas for three separate parts, which would need three distinct voices. I just need to sketch out some framework for myself, a scaffolding to stretch the ideas over as I work on them.
Fortunately, I've got the day off work today -- since I have to work on Saturday -- so aside from being über-productive and going to the gym, getting a haircut, ironing shirts for work and buying some food, I also need to write my masterpiece.
But this one is different.
In my dream was a girl I haven't spoken to, or seen, in forever -- and in my dream her brother was dead. If she has an older brother, I couldn't tell you, and further more if she even does I seriously doubt if he is a heroin addict, like I saw. Both of these points were fairly incidental in the dream to the fact he was dead, but to make matters worse he had come back from the dead. I've described the idea as a kind of Night-of-the-Living-Dead-meets-Pet-Semetary.
And more or less, that's all there was to the dream, but the idea has set me off. Combining fragments of previous works -- like years ago the short story I once wrote about a bereaved boyfriend accidentally bringing his girlfriend back from the dead, and a poem (that started life as a song, back when I could play) about a girl repeatedly returning from the dead, unharmed and with no knowledge of what had happened to her. It sounds like I have some kind of obsession with the idea, but really all these things were written at completely different times and from different inspirations.
It's a funny thing, inspiration, or for me creativity, because I don't feel it comes from me. Where my creativity comes from, I don't know, but I can remember writing late into the night, just writing to get a story finished but not knowing what was going to be written until it was on the page. Like it was coming from some muse outside of myself. The same with poetry, lines or verses would come to me whole, and I'd feel like all I was doing was merely taking them down.
This story idea is completely different from my planned masterpiece about arson, revolution, art and love all bound together by the symbol of fire. I'd like to think there would be a way to combine the two ideas, but I really don't see it. The first thing is just to write this damn thing, as mentioned I have the ideas for three separate parts, which would need three distinct voices. I just need to sketch out some framework for myself, a scaffolding to stretch the ideas over as I work on them.
Fortunately, I've got the day off work today -- since I have to work on Saturday -- so aside from being über-productive and going to the gym, getting a haircut, ironing shirts for work and buying some food, I also need to write my masterpiece.
Monday, 8 January 2007
Musical Monday (#13)
It's amazing -- even to me -- that I have been doing "Musical Monday" for however-long now, and I am yet to post about this band. I will post about Avril Lavigne and any number of other artists (and yes, she is an "artist", shut up) and yet this band holding the coveted position of my favourite band have so far been ignored.Perhaps the reason for it is there is no story. There's no memory linked to the first time I heard them, there's no tale to tell about special and personal meanings I have for particular songs. I've never seen them live, and I don't even own all of their albums. This post really is as much about one song as it is about the band.
Superman's Dead is my favourite song by Our Lady Peace, but as I can't tell you when I first heard it, or any special meaning equated to it.
The song starts quietly, and with a simple question; "Do you worry that you're not liked?" -- and it builds from there. I love the band, they remind me of a more-consistent Smashing Pumpkins, with Raine Maida having a voice not unlike Billy Corgan's -- but again, building on it, and improving on it. Parts of the song strike me as a little absurd, and I'll wonder why I like them, especially Raine's "Ow-ooo-ooo" vocals -- but it's not a cognitive thing, it's purely the emotional "Yes!" moment of a fantastic song. When a song speaks to you, not on a deep lyrical level but when it just hits the right places.
I once kept a diary called Superman's Dead, but the point was that the diary was named after the song. I don't like the song more because of it. People later equated deeper significance to it -- that I was saying Superman's dead, don't expect anyone to save you, you're on your own. I don't know and don't care if that's what the song means, it was never a conscious decision on my own part.
Depite all of the above, various lines do speak to me -- most notably parts like "An ordinary boy, an ordinary name, but ordinary's just not good enough today" and "are you worried about your faith? Kneel down and obey". Thinking more about the song, perhaps it is quite nihilist in content, perhaps it is questioning the reality behind people's façades -- and the almost under current of anger or frustration behind it.
I'm hardly a scholar and I wouldn't want to deconstruct the song. It's high in the running for "favourite song ever" (probably slightly behind Stone Temple Pilots), and that's all that really counts.
Saturday, 6 January 2007
Friday in the city
On that last post; you'll have to excuse me my random moments like that. I don't really know what had got into me that day, but I appreciate the comments from every last one of you. Interestingly enough, your comments have made me realise a couple of things; mainly that we are no judge of our own 'worth', as it were. There were comments left by brilliant, charming and capable people -- all confessing to feeling the same thing. And I would wonder why any of these people would ever consider themselves ordinary -- even if they aren't necessarily setting the world on fire. Even if I am not necessarily feeling better about my own mediocrity -- and conversely, still harbouring a secret hope that I might be a superhero -- I am getting a new perspective on things. And for that, I have you to thank -- no, not you, I know where you've been -- but the rest of you.
Moving on with business as usual, I have really managed to outdo myself at work. After an incident of lateness before Christmas -- where the powers-that-be snuck in an 8.30 start on rota, hidden among a week of 9.30 starts -- I should have been more careful. Friday I needed to take the day off for some appointments, and felt rather than call in sick it would be best to book the day officially as holiday.
I emailed my line manager, and he advised me to fill out a holiday form and leave it with someone else. Seemed easy enough; I filled out, left it with her, and even emailed her to make sure she had it. Friday morning I'm on the commuter train into the city, and my phone rings -- I say it "rings", really what it does is play "Misirlou" by Dick Dale and his Del Tones. I have a sick feeling when I know what this will be -- a call from work, asking where I am.
Getting a day off couldn't ever be as simple as just filling out a form and giving it in, could it?
"We have you down for an 8am start" they tell me
"I booked the day as holiday! I filled out a form!"
"Really? Who did you give this form to?"
"You! I gave the form to you! Yesterday!"
"The form says Friday, Dec 5"
"I know! That's today!"
"No, today is January 5..."
"Oh, shit."
It turns out they thought I was incredibly well-organised and was already booking time off for next December. I might just kill myself if I am still doing this job in December. After much discussion about how the form has to be authorised, signed, and returned to me before the requested holiday is official, I made it clear I wasn't coming into work and they grudgingly agreed to change the form and have me down as holiday. I expect they will still want an official meeting to discuss the matter with me and will probably also want to call my agency and tell them what I did. Not only will it seem like I can't read the rota properly, but that I'm also unaware what month it is.
A colleague asked me this morning if I hadn't noticed it was New Year last weekend -- I know what year it is, I told him, just apparently not which month.
The appointments with recruitment consultants were uneventful. It's already well-documented how I feel about these particular professionals, so it should come as little surprise that the day was only marginally better than being in work.
My first appointment of the day was with a consultant interested in putting me forward for an assistant role in corporate PR. Most of the appointment was taken up with me taking various tests -- spelling, typing speed & accuracy, and general computer skills. It probably could go without saying that my scores were good, but unexceptional. The meeting with the consultant herself mostly involved me just telling her the truth as it should be, rather than the truth as it is -- stuff like really wanting a job in corporate, rather than consumer, and just wanting to start at the bottom and get stuck in. Okay, so maybe I really am looking to start at the bottom and pay my dues, but mostly you just tell these people what they want to hear.
Second appointment of the day was completely different -- a guy that had contacted me and is trying to lure me into a career in insurance. Outside of call centres, naturally. I've told him I will consider it, because what I really want is transferable skills. And a proper job.
The last consultant of the day -- several hours later -- is set to finding me a role in consumer tech, but again I've said I'm open to suggestion for other positions. The meeting itself was largely unremarkable, except that ironically enough perhaps she wanted me to give her a list of 5 exceptional points I had -- in order to market me to employers.
To consider one's self to be entirely absent of outstanding qualities, and then be asked to provide evidence to the contrary is not easy. I wheeled out the usual points; exceptional writing skills -- although the consultant was disappointed I haven't been published recently (I personally thought being published at all, ever, was quite good), great people skills, but I then stalled on the third point. It's fitting that I can't even remember what my third point was. I was hoping she would forget what we were doing and I'd be able to get away with not coming up with any more -- but no such luck.
"Where are we up to? 3?" I asked "So that leaves me with 2 more to find?"
"We can call it 4, that's fine" she told me
"Right...so a fourth..."
"I'm sure you can think of something" she reassured me
"It's not having to try and think of something, it's trying to choose"
Apparently the sarcasm was missed, since she took a "great attitude" as good enough for number 4.
After all my meetings I met up with San in my favourite bar in Shoreditch and we made the most of happy hour...and the hours following. There's not much to report there -- we spoke our minds, talked about everything and parted on friendly terms. Fondly, but with no lasting regrets or longing.
Moving on with business as usual, I have really managed to outdo myself at work. After an incident of lateness before Christmas -- where the powers-that-be snuck in an 8.30 start on rota, hidden among a week of 9.30 starts -- I should have been more careful. Friday I needed to take the day off for some appointments, and felt rather than call in sick it would be best to book the day officially as holiday.
I emailed my line manager, and he advised me to fill out a holiday form and leave it with someone else. Seemed easy enough; I filled out, left it with her, and even emailed her to make sure she had it. Friday morning I'm on the commuter train into the city, and my phone rings -- I say it "rings", really what it does is play "Misirlou" by Dick Dale and his Del Tones. I have a sick feeling when I know what this will be -- a call from work, asking where I am.
Getting a day off couldn't ever be as simple as just filling out a form and giving it in, could it?
"We have you down for an 8am start" they tell me
"I booked the day as holiday! I filled out a form!"
"Really? Who did you give this form to?"
"You! I gave the form to you! Yesterday!"
"The form says Friday, Dec 5"
"I know! That's today!"
"No, today is January 5..."
"Oh, shit."
It turns out they thought I was incredibly well-organised and was already booking time off for next December. I might just kill myself if I am still doing this job in December. After much discussion about how the form has to be authorised, signed, and returned to me before the requested holiday is official, I made it clear I wasn't coming into work and they grudgingly agreed to change the form and have me down as holiday. I expect they will still want an official meeting to discuss the matter with me and will probably also want to call my agency and tell them what I did. Not only will it seem like I can't read the rota properly, but that I'm also unaware what month it is.
A colleague asked me this morning if I hadn't noticed it was New Year last weekend -- I know what year it is, I told him, just apparently not which month.
The appointments with recruitment consultants were uneventful. It's already well-documented how I feel about these particular professionals, so it should come as little surprise that the day was only marginally better than being in work.
My first appointment of the day was with a consultant interested in putting me forward for an assistant role in corporate PR. Most of the appointment was taken up with me taking various tests -- spelling, typing speed & accuracy, and general computer skills. It probably could go without saying that my scores were good, but unexceptional. The meeting with the consultant herself mostly involved me just telling her the truth as it should be, rather than the truth as it is -- stuff like really wanting a job in corporate, rather than consumer, and just wanting to start at the bottom and get stuck in. Okay, so maybe I really am looking to start at the bottom and pay my dues, but mostly you just tell these people what they want to hear.
Second appointment of the day was completely different -- a guy that had contacted me and is trying to lure me into a career in insurance. Outside of call centres, naturally. I've told him I will consider it, because what I really want is transferable skills. And a proper job.
The last consultant of the day -- several hours later -- is set to finding me a role in consumer tech, but again I've said I'm open to suggestion for other positions. The meeting itself was largely unremarkable, except that ironically enough perhaps she wanted me to give her a list of 5 exceptional points I had -- in order to market me to employers.
To consider one's self to be entirely absent of outstanding qualities, and then be asked to provide evidence to the contrary is not easy. I wheeled out the usual points; exceptional writing skills -- although the consultant was disappointed I haven't been published recently (I personally thought being published at all, ever, was quite good), great people skills, but I then stalled on the third point. It's fitting that I can't even remember what my third point was. I was hoping she would forget what we were doing and I'd be able to get away with not coming up with any more -- but no such luck.
"Where are we up to? 3?" I asked "So that leaves me with 2 more to find?"
"We can call it 4, that's fine" she told me
"Right...so a fourth..."
"I'm sure you can think of something" she reassured me
"It's not having to try and think of something, it's trying to choose"
Apparently the sarcasm was missed, since she took a "great attitude" as good enough for number 4.
After all my meetings I met up with San in my favourite bar in Shoreditch and we made the most of happy hour...and the hours following. There's not much to report there -- we spoke our minds, talked about everything and parted on friendly terms. Fondly, but with no lasting regrets or longing.
Wednesday, 3 January 2007
A life less ordinary
"You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You are the same decaying organic matter as everything else." -- Tyler Durden
What bothers me most about me, about my life, is that I'm ordinary. I live an entirely unremarkable life of quiet desperation. Maybe we have all been brainwashed to think we will grow up to be movie gods or rock stars, add in a healthy dose of comic books (childhood obsessions with Superman and Spiderman) and a religious childhood and it might be no wonder you feel a little cheated.
The trouble is, as I say, I'm average. All my life I have had the delusion that I am destined for greatness, and have been consistently been met with my own mediocrity. I am unremarkable in almost every way, and everything I do.
Sometimes when mixed in with a bad mood swing, the delusions will extend to that I am solely responsible for such things as winter, and darkness, that's my taint on the world that creates these things. That's like believing you're the reason the sun rises each day.
I have my talents, sure. I know I am good at some things -- but the trouble is, whatever I think I am good at; be it art, or writing, or whatever, I'm not anything more than particularly unexceptional. Anything I am good at there are dozens upon dozens of people of equal merit, and those even better.
I'm only average height, 4/10 looks, very much run-of-the-mill intelligence. My vocabulary is probably to the very letter mediocre. The problems I have with my looks are commonplace, my depressions almost scripted.
Lately, I feel I am becoming increasingly stupid. It stands to reason that which you don't use, you lose, and I guess processing insurance claims is hardly stimulating. I do enjoy the stories of people, when they are different -- like the man today who says he lost his phone skiing on a French mountain. I asked him how he did it and he said he and a friend were trying to film synchronised skiing, when he hit a patch of ice and lost control. I openly laughed at him. I tried not to laugh at a customer who was audibly confused when I used the word exacerbate -- mostly because it reminded me of the opening scene to Shaun of the Dead.
But this isn't remarkable. Nobody likes their jobs. Nobody gets enough sleep. Everyone wishes they could have a flat stomach, or be popular, or be rich and travel the world. Everyone wishes they could have a razor sharp wit, a mind like a steel trap.
And I expect at any one time, all over the world, a million other bloggers are writing an identical post to this one, complete with pop culture references.
Monday, 1 January 2007
Prom for grown-ups
I told Sarah that I was going to quote her on this one. In discussions about New Year, she said she hated it -- that it was like "prom for grown-ups". It was such a succinct and apt description that I had to steal it for this post title.
This year, Luisa -- the mullet-haired Italian hottie -- flaked on me. I am now taking it personally and will no longer bother to reply to any mass-mailed missives from the mullet-headed one. Weeks and weeks ago, I got such a missive from Luisa -- letting everyone know she would be back in London from the 29th. Just in time for New Year, I told her we had to meet up and I wanted to see her for New Year. She seemed enthusiastic -- "I'll let you know when I'm back!!!!!" she said, or something over-punctuated to that effect.
I started to get a bad feeling in the last couple of weeks when I forwarded her a link to something for New Year and she told me she already had plans. What about me? I asked. Are we still meeting up? I never heard anything in reply. I emailed her on the 30th to ask if she was back, and what was happening, but again -- nothing. So it was no surprise that I continued to hear nothing yesterday. I have since remembered something similar, before she left London to go back to Italy there was some talk of a party or everyone getting together before she left. I thought I was included in everyone, but in the end it seemed I wasn't -- since I never heard anything more about the where or when. The two incidents together have shown me that she appears to have no interest in seeing me. And you know what? I don't care. I never really worked out if I fancied her, or just wanted to, so I'm hardly heartbroken.
But I got to think about New Year, and the previous years I've had. And I figured I'd summarise them, so here goes -- starting with the first year it was remotely interesting, with Fiona in 1999/2000:
1999: The "Millennium" whether it "technically" was or not, what with not having a year 0 AD, and Jesus not being born until about 5 AD anyway, it was the year the date changed. It wasn't a thousand years since anything, but we and the rest of the populace couldn't have given two shits -- it was an excuse to party.
And so 1999 I spent with Fiona, at a kind of street party in Shropshire. I was slightly apprehensive about Y2K perhaps causing nuclear warheads to self-launch, but I was with the one I loved.
Somewhere Fi might still have a photo of me from that night -- in some sexy blue shirt, black eyeliner (yeah, I was emo before even emo), grinning to the camera and holding a bowl of goldfish. Among the street party there had been various carnival stalls, including hook-a-duck-and-win-a-prize. I found quickly to hook a duck all you needed to do was hold the hook out and a duck would float onto it. So I won four goldfish, a goldfish bowl, some fish food, and a "police action set" which included a badge, whistle and plastic handcuffs.
As you might have noticed, the world didn't end that night.
2000: Not one to shy from commitment, I was still dating Fiona a year later. This time she came to my place for New Year, and we went to a bad house party with my friends. The party was truly awful, but we drank a lot and left almost as soon as the clock struck 12 to go to a party at Jon's brother-in-law's house.
Shortly after arriving at this party, Fiona felt unwell and I spent the rest of the night holding her hair as she threw up.
2001: After I left the country in January for 8 months, Fi and I were no more by the time New Year rolled around. But despite the intervening drama, I had started seeing San and we had just made the transition from friends that sleep together into an actual couple. In a pub in Camden we saw in the New Year with her friends, let off party poppers and drank champagne in the street. Then because her Mum didn't know we were going out, we decided to get a taxi to San's university. I don't know if anyone knows the distance between Camden and Uxbridge, but it was a long fucking way. In a taxi, after midnight, on New Year. I don't remember what the cabbie charged, but it was a hell of a lot. But we were together. The next morning San had to go to work as a waitress, but she felt rough and came back early. I don't think I was out of bed yet at that point.
2002: Not unlike 2000, San came to visit me and I took her to a house party. The details of the party itself all seems quite vague now, it was our friend Mike's party which as these parties seemed to involve hosted his whole extended family. We spent most of the night talking to people in the garden, and I think somewhere San has a picture of me from that night with a big, happy smile and cheerfully giving the middle finger to the camera.
2003: In the spirit of fairness, I was back at San's in London (and yes, we were still together -- it seems incredible now). We went to the academy in Islington, with her friend Jill and Jill's boyfriend, Ben. That was a weird one, since San almost left me for Jill once, and I had a bit of a crush on the girl myself for a while. But the night was just shit. The venue had only one bar open, and as result the queues for a drink were ridiculous. When the clock struck 12, I was still buried in a crowd of people at the bar. San and I tried to be enthusiastic, but we weren't feeling it at all.
2004: They say what goes around, comes around. Despite a year practically living together when we were at university together, San had started her second year and I'd completed my course. Since then things had got weird. San was increasingly distant and cold to me, and she was now the one leaving the country in January. That day I got to London early, bought a new shirt to wear that night, and checked out some venues we could possibly go to. I remember sending San a text saying "I'm making my way back to you, babe" to say I'd finished what I needed to do and was about to catch the tube. I stopped at a flower stall to buy San something to cheer her up -- remember, distant and cold -- and found I'd lost my wallet. I retraced my steps and got some items I'd just bought refunded in cash, then had to resign myself to reporting it as lost to the police. San didn't get her flowers, and we ended up staying in because I had no money and she didn't feel like going out. Over the course of the evening, San warmed to me a little. When the clock struck midnight, we took the stairs to the top floor of her flats and watched the fireworks over London. We watched St Paul's Cathedral illuminated in the flashes, picked out the telecom tower, and in the bursts of light were able to make out people, several streets away, sitting on roof tops. I held her close and told her "Everything's going to be okay. You've met me at a very strange time in my life." That night we agreed to take a break, and within days we were breaking up. Happy new year.
2005: With San back in the country, but the two of us no longer couple, I had nobody special to see the new year in with. It felt a little alien to me, so I volunteered to work behind the bar -- after all, I had suggested the Casino night for the entertainment. With live music and a casino I thought it would be a great night. The music was a disaster. The usual singer for the "band" we had booked was unavailable since she already had plans, so they drafted in a replacement. Who was too stage-shy to sing, so they had a series of special guests resulting in it feeling more like a bad karaoke night. The clock struck 12, I knocked back a double vodka and figured I had nothing to lose with trying to kiss Deb, whom I'd had a crush on all year. She didn't go for it, and that pretty much sums up that whole night.
Which brings us to last night -- with nobody special to spend the night with, and not even a mullet-haired Italian to save me from another night down the pub, things were looking desperate.
2006: With my parents now owning a flat on the coast, it seemed like a great place to spend the new year. A new city, different people, what better way to start the new year than in a place totally outside our comfort zone? I invited a few friends and mentioned I'd have to keep tabs on the flat with my parents since it didn't yet have the little touches that were important, like floor or furniture. When I found out that both were in situ, and was given a go-ahead to use the flat, the only people left interested were me and Jon. It didn't seem worth it. My parents suspected Jon and I might be a gay couple, and so we scrapped the whole idea. In the end, 2006 was met without a party or a pub or a sig oth -- it was greeted by myself, along with Jon and Calvin, sitting around in my house having a very quiet but very civilised night with a few drinks and some music.
And that's how it was. It might not have been exciting or meaningful, but it sure beat working, or being dumped.
This year, Luisa -- the mullet-haired Italian hottie -- flaked on me. I am now taking it personally and will no longer bother to reply to any mass-mailed missives from the mullet-headed one. Weeks and weeks ago, I got such a missive from Luisa -- letting everyone know she would be back in London from the 29th. Just in time for New Year, I told her we had to meet up and I wanted to see her for New Year. She seemed enthusiastic -- "I'll let you know when I'm back!!!!!" she said, or something over-punctuated to that effect.
I started to get a bad feeling in the last couple of weeks when I forwarded her a link to something for New Year and she told me she already had plans. What about me? I asked. Are we still meeting up? I never heard anything in reply. I emailed her on the 30th to ask if she was back, and what was happening, but again -- nothing. So it was no surprise that I continued to hear nothing yesterday. I have since remembered something similar, before she left London to go back to Italy there was some talk of a party or everyone getting together before she left. I thought I was included in everyone, but in the end it seemed I wasn't -- since I never heard anything more about the where or when. The two incidents together have shown me that she appears to have no interest in seeing me. And you know what? I don't care. I never really worked out if I fancied her, or just wanted to, so I'm hardly heartbroken.
But I got to think about New Year, and the previous years I've had. And I figured I'd summarise them, so here goes -- starting with the first year it was remotely interesting, with Fiona in 1999/2000:
And so 1999 I spent with Fiona, at a kind of street party in Shropshire. I was slightly apprehensive about Y2K perhaps causing nuclear warheads to self-launch, but I was with the one I loved.
Somewhere Fi might still have a photo of me from that night -- in some sexy blue shirt, black eyeliner (yeah, I was emo before even emo), grinning to the camera and holding a bowl of goldfish. Among the street party there had been various carnival stalls, including hook-a-duck-and-win-a-prize. I found quickly to hook a duck all you needed to do was hold the hook out and a duck would float onto it. So I won four goldfish, a goldfish bowl, some fish food, and a "police action set" which included a badge, whistle and plastic handcuffs.
As you might have noticed, the world didn't end that night.
Shortly after arriving at this party, Fiona felt unwell and I spent the rest of the night holding her hair as she threw up.
Which brings us to last night -- with nobody special to spend the night with, and not even a mullet-haired Italian to save me from another night down the pub, things were looking desperate.
And that's how it was. It might not have been exciting or meaningful, but it sure beat working, or being dumped.
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