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.
Sunday, 31 December 2006
Shopping and societal reforms
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.
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.
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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