My face is terribly red. I suppose you might be wondering what embarrassing feat could've gotten my physical appearance to such a state. The simple answer to that is more embarrassing than embarrassment itself. Instead, I have to confess that I've spent time outdoors, basking in sunlight.
Normally, I'm not this bad. Normally, I can last in the warmth of the outdoors in spring for hours without any sign of passive injury. I'm suddenly overcome with fear nowadays, though. Simply being outside on a sunny day for two hours now has the same effect that two weeks in Mexico had on me in 2005. As one with ginger hair, I can naturally blame my lack of skin pigment, but I'm becoming more inclined to blame the climate and global warming and all that.
Our winters are harsher now, and our summers sunnier. The idea of setting foot outside in the colder months is nothing but laughable to me; the only reason that's made me want to go outside is the idea that I've needed to attend certain classes to keep up with this degree what it is I'm, like, studying for, innit? Being a hermit all this time leads me to believe - in a totally non-scientific way - that I'm not used to any natural sunlight at all. Therefore, cometh the days of sunshine, warmth and social merriment, the surface of my very body sizzles and smokes in a way akin to the portrayal of vampires in Buffy.
As a result of, you know, being outside/getting fresh air/existing like what normal people do, I now find it painful to raise my eyebrows - thus crinkling my forehead - or honk myself on the nose as I occasionally like to do from time to time. On the plus side, I have a very honkable nose in a "stereotypical circus clown slash Rudolph" kind of way. Actually touching it and making a sound actually hurts a lot, though. Well, the making a sound bit doesn't really hurt, just the touching my nose bit.
The whole affair puts me in a rather sympathetic mind towards ginger vampires. After all, it's awful being out in strong sunlight for gingers; even worse for vampires. Ginger vampires probably explode upon impact with "the outside". But then again, fuck 'em. Vampires aren't real. Besides, have you ever seen a ginger one in a film or cult TV show? No, because they're all moody and dark haired in an attempt to be more appealing to lonely women and 13-year-olds. In real life, I've never seen a bloke with black hair and stupidly pale skin. Pale skin belongs to gingers and albinos. (I have no idea how I've managed to wriggle people with albinism into this blog for the second post running. I'm not doing it for a bet, I promise.) Anyway, I was slagging off vampires. Where was I? Yeah, you never see a ginger vampire. At least not a male one. Who'd want to fantasise about that. A female ginger vampire, sure, but a male?
So yeah, fuck vampires. Not just hypothetical ginger ones, but all of them in general. It's alright for people watching or reading fantasy stories to see a vampire burn when he or she stays outdoors for more than five seconds. The real-world equivalent of that is ginger people. People who carry umbrellas around on dry days and slather on Factor 50 like it's a rain mac. People who sizzle as soon as the sun's rays hit them. People with enough skin-speck to look like they've got uncontrollable acne that can tan better than they themselves. Do you still want to fantasise now?
Forgive me my ramblings. I'm very lonely and burnt.
Wednesday, 15 May 2013
Wednesday, 8 May 2013
Squinting On Sunny Days
There's something oddly unsettling about people wearing sunglasses. It is commonly spoken that one's eyes are the windows to the soul, and I quite like looking someone in the windows when I speak to them. But in the summertime when the weather is high, and you can stretch right up and touch the sky, the barriers of tinted lenses show up and adorn the faces of millions. The only problem with the content of that paragraph is that this isn't summer, just a very sunny spring.
Harsh cold weather lasts longer than it's supposed to now, meaning that any nanosecond where the sun shines is an excuse to crack out the deck chairs and disposable barbecues. Personally, I find that slapping on some Factor 50 and listening to Spanish folk-pop is a much more appropriate way to celebrate the advent of warmth, provided I can also include deck chairs and disposable barbecues. For the many, however, sunglasses are donned as well, which I find not so much scary as I find it bizarre.
As I mentioned earlier and am lazily trying to connect back to here, it's natural to look a person in the eyes when engaged in one-on-one chatter whilst the rest of the face is relegated to peripheral vision. However, when the eyes are covered up by your conversational adversary (purely out of selfishness, like their viewing receptacles need to be protected from the harsh light rays or whatever), you're suddenly locked in communication with two large, dark brown squares, rectangles or ovals depending on their preferred style of frame. Oh crap, that was really long. Basically, what I'm saying is "you can't see the eyes anymore". Instead, that rest-of-the-face bit that was once just an additional part of them is now all you have to go on.
Ever heard the phrase "their eyes were smiling"? Well as far as I know, eyes aren't crescent-shaped, nor do they have the ability to grow mouths of their own to use for the purposes of displaying amusement or happiness. It's difficult to describe, but there's a certain look in the eyes that just tells us when somebody is happy, sad, thinking, relaxed or albino. If the rest of the face was to be completely covered, as opposed to being simply peripheral, we'd instantly be able to determine if a person was smiling or not. Bringing shades into the equation just reverses the functions or the variables or whatever and I start misusing mathematical terminology. Suddenly, the eyes become static sheets of (usually) plastic and the rest of the face's features twist and contort into various shapes to denote how amused or bemused or angry or bangry a person is. Unless, of course, they're albino, in which case they wouldn't be out in strong sunlight in the first place.
I've not worn sunglasses for years, despite owning a prescription pair. That probably can't be good for me. I have no working knowledge of how corrective lenses actually function, other than the fact that without them I can't see nearly as well as I can when I do wear them. In any situation, I'd proclaim they function correctly based on nothing but pure magic. But in actuality, my ignorant mind thinks that there's got to be some kind of "magnifying glass"-like aspects going on there. This essentially means that when I wear normal glasses in strong sunlight, the light is magnified in my eyes, burning out my corneas and - slowly but surely - blinding me, and no amount of squinting on sunny days is ever going to stop that. Essentially, I should really wear the tinted pair that I own. But like I said, it's been years since I've worn sunglasses. My natural eyesight is much worse these days, possibly because of too much sunlight, too much squinting or not enough magic. My sunglasses were made according to a previous prescription some years ago, meaning that when I put them over my eyes, not only does everything go darker than I'm used too, but also slightly blurrier than I'm used to.
Is there really a point to all this? Well, no, really. Other than the observation that people sort of look alien-like when wearing shades (especially ladies who wear those giant ones that look like dinner plates on the eyes that wrap around the sides of the face and forces them to do pouty lips, I mean what the hell, humanity? Come on, you're better than this). To be honest, I suppose I could've just written that last line and not bothered with the rest of the babble prior to it. But screw you, I want to feel like I've done something worthy and lengthy and that before I go outside and squint the day away.
Harsh cold weather lasts longer than it's supposed to now, meaning that any nanosecond where the sun shines is an excuse to crack out the deck chairs and disposable barbecues. Personally, I find that slapping on some Factor 50 and listening to Spanish folk-pop is a much more appropriate way to celebrate the advent of warmth, provided I can also include deck chairs and disposable barbecues. For the many, however, sunglasses are donned as well, which I find not so much scary as I find it bizarre.
As I mentioned earlier and am lazily trying to connect back to here, it's natural to look a person in the eyes when engaged in one-on-one chatter whilst the rest of the face is relegated to peripheral vision. However, when the eyes are covered up by your conversational adversary (purely out of selfishness, like their viewing receptacles need to be protected from the harsh light rays or whatever), you're suddenly locked in communication with two large, dark brown squares, rectangles or ovals depending on their preferred style of frame. Oh crap, that was really long. Basically, what I'm saying is "you can't see the eyes anymore". Instead, that rest-of-the-face bit that was once just an additional part of them is now all you have to go on.
Ever heard the phrase "their eyes were smiling"? Well as far as I know, eyes aren't crescent-shaped, nor do they have the ability to grow mouths of their own to use for the purposes of displaying amusement or happiness. It's difficult to describe, but there's a certain look in the eyes that just tells us when somebody is happy, sad, thinking, relaxed or albino. If the rest of the face was to be completely covered, as opposed to being simply peripheral, we'd instantly be able to determine if a person was smiling or not. Bringing shades into the equation just reverses the functions or the variables or whatever and I start misusing mathematical terminology. Suddenly, the eyes become static sheets of (usually) plastic and the rest of the face's features twist and contort into various shapes to denote how amused or bemused or angry or bangry a person is. Unless, of course, they're albino, in which case they wouldn't be out in strong sunlight in the first place.
I've not worn sunglasses for years, despite owning a prescription pair. That probably can't be good for me. I have no working knowledge of how corrective lenses actually function, other than the fact that without them I can't see nearly as well as I can when I do wear them. In any situation, I'd proclaim they function correctly based on nothing but pure magic. But in actuality, my ignorant mind thinks that there's got to be some kind of "magnifying glass"-like aspects going on there. This essentially means that when I wear normal glasses in strong sunlight, the light is magnified in my eyes, burning out my corneas and - slowly but surely - blinding me, and no amount of squinting on sunny days is ever going to stop that. Essentially, I should really wear the tinted pair that I own. But like I said, it's been years since I've worn sunglasses. My natural eyesight is much worse these days, possibly because of too much sunlight, too much squinting or not enough magic. My sunglasses were made according to a previous prescription some years ago, meaning that when I put them over my eyes, not only does everything go darker than I'm used too, but also slightly blurrier than I'm used to.
Is there really a point to all this? Well, no, really. Other than the observation that people sort of look alien-like when wearing shades (especially ladies who wear those giant ones that look like dinner plates on the eyes that wrap around the sides of the face and forces them to do pouty lips, I mean what the hell, humanity? Come on, you're better than this). To be honest, I suppose I could've just written that last line and not bothered with the rest of the babble prior to it. But screw you, I want to feel like I've done something worthy and lengthy and that before I go outside and squint the day away.
Wednesday, 1 May 2013
March Memories And April Adventures
Well Hallelujah and all that shite. Not only am I finally posting something here again, but I've given this place a complete overvamp/rehaul. Furthermore, I'm mixing up prepositions that belong in already established words. Oh dear, it's been a while. My ability to sense make bordering on Yoda-like is.
With the blog completely untouched for two months, I've clearly got some March memories and April adventures to elaborate on. I will do this in the shortest and least informative way possible. Now.
Some time ago in a Subway (the sandwich dispensing conglomerate, not the underground railroad labyrinth), a friend and I mused the idea of vegetarianism; possibly because we were bored, possibly because the Chicken Tikka filling I was gorging on smelled and tasted far too much like Angostura. This put my in the student-dilemma of not wanting to waste food but also not wanting to eat it out of sheer non-enjoyment. We pondered whether we'd really have it in us to actually shun meat as a source of sustenance. Further pondering led to the idea of giving up meat, or turning veggie (whichever way you want to look at it), for an entire month. The alliterative prospect of No-Meat March floated about a little bit. Do bear in mind this was around late January or so.
Let's fast-forward to the beginning of March. I sent the following text message, verbatim, to my dining associate:
After essentially doing nothing of interest in the month of March - or at least nothing of interest to put here - the heavy load of assignments passed in sheer agony and the Easter break arrived in sheer monotony, thus leading us gracefully into April. And with April came just the latest of ventures this year where I took to the road and ended up miles from home. After a total of sixteen hours or so travelling on a mixture of coach and ferry, I arrived in Amsterdam for quite possibly the most fleeting and pointless time I've ever spent in a foreign country. And that includes the one afternoon I spent in northern Switzerland.
I had originally planned to present here a four-part account of my four-day trip, but upon my return back to the UK, real-life took over and I was thrust back into working towards my degree and seeing family members I don't see very often. By the time I got around to being able to update this thing with praise for one of the most beautiful cities I've ever seen, May happened. I'd like to present my account of Amsterdam here at some point, but unfortunately feel that with the experience already a month in the past, my recollection of the time is but a slushy haze. Further, my four-day trip to Amsterdam largely consisted of a full day travelling there and a full day travelling back. Having just two days in the city, one of which already designated for sporting activities and the main focus of the trip, didn't leave much time for sightseeing. As I said, whatever I can remember at a later point will be presented here if I can actually be bothered.
My infant nephew became my godchild less than a week after my Netherlands experience and I celebrated by more-or-less finishing off a catering tray full of pork pie slices after the after-Christening-do. Well, considering my dad had paid for the catering and about a third of the buffet was left over and I'm a student who hates to see food go to waste, I would've been a fool not to. Plus pork pies are awesome. We pondered this just a few days ago.
Who's "we"? Well, it's several people, but it includes the friend who proposed a meatless month. After reading this, I've probably reminded him about potentially going veggie for May and further reminded him that he'd have to give up on pork pies. Also, since it's May already, he's probably failed the forgotten challenge after chowing down on horse nuggets whilst reading this.
But then again, what do I know? I'm not him. Maybe he's not reading this whilst chowing down on a salad. I don't know. All I know is me, and as far as I'm concerned, I'm determined to keep adding to this thing every week; especially now that it's had a bit of a facelift.
With the blog completely untouched for two months, I've clearly got some March memories and April adventures to elaborate on. I will do this in the shortest and least informative way possible. Now.
Some time ago in a Subway (the sandwich dispensing conglomerate, not the underground railroad labyrinth), a friend and I mused the idea of vegetarianism; possibly because we were bored, possibly because the Chicken Tikka filling I was gorging on smelled and tasted far too much like Angostura. This put my in the student-dilemma of not wanting to waste food but also not wanting to eat it out of sheer non-enjoyment. We pondered whether we'd really have it in us to actually shun meat as a source of sustenance. Further pondering led to the idea of giving up meat, or turning veggie (whichever way you want to look at it), for an entire month. The alliterative prospect of No-Meat March floated about a little bit. Do bear in mind this was around late January or so.
Let's fast-forward to the beginning of March. I sent the following text message, verbatim, to my dining associate:
I dunno if you remember a while ago talking about potentially doing a "no-meat March"... but yeah I just failed. On the upside, this bacon cheeseburger is so worth itFollowing this, May was suggested as a potential month to go without meat, because having all those "M"s in a stint at vegetarianism is just the kind of irony we need when we won't be greeting every meal with a satisfied "mmm". However, I'm wholly reluctant to use the month of May as a framework for this culinary challange since I plan on ordering a lot of greasy and questionable takeaway food whilst watching the Eurovision Song Contest, because that's just what I do with my life. Sorry cows, pigs and so many horses, but at least there's next March.
After essentially doing nothing of interest in the month of March - or at least nothing of interest to put here - the heavy load of assignments passed in sheer agony and the Easter break arrived in sheer monotony, thus leading us gracefully into April. And with April came just the latest of ventures this year where I took to the road and ended up miles from home. After a total of sixteen hours or so travelling on a mixture of coach and ferry, I arrived in Amsterdam for quite possibly the most fleeting and pointless time I've ever spent in a foreign country. And that includes the one afternoon I spent in northern Switzerland.
I had originally planned to present here a four-part account of my four-day trip, but upon my return back to the UK, real-life took over and I was thrust back into working towards my degree and seeing family members I don't see very often. By the time I got around to being able to update this thing with praise for one of the most beautiful cities I've ever seen, May happened. I'd like to present my account of Amsterdam here at some point, but unfortunately feel that with the experience already a month in the past, my recollection of the time is but a slushy haze. Further, my four-day trip to Amsterdam largely consisted of a full day travelling there and a full day travelling back. Having just two days in the city, one of which already designated for sporting activities and the main focus of the trip, didn't leave much time for sightseeing. As I said, whatever I can remember at a later point will be presented here if I can actually be bothered.
My infant nephew became my godchild less than a week after my Netherlands experience and I celebrated by more-or-less finishing off a catering tray full of pork pie slices after the after-Christening-do. Well, considering my dad had paid for the catering and about a third of the buffet was left over and I'm a student who hates to see food go to waste, I would've been a fool not to. Plus pork pies are awesome. We pondered this just a few days ago.
Who's "we"? Well, it's several people, but it includes the friend who proposed a meatless month. After reading this, I've probably reminded him about potentially going veggie for May and further reminded him that he'd have to give up on pork pies. Also, since it's May already, he's probably failed the forgotten challenge after chowing down on horse nuggets whilst reading this.
But then again, what do I know? I'm not him. Maybe he's not reading this whilst chowing down on a salad. I don't know. All I know is me, and as far as I'm concerned, I'm determined to keep adding to this thing every week; especially now that it's had a bit of a facelift.
Wednesday, 27 February 2013
Plans
For Liz.
Advice kids: Never make plans. Plans are for idiots. Incidentally, I wrote a thing about idiots on Monday which I was saving to put up here today. See, in my head, I'm amazing and have several thousand followers interested in whatever the hell it is I do. Case in point: this. So I decided a while ago that I'd update this blog every Wednesday, on the Wednesday, in order to keep my habits as a writer somewhat constant. After a while, I figured I was running out of things to write about, which is lazy speak for "I was becoming more and more lazy". Over time, I allowed myself "off-weeks" where I'd skip a Wednesday whenever I saw fit. In 2013, this suddenly became every fucking Wednesday.
I've been kidding myself that, with the final term of the final year of my degree looming, I needed to spend my time focussing on important work. Side projects like this would, therefore have to take a hit. Incidentally, that's the same logic I applied to putting off a serious conversation some weeks back. See, in reality, I'm an idiot. The very kind of idiot I complained about in a rambly thing I typed up two days ago. The kind of idiot who makes plans for the future because they don't realise that present is all that actually matters. All of a sudden, now, I realise I'm contradicting myself. I'm arguing with me. And I hate that. Why can't I just get along?
So, what's all this then? This is my last-minute replacement post, hastily cobbled together with cold fingers, perpetually perspiring underarms and the realisation that I am an idiot. In the two day period since writing my now-hypocritical analysis of other people, a close friend received a spot of bad news. Actually, scratch that. The worst news. The fact that this post contains a dedication at the top means I don't really have to go into detail. Unless you're an idiot.
I read through my idiocy post this morning, ready and raring because I finally had a weekly update for this blog. The only problem was that I actually read it. I don't normally read these things back until after they're in the virtual ether. But I read the pre-planned one and oh, my God, it's absolutely awful. To be frank, I was in a bit of a dark place when I hammered it out; I was in one of those I'm-angry-at-the-world-and-it's-the-world's-fault kind of moods where basically everyone on the face of the Earth, bar me, would have to fall into a pit of despair laced with parasites to satisfy me. But situations change and I feel it would've been wholly inappropriate to spew such vitriol onto the world knowing what I know now.
Some months ago, I fell into that old tangled web of personal feelings. With only my own meandering existence to draw from, that old situation never ends well for anyone. But still, the heart wants what it wants and the brain tries to rationalise it by being an idiot; by keeping quiet at whatever rare opportunity arises to speak up. Technically, I suppose that's the mouth's fault. Or the throat. Either way, I'd planned ahead to get kicked repeatedly in the chest. The actual assault occurred far sooner than I'd anticipated, thus leaving me feeling a) an idiot for planning ahead, and b) kicked in the chest.
So yeah, fuck plans. Plans only exist to remind people that fixed future events exist. Except they don't. Everything's hypothetical. The only thing that matters at any given moment is that very given moment. At the risk of sounding philosophical or awe inspiring, the past is what's fixed, the future is hypothetical. It's what you do with the moments you live in that you can possibly have any control over. Okay? This is not a chastising lecture to either the living or the deceased. This is pure fucking common sense. Most don't realise this, and I know that because I didn't fucking realise it until pretty much just now, when I wrote this paragraph.
Use the time you get properly to get what you want done. Don't assume you get more. For the love of whoever's up there/out there/somewhere, never make plans. Here endeth the lesson, idiot.
Wednesday, 6 February 2013
Regular January
I seem to hate Januarys. Two years ago, I completely shunned the month on this blogspace for reasons pertaining to, oh I dunno, I just couldn't be arsed probably. Last year, I posted about death and how we're all mortal and eventually gonna kick it one day. This year, I spent thirty-one days ignoring this pathetic excuse for a writing space in order to... well... you tell me! Actually, fuck that. I'll tell you. Now.
I read a fair bit. I wrote a fair bit. I stressed a fair bit. I drank a hell of a lot. Well, there we go, that pretty much sums it up. I wish I could be a bit more specific on some of those points, but I have deadlines looming and my way of dealing with them generally seems to be to ignore them like your regular January. My points of stress mainly revolve around a combination of such deadlines, certain individuals whom I'll not name and talk smack about in a public space such as this because (a) that would just make me sound bitter, and (b) I still see certain individuals on a regular basis and don't think I could cope with the face-to-face "why iz yoo talkin shitz boutz mee'z on da intanetz?" without physically assaulting them and then me. Instead, I let it fester inside, all the while telling myself I don't care and it doesn't actually bother me, even though I turned the light off at midnight and it's now 4am and I evidently do care.
On top of the mundane and the mediocre stresses of work and people who need to find out what a chainsaw tastes like†, I would also like to present to you the bizarre stress caused by the back gate of this rented property I'm currently residing in. Basically, for weeks - hell, for a whole January really - every time I've gone into the garden for any reason (taking the bins out, getting some fresh air, cleaning the chainsaw, etc.) I've noticed the back gate is always wide open. This disturbs me. This disturbs me so much because every time I'm out there, I close it by using the hooked latch and the deadbolt which slots into a hole in the middle of a brick wall. Every time, I close it. Yet every time, it's open again. This has led me to two possible explanations. Both are as fucking absurd as each other.
Absurd thing one: People are breaking in. You're probably really thinking there's nothing very absurd about that. People break in places all the time. In fact, the bent-inwards-ness of the wooden planks that essentially form the entire door-like thing on the back wall suggests that some kind of brute force has been exerted onto the gate meaning that a forced entry seems likely. The only problem with this scenario, however, seems to be that no other damage is actually done anywhere. Heck, if half the garden was trashed or an attempt was made at getting in the house or there seemed to be some kind of attempted theft or violence I'd naturally assume we were having frequent univited visitors. But no. The garden and the house - all of the property being rented - remains exactly the way I last saw it... apart from the gate. Logically, if people are actually forcing an entry into my garden, they don't seem to have any other plan byond that, other than to say: "Right then, we showed that gate. Let's go break a branch off a tree. FUCK YOU, SOCIETY!"
Absurd thing the other one: The wind is sentient. The forces of nature often unhook poorly constructed gate latches and blow hinged planks of wood around like nobody's business. However, I've never met a mild breeze capable of lifting the handle of a deadbolt halfway up so it aligns with the locking mechanism to pull it out of a wall. Maybe I'm just being crazy. Maybe I'm not, and the wind and rain is capable of more than I had previously expected. It forms itself into the shape of some kind of being able to interact with the physical world. Or actually, it could be ghosts, or an unruly ferret, or inexplicably floating geometric shapes. In the case of the latter, I imagine them to be parallelograms. Why, exactly? FUCK YOU, THAT'S WHY!
For many people, "I hate Mondays" is some kind of life motto. Personally, I hate Januarys. And really, if you think about it, January is just like one big, giant Monday. The mother of all Mondays. Der über-Montag. Screw the depressing beginning of the week. January is the head-scratching, chainsaw-wielding, alcohol-consuming start to the entire bloody year and I, for one, am glad it's over.
As I said, I've been drinking a lot.
†This line about learning what chainsaws taste like was stolen from the blurb of This Book Is Full Of Spiders by David Wong. Told you I've been reading.
(I don't actually own a chainsaw.)
I read a fair bit. I wrote a fair bit. I stressed a fair bit. I drank a hell of a lot. Well, there we go, that pretty much sums it up. I wish I could be a bit more specific on some of those points, but I have deadlines looming and my way of dealing with them generally seems to be to ignore them like your regular January. My points of stress mainly revolve around a combination of such deadlines, certain individuals whom I'll not name and talk smack about in a public space such as this because (a) that would just make me sound bitter, and (b) I still see certain individuals on a regular basis and don't think I could cope with the face-to-face "why iz yoo talkin shitz boutz mee'z on da intanetz?" without physically assaulting them and then me. Instead, I let it fester inside, all the while telling myself I don't care and it doesn't actually bother me, even though I turned the light off at midnight and it's now 4am and I evidently do care.
On top of the mundane and the mediocre stresses of work and people who need to find out what a chainsaw tastes like†, I would also like to present to you the bizarre stress caused by the back gate of this rented property I'm currently residing in. Basically, for weeks - hell, for a whole January really - every time I've gone into the garden for any reason (taking the bins out, getting some fresh air, cleaning the chainsaw, etc.) I've noticed the back gate is always wide open. This disturbs me. This disturbs me so much because every time I'm out there, I close it by using the hooked latch and the deadbolt which slots into a hole in the middle of a brick wall. Every time, I close it. Yet every time, it's open again. This has led me to two possible explanations. Both are as fucking absurd as each other.
Absurd thing one: People are breaking in. You're probably really thinking there's nothing very absurd about that. People break in places all the time. In fact, the bent-inwards-ness of the wooden planks that essentially form the entire door-like thing on the back wall suggests that some kind of brute force has been exerted onto the gate meaning that a forced entry seems likely. The only problem with this scenario, however, seems to be that no other damage is actually done anywhere. Heck, if half the garden was trashed or an attempt was made at getting in the house or there seemed to be some kind of attempted theft or violence I'd naturally assume we were having frequent univited visitors. But no. The garden and the house - all of the property being rented - remains exactly the way I last saw it... apart from the gate. Logically, if people are actually forcing an entry into my garden, they don't seem to have any other plan byond that, other than to say: "Right then, we showed that gate. Let's go break a branch off a tree. FUCK YOU, SOCIETY!"
Absurd thing the other one: The wind is sentient. The forces of nature often unhook poorly constructed gate latches and blow hinged planks of wood around like nobody's business. However, I've never met a mild breeze capable of lifting the handle of a deadbolt halfway up so it aligns with the locking mechanism to pull it out of a wall. Maybe I'm just being crazy. Maybe I'm not, and the wind and rain is capable of more than I had previously expected. It forms itself into the shape of some kind of being able to interact with the physical world. Or actually, it could be ghosts, or an unruly ferret, or inexplicably floating geometric shapes. In the case of the latter, I imagine them to be parallelograms. Why, exactly? FUCK YOU, THAT'S WHY!
For many people, "I hate Mondays" is some kind of life motto. Personally, I hate Januarys. And really, if you think about it, January is just like one big, giant Monday. The mother of all Mondays. Der über-Montag. Screw the depressing beginning of the week. January is the head-scratching, chainsaw-wielding, alcohol-consuming start to the entire bloody year and I, for one, am glad it's over.
As I said, I've been drinking a lot.
†This line about learning what chainsaws taste like was stolen from the blurb of This Book Is Full Of Spiders by David Wong. Told you I've been reading.
(I don't actually own a chainsaw.)
Wednesday, 26 December 2012
Surprise!
The following post contains words, ideas and thoughts which most people may not agree with. If you feel interested enough to want to read this and are able to figure out how this post has been disguised via the miracles of the internet (namely, basic HTML coding) then please feel free to read on. If not, I can pretty much sum things up for you - if you either don't want to read this or are not very internet-savvy - by saying that the main point of this post comes down to the following: As people get older, the "magic" of Christmas gradually fades over time. I appear to have experienced this transition from excited child to world-weary adult in general over the last few years and have decided to use the Christmas period as a framing device for this observation.
I would like to stress that the following is not borne out of upset, greed or ungratefulness. As with anything, however, I will be frank and honest with every letter of this piece.
Christmas brings out the worst in people. It's supposed to be a time of giving and sharing and spending time with those you normally wouldn't. As humans, though, we are all egotists and we only really care about ourselves. The idea of receiving gifts as donated by others of those around us out of sheer good will and a generous dose of commercialisation makes us revert to our core, instinctive, Neanderthal ways. Basically, for many people, "Christmas" equals "I want stuff".
There's a quaint charm about the day itself. for many it follows a formula, or a tradition. Some families visit relatives whilst others have relatives visit them. Some families sit around the fire or, if you don't like in the countryside or the 1800s, the television and watch as the citizens of EastEnders, Emmerdale and Coronation Street suffer massive cast culls by way of "freak gas explosion" or "unfortunate lorry disaster". Some families drink copious amounts of alcohol and destroy the nifty gadgets they unwrapped mere hours ago through either clumsiness or shoddy craftsmanship. It's not all happy and wholesome, though. Some families are driven apart by work and location differences, most notably those carrying out military operations. Some people spend the time entirely alone and, in some cases, with absolutely nowhere to go.
What keeps Christmas so fresh, however, is the surprise of the gifts. Gifts are wrapped in all kinds of coloured paper, tied up with ribbons and bows and adorned with miniature greetings cards. Gifts appear in all manner of shapes and sizes, from the simple small boxes to the fucking frustrating to wrap giant fluffy teddy bears. Applying the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics to this whole bundle of nothing, the exact nature of the present is unknown to the receiver up until the very moment that the colourful veil is lifted, scrunched up and tossed into the bin bag in the middle of the room. Surprise! Now you know what's in that box! And best of all it's not a dead cat, unless you know some pretty fucked up people or you're actually into that sort of thing.
I personally have started to lose the magical unique feeling of Christmas only to have it replaced by laziness and mild indifference. I've reached a certain point in my life - one which I'm finding it extremely difficult to break away from - wherein the family and family friends surrounding me at this loving time have no idea who I am. Part of this stems from the fact that I don't really know who I am, I don't vocalise myself very much towards many people and very rarely speak of myself. Also, for this reason I have no idea what to gift to those around me so there's definitely a bit of tit-for-tat present swapping going on there.
The aforementioned notion of surprise is completely lost on me at this time and has been for some time now. This has come about when all of the gifts - and let me once again stress my gratitude for them as gifts are given by others at their own expense - that I receive are quite literally, without exaggeration or sardonic mocking, either items of clothing or deodorant gift sets. I've started to develop a certain paranoia that all my relatives only regard me as either naked or smelly or both. I've come to accept this over time, yet am made to feel something of an outcast and fairly insecure about myself when others - whether family or friends, loved ones or acquaintances - recite endless lists of received gadgets, games, box sets, booze, surprises and expectations as well as just the regular clothes and smellies and that. When I deliver my albeit shorter and less dazzling list, people end up surprised, which quite frankly is one luxury I don't feel I get any more.
Now that my fingers feel dirty for typing such anti-Christmassy Christmas musings, I feel obliged to point out that this year, my parents have decided to collaborate on the cost of a holiday for them and us kids at a later date; the exact details of this vacation are yet to be decided. This is a good thing and once again I would like express my gratitude. I wouldn't like to be known as a pissy little twat who takes to the internet to publicly complain about everything and everyone in their lives on the spur of the moment; I'll leave that to the kids on Twitter.
I would like to make it clear that what you have just read has not been written as a rant made out of shit wit, sarcasticness and cynicism. It is essentially an open letter to everyone and no-one borne out of bored honesty, stoicism, an aching head and a glass of port. Furthermore, this is has been written to get everything out before it devours me completely, purely for my own benefit. After all, it's that special time of year when we think about ourselves. I echo my prelude to this piece by saying - or rather typing - that all of the gifts I have received, however few, have been received with gratitude, and that I have simply written all of the above with brutal honesty.
Finally, I'd like to close by saying that I hope whoever may be reading this has enjoyed the Christmas period in whatever way they've experienced it. Enjoy the rest of the festive period because in 364 days time, it'll be "same old, same old" once again. Surprise!
I would like to stress that the following is not borne out of upset, greed or ungratefulness. As with anything, however, I will be frank and honest with every letter of this piece.
Christmas brings out the worst in people. It's supposed to be a time of giving and sharing and spending time with those you normally wouldn't. As humans, though, we are all egotists and we only really care about ourselves. The idea of receiving gifts as donated by others of those around us out of sheer good will and a generous dose of commercialisation makes us revert to our core, instinctive, Neanderthal ways. Basically, for many people, "Christmas" equals "I want stuff".
There's a quaint charm about the day itself. for many it follows a formula, or a tradition. Some families visit relatives whilst others have relatives visit them. Some families sit around the fire or, if you don't like in the countryside or the 1800s, the television and watch as the citizens of EastEnders, Emmerdale and Coronation Street suffer massive cast culls by way of "freak gas explosion" or "unfortunate lorry disaster". Some families drink copious amounts of alcohol and destroy the nifty gadgets they unwrapped mere hours ago through either clumsiness or shoddy craftsmanship. It's not all happy and wholesome, though. Some families are driven apart by work and location differences, most notably those carrying out military operations. Some people spend the time entirely alone and, in some cases, with absolutely nowhere to go.
What keeps Christmas so fresh, however, is the surprise of the gifts. Gifts are wrapped in all kinds of coloured paper, tied up with ribbons and bows and adorned with miniature greetings cards. Gifts appear in all manner of shapes and sizes, from the simple small boxes to the fucking frustrating to wrap giant fluffy teddy bears. Applying the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics to this whole bundle of nothing, the exact nature of the present is unknown to the receiver up until the very moment that the colourful veil is lifted, scrunched up and tossed into the bin bag in the middle of the room. Surprise! Now you know what's in that box! And best of all it's not a dead cat, unless you know some pretty fucked up people or you're actually into that sort of thing.
I personally have started to lose the magical unique feeling of Christmas only to have it replaced by laziness and mild indifference. I've reached a certain point in my life - one which I'm finding it extremely difficult to break away from - wherein the family and family friends surrounding me at this loving time have no idea who I am. Part of this stems from the fact that I don't really know who I am, I don't vocalise myself very much towards many people and very rarely speak of myself. Also, for this reason I have no idea what to gift to those around me so there's definitely a bit of tit-for-tat present swapping going on there.
The aforementioned notion of surprise is completely lost on me at this time and has been for some time now. This has come about when all of the gifts - and let me once again stress my gratitude for them as gifts are given by others at their own expense - that I receive are quite literally, without exaggeration or sardonic mocking, either items of clothing or deodorant gift sets. I've started to develop a certain paranoia that all my relatives only regard me as either naked or smelly or both. I've come to accept this over time, yet am made to feel something of an outcast and fairly insecure about myself when others - whether family or friends, loved ones or acquaintances - recite endless lists of received gadgets, games, box sets, booze, surprises and expectations as well as just the regular clothes and smellies and that. When I deliver my albeit shorter and less dazzling list, people end up surprised, which quite frankly is one luxury I don't feel I get any more.
Now that my fingers feel dirty for typing such anti-Christmassy Christmas musings, I feel obliged to point out that this year, my parents have decided to collaborate on the cost of a holiday for them and us kids at a later date; the exact details of this vacation are yet to be decided. This is a good thing and once again I would like express my gratitude. I wouldn't like to be known as a pissy little twat who takes to the internet to publicly complain about everything and everyone in their lives on the spur of the moment; I'll leave that to the kids on Twitter.
I would like to make it clear that what you have just read has not been written as a rant made out of shit wit, sarcasticness and cynicism. It is essentially an open letter to everyone and no-one borne out of bored honesty, stoicism, an aching head and a glass of port. Furthermore, this is has been written to get everything out before it devours me completely, purely for my own benefit. After all, it's that special time of year when we think about ourselves. I echo my prelude to this piece by saying - or rather typing - that all of the gifts I have received, however few, have been received with gratitude, and that I have simply written all of the above with brutal honesty.
Finally, I'd like to close by saying that I hope whoever may be reading this has enjoyed the Christmas period in whatever way they've experienced it. Enjoy the rest of the festive period because in 364 days time, it'll be "same old, same old" once again. Surprise!
Wednesday, 19 December 2012
Mystery
When the train gets held at the station, people naturally start to complain; no exceptions. Not even if a diabetic passenger collapses moments after boarding because he probably didn't eat breakfast that particular morning or something. In fact, anyone in the adjoining carriage will, by human law, poke their head out into the aisle and stare through the little sliver of window in the door between compartments to see the backs of a crowd blocking off the impromptu patient of Chester railway station's emergency medical team. The complaining people, all the while, speak in tones reminiscent of why you left the area to go to University in the first place.
Whilst at University, you spend far too long stressing about coursework; both your own and that of fellow students. The fellow students' workload is dumped upon you not by your own choice, however. Once a healthy and stable workmate/friend/peer/colleague relationship has been established, that virtually acts as an unspoken 'open-door policy' for your comrade to inflict their stress on others. Luckily, this phenomenon only every occurs for two days before an assignment deadline in intense concentration. Once it's over, everyone reverts back to their happy selves leaving them able to partake in social or, in some cases, anti-social events usually involving alcohol and mild embarrassment.
Around the "term ending" times - i.e. Christmas and Easter - the former working groups and subsequent social groups end up saying goodbyes and farewells to one another as they dread a whole three weeks away from each other's company. If you're lucky, in the run up to the Christmas break, one of your peers may happen upon ownership of a Drinking Roulette-based game which essentially consists of a cheap moulded plastic roulette wheel, ball-bearing and several numbered shot glasses. Sometimes these glasses become filled with cola or water, or even undiluted squash for the particularly daring. Other times, fruity ciders fill the thimble-sized receptacles, and sometimes your peers explore the reduced-and-unspecified shelves of the alcohol aisle in the Crewe branch of Tesco, which happens to exist on stilts above it's ground-level car park. This results in the acquisition of a £7 bottle of what can only be referred to as the "mystery drink", which looks like Jägermeister, pours like soy sauce and tastes like Italian pesto and industrial paint thinner.
Once goodbyes have been exchanged alongside sordid secrets - all of which remain inside the room in which they were once spake - there eventually comes a time where you return to a former dwelling and a former existence you tried so desperately to get away from a little over two years ago. However, aforementioned victims of (possibly) long standing medical conditions do their bit to impede your progress - or regress as it were - whilst the surrounding passengers remind you of the fact that such people actually do exist.
As a result, you end up sitting on a static vehicle covered in layers of clothing, surrounded by two small suitcases on wheels, suffering an aching shoulder from a bulging satchel and realising that Patrick Wolf's The Bachelor album is actually pretty decent and that it does not, in fact, finish after track three. All the while, you find that it's a little difficult trying to admire the quaint, bizarre confluence of what can only really be described as "electro-folk" when you're staring at deserted buildings and faded rubbish that lies amongst train tracks that have clearly been out of use for years.
Eventually, you should make it to your destination, albeit forty-five minutes later than you would've previously hoped and proceed to realise how little your life seems to amount to as well as how much you wish the diabetic bloke from the train a speedy recovery as you gulp down tea laced with a stupid amount of sugar.
Whilst at University, you spend far too long stressing about coursework; both your own and that of fellow students. The fellow students' workload is dumped upon you not by your own choice, however. Once a healthy and stable workmate/friend/peer/colleague relationship has been established, that virtually acts as an unspoken 'open-door policy' for your comrade to inflict their stress on others. Luckily, this phenomenon only every occurs for two days before an assignment deadline in intense concentration. Once it's over, everyone reverts back to their happy selves leaving them able to partake in social or, in some cases, anti-social events usually involving alcohol and mild embarrassment.
Around the "term ending" times - i.e. Christmas and Easter - the former working groups and subsequent social groups end up saying goodbyes and farewells to one another as they dread a whole three weeks away from each other's company. If you're lucky, in the run up to the Christmas break, one of your peers may happen upon ownership of a Drinking Roulette-based game which essentially consists of a cheap moulded plastic roulette wheel, ball-bearing and several numbered shot glasses. Sometimes these glasses become filled with cola or water, or even undiluted squash for the particularly daring. Other times, fruity ciders fill the thimble-sized receptacles, and sometimes your peers explore the reduced-and-unspecified shelves of the alcohol aisle in the Crewe branch of Tesco, which happens to exist on stilts above it's ground-level car park. This results in the acquisition of a £7 bottle of what can only be referred to as the "mystery drink", which looks like Jägermeister, pours like soy sauce and tastes like Italian pesto and industrial paint thinner.
Once goodbyes have been exchanged alongside sordid secrets - all of which remain inside the room in which they were once spake - there eventually comes a time where you return to a former dwelling and a former existence you tried so desperately to get away from a little over two years ago. However, aforementioned victims of (possibly) long standing medical conditions do their bit to impede your progress - or regress as it were - whilst the surrounding passengers remind you of the fact that such people actually do exist.
As a result, you end up sitting on a static vehicle covered in layers of clothing, surrounded by two small suitcases on wheels, suffering an aching shoulder from a bulging satchel and realising that Patrick Wolf's The Bachelor album is actually pretty decent and that it does not, in fact, finish after track three. All the while, you find that it's a little difficult trying to admire the quaint, bizarre confluence of what can only really be described as "electro-folk" when you're staring at deserted buildings and faded rubbish that lies amongst train tracks that have clearly been out of use for years.
Eventually, you should make it to your destination, albeit forty-five minutes later than you would've previously hoped and proceed to realise how little your life seems to amount to as well as how much you wish the diabetic bloke from the train a speedy recovery as you gulp down tea laced with a stupid amount of sugar.
Wednesday, 5 December 2012
The Main Distraction
A long, long time ago - so about a month - I had a weekly venting window on this very portion of webspace. The good thing is that it still exists. The bad thing, though, is that I've either gained more of a life or lost my enthusiasm for typing (or both) that it's constantly been slipping under my attention radar for me to give a crap. For this reason, more stuff has happened during my existing time that could potentially warrant noteworthiness right here, meaning that this particular blabble could either stretch to an obscene length or amount to a couple of paragraphs which simply state "stuff happened" and I can talk about my distaste for typing or something. Either way, I should really be doing assignment work right now so this is my obligatory distraction from doing that. and not just any distraction, no. This is the main distraction. The main attraction of distractions everywhere. Yes, I've already pointlessly chopped an onion, had a shower and stared at a static Facebook page for an hour and a half without actually doing anything on it. Now, come gather round, ye children, for a grand story of festive magnitude and other wintery delights (probably... I don't even know what I'm typing now [God, I hate this]) as I present my annual un-Christmassy Christmas tale. And in time-honoured tradition of the culture of Western media, I'm presenting it many, many weeks before the actual day of Christmas.
So I went home on a train at some point, which is always the best way to start a story of festive cheer. My journey was made easier by the technology in the palm of my hand - a mobile telephone I had aquired during the summer period, with snazzy features such as flipping graphics, internet access and a calendar which doesn't get used.
My mild Facebook addiction is now regularly satisfied whilst I'm on the go,
which pleases me so,
but the network which provides my access is oft slow
at fulfilling my demands, and I get all like "whoa".
I signed up to a certain mobile network which, for pseudo-legal reasons, I will not mention, but I will tell you that it rhymes with... oh shit, nothing actually rhymes with Orange. Anyway, over the latest months, the firm has been overtaken and rebranded by the somewhat phonetically screeching EE, meaning Everything Everywhere. However, in the light of my various train journeys which lacked suitable access, I feel that they should be obliged to rebrand to Everything Everywhere, Except Certain Sections Of Railway Lines Which Happen To Pass By Fields, Hills And Other Various Countryside Related Miscellanea, but somehow I feel that EEECSORLWHTPBFHAOVCRM doesn't quite have the same ring to it.
Over the recent weeks, I've revelled in the initial bursts of joy of that annual office-party tradition of Secret Santa and cringed with horror at the actuality of that annual office-party tradition of Secret Santa. Currently, I belong to two Secret gifting groups: one consisting of coursemates, the other of University Archery enthusiasts. In each of these groups, however, it has quickly occurred to me - i.e. from the moment I've been given the name of a person I barely know within each group - that I don't want to do either any more. On top of this, one of the groups has suffered the mishap of a late withdrawal leaving several people in a stupour or some other word like that and as it currently stands, I have no idea what, if anything, I'm supposed to be buying for whom, if anyone. Picking out a name at random is all chance, of course. But when it comes to the names I personally end up resting upon, God or whoever or those head-fucky laws of chaos decide to pop up and be a complete dick. To those of you who happen to have your unknown gifts provided by me as a result of the naming goblins of Secret Santa, I hope I'm not ruining the surprise by informing you that you'll probably end up with a box of Quality Streets or something. Failing that, a white chocolate Magnum and hug.
And so once again, as November falls over into the four o'clock darkness and December turns our collective breaths into fog, my still somewhat-pubescent hormones have decided to latch onto one or two members of the fairer sex. Call it tradition. Girls are, like, my Coke advert. I don't particularly care about anyone or anything in any way other than platonic, but alas, for the third year in a row, my mindspace has wandered into the realm of "liking someone", rendering it completely useless when attempting to work towards important assignments. Apparently, it's a lot more important for me to shove my hands in my pockets, bunch my shoulders forward, smile sheepishly with my head down and twist one foot on the ground whilst anchored to one point by the toes. If personal history is anything to go by, this beautiful, wonderous, cutesy, disgusting, lovable, stupid bastard feeling will subside within a week or three, allowing me just enough time to not care that I'm spending the New Year period alone, again. For the time being though, to you who happens to have been affected by the perfectly normal, yet annoyingly human feelings conjured up by my brain, I hope not to frighten you away with the sheer sight of my face and to make things up to you at some point with a white chocolate Magnum and a hug. If those have already been taken, I'll consider the box of Quality Streets, but quite frankly my dear, I feel that might be taking things a little too fast.
These paragraphs are stupidly long. If you read them all, well done, but at the same time you might want to consider doing something with your life. Might I suggest a white chocolate Magnum and that you go... hug yourself.
So I went home on a train at some point, which is always the best way to start a story of festive cheer. My journey was made easier by the technology in the palm of my hand - a mobile telephone I had aquired during the summer period, with snazzy features such as flipping graphics, internet access and a calendar which doesn't get used.
My mild Facebook addiction is now regularly satisfied whilst I'm on the go,
which pleases me so,
but the network which provides my access is oft slow
at fulfilling my demands, and I get all like "whoa".
I signed up to a certain mobile network which, for pseudo-legal reasons, I will not mention, but I will tell you that it rhymes with... oh shit, nothing actually rhymes with Orange. Anyway, over the latest months, the firm has been overtaken and rebranded by the somewhat phonetically screeching EE, meaning Everything Everywhere. However, in the light of my various train journeys which lacked suitable access, I feel that they should be obliged to rebrand to Everything Everywhere, Except Certain Sections Of Railway Lines Which Happen To Pass By Fields, Hills And Other Various Countryside Related Miscellanea, but somehow I feel that EEECSORLWHTPBFHAOVCRM doesn't quite have the same ring to it.
Over the recent weeks, I've revelled in the initial bursts of joy of that annual office-party tradition of Secret Santa and cringed with horror at the actuality of that annual office-party tradition of Secret Santa. Currently, I belong to two Secret gifting groups: one consisting of coursemates, the other of University Archery enthusiasts. In each of these groups, however, it has quickly occurred to me - i.e. from the moment I've been given the name of a person I barely know within each group - that I don't want to do either any more. On top of this, one of the groups has suffered the mishap of a late withdrawal leaving several people in a stupour or some other word like that and as it currently stands, I have no idea what, if anything, I'm supposed to be buying for whom, if anyone. Picking out a name at random is all chance, of course. But when it comes to the names I personally end up resting upon, God or whoever or those head-fucky laws of chaos decide to pop up and be a complete dick. To those of you who happen to have your unknown gifts provided by me as a result of the naming goblins of Secret Santa, I hope I'm not ruining the surprise by informing you that you'll probably end up with a box of Quality Streets or something. Failing that, a white chocolate Magnum and hug.
And so once again, as November falls over into the four o'clock darkness and December turns our collective breaths into fog, my still somewhat-pubescent hormones have decided to latch onto one or two members of the fairer sex. Call it tradition. Girls are, like, my Coke advert. I don't particularly care about anyone or anything in any way other than platonic, but alas, for the third year in a row, my mindspace has wandered into the realm of "liking someone", rendering it completely useless when attempting to work towards important assignments. Apparently, it's a lot more important for me to shove my hands in my pockets, bunch my shoulders forward, smile sheepishly with my head down and twist one foot on the ground whilst anchored to one point by the toes. If personal history is anything to go by, this beautiful, wonderous, cutesy, disgusting, lovable, stupid bastard feeling will subside within a week or three, allowing me just enough time to not care that I'm spending the New Year period alone, again. For the time being though, to you who happens to have been affected by the perfectly normal, yet annoyingly human feelings conjured up by my brain, I hope not to frighten you away with the sheer sight of my face and to make things up to you at some point with a white chocolate Magnum and a hug. If those have already been taken, I'll consider the box of Quality Streets, but quite frankly my dear, I feel that might be taking things a little too fast.
These paragraphs are stupidly long. If you read them all, well done, but at the same time you might want to consider doing something with your life. Might I suggest a white chocolate Magnum and that you go... hug yourself.
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