Waterstones are good. They are very good at what they do. By which I mean selling books. Not only do they own shops that you can walk into to view the books, and bring them to a counter a purchase them, no no. They provide very special 'deals', forcing you into a life of debt.
They are devious these book sellers. I was caught out yesterday when I saw that they were selling the new Hornby for just £4.49. Bargain, I thought. Only on closer inspection of the book's sticker did it transpire that this price only became available when your total purchase was £10 or over. OK, a little cheeky, but fair enough. I found a suitable partner for the Hornby, (That Mitchell and Webb Book, for those who are interested) and went to pay.
Now by this point, I was already invested in my purchase, I was anticipating soon owning them, doing with them as I willed, whether that be reading them, or something far seedier. E.g. makeshift doorstop.
It was only when I went to make my purchase that it further transpired (or should I say, 'conspired' !?!?!) that I needed to have already spent £10 in order to receive the Hornby discount. I could have, and perhaps should have walked away then, lobbing the books at the distressed assistant, crying my outrage at such daylight robbery. But I was too far gone, already too attached to my purchases (It's Hornby for chrissakes!)
So in order to save myself £2.50 from the RRP, I instead spent £22 on books that I had no intention of buying half an hour before. They're good.
Showing posts with label Things that maybe happened to me. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Things that maybe happened to me. Show all posts
Friday, 1 January 2010
Tuesday, 11 August 2009
Who gets social etiquette? - Not me
I hate social etiquette; of course I respect politeness to a certain degree, but as a mainframe, as a body of rules driven in to me; overriding my ability to respond to questions in a reasonable and true way, it is a lot of bother.
Take for example those instances when something is offered to you, in British homes this is traditionally a biscuit. This may take the form of a custard cream, or a Hobnob if you’re really lucky. Somewhere inside me, on someone warped level, there is a belief that it is rude to accept this domestic gift, particularly on the first offer. It’s so minimal that it hardly exists, and yet it provokes this kneejerk reaction of “No thank you,” whether I fancied a Bourbon or not. What is this ingrained reaction? Is it some Catholic hangup, from the same group of people who made us think sex is naughty?
Whatever the case, once I’ve rejected the first offer, it becomes increasingly difficult to subsequently contradict your answer, for fear of being ‘awkward.’ If by their third offer you still haven’t agreed to that cup of tea, there’s no sensible way of changing your mind and keeping your dignity intact. By that point you’re too far-gone, they already know how things are going to play out, and the third offer is just a courtesy. They’ve likely resigned themselves to remaining seated – already mentally relaxing – knowing that they aren’t going to have to negotiate your bizarre demands of two dashes of milk, three quarters a spoonful of sugar, and a drop of vanilla honey from Mount Mainalo.
One of the worst case scenarios for not accepting a host’s hospitality is when you are asked first amongst a group, and not wanting to put the host out, you politely decline, only to feel an increasing amount of regret as every other guest accepts the offer, thereby making your sacrifice redundant. What’s worst about this situation is that it’s nearly impossible to forego your initial response; the level of embarrassment is equivalent to making a public apology.
In these cases we seem to be punished by our social laws, but experience tells us that they protect us as well. In the last instance the most you can lose is a digestive, perhaps a Jaffa Cake if you’re very unlucky, but what if you were to say yes, hoping to lead the pack by example, saying, ‘It’s okay to accept,’ only for them to turn their back on you, and one after another decline the offer; leaving you stranded on your island of gluttony and social exclusion.
Despite the guidelines that social etiquette provides, enabling us to get by without offending anyone, whilst simultaneously winning them over with our impeccable politeness, I can’t help but find some elements distasteful. I’m speaking of the general dishonesty and phoneyness that pervades social occasions. Such as the time when you receive birthday presents on your birthday, and you have to say things like, “Oh, you didn’t have to do that!” and smile sincerely, all the while reaching out to gladly receive, but at the same time displaying that tiny possibility that you’re not going to accept it, that it would be presumptuous of you to do so. And you wouldn’t want that.
WTF?
In what way is it presumptuous to expect gifts on one of the two days of the year where the act of present giving and receiving is not only warranted, but encouraged? God knows you’ll be annoyed if they don’t, however well you hide it, and I usually find the ones who are most obvious about their displeasure at not receiving presents are the same who act most surprised when they do.
I myself find it difficult to engage in this day-to-day pretence, of always being delighted by acts of kindness or generosity, especially as most of them are so predictable. Such as the mock row and fight over who gets to pay for dinner:
“No, no. I insist.”
“Well, I doubly insist!”
“It doesn’t matter, you paid last time.”
“But that was only for the two of us at a fast-food joint, it hardly compares.”
“Be that as it may…”
How easily I lose this fight. When someone makes an offer once, that is more than enough for me. Case closed. You win. Game over. Lights out. Short declarative sentence. See you later.
Take for example those instances when something is offered to you, in British homes this is traditionally a biscuit. This may take the form of a custard cream, or a Hobnob if you’re really lucky. Somewhere inside me, on someone warped level, there is a belief that it is rude to accept this domestic gift, particularly on the first offer. It’s so minimal that it hardly exists, and yet it provokes this kneejerk reaction of “No thank you,” whether I fancied a Bourbon or not. What is this ingrained reaction? Is it some Catholic hangup, from the same group of people who made us think sex is naughty?
Whatever the case, once I’ve rejected the first offer, it becomes increasingly difficult to subsequently contradict your answer, for fear of being ‘awkward.’ If by their third offer you still haven’t agreed to that cup of tea, there’s no sensible way of changing your mind and keeping your dignity intact. By that point you’re too far-gone, they already know how things are going to play out, and the third offer is just a courtesy. They’ve likely resigned themselves to remaining seated – already mentally relaxing – knowing that they aren’t going to have to negotiate your bizarre demands of two dashes of milk, three quarters a spoonful of sugar, and a drop of vanilla honey from Mount Mainalo.
One of the worst case scenarios for not accepting a host’s hospitality is when you are asked first amongst a group, and not wanting to put the host out, you politely decline, only to feel an increasing amount of regret as every other guest accepts the offer, thereby making your sacrifice redundant. What’s worst about this situation is that it’s nearly impossible to forego your initial response; the level of embarrassment is equivalent to making a public apology.
In these cases we seem to be punished by our social laws, but experience tells us that they protect us as well. In the last instance the most you can lose is a digestive, perhaps a Jaffa Cake if you’re very unlucky, but what if you were to say yes, hoping to lead the pack by example, saying, ‘It’s okay to accept,’ only for them to turn their back on you, and one after another decline the offer; leaving you stranded on your island of gluttony and social exclusion.
Despite the guidelines that social etiquette provides, enabling us to get by without offending anyone, whilst simultaneously winning them over with our impeccable politeness, I can’t help but find some elements distasteful. I’m speaking of the general dishonesty and phoneyness that pervades social occasions. Such as the time when you receive birthday presents on your birthday, and you have to say things like, “Oh, you didn’t have to do that!” and smile sincerely, all the while reaching out to gladly receive, but at the same time displaying that tiny possibility that you’re not going to accept it, that it would be presumptuous of you to do so. And you wouldn’t want that.
WTF?
In what way is it presumptuous to expect gifts on one of the two days of the year where the act of present giving and receiving is not only warranted, but encouraged? God knows you’ll be annoyed if they don’t, however well you hide it, and I usually find the ones who are most obvious about their displeasure at not receiving presents are the same who act most surprised when they do.
I myself find it difficult to engage in this day-to-day pretence, of always being delighted by acts of kindness or generosity, especially as most of them are so predictable. Such as the mock row and fight over who gets to pay for dinner:
“No, no. I insist.”
“Well, I doubly insist!”
“It doesn’t matter, you paid last time.”
“But that was only for the two of us at a fast-food joint, it hardly compares.”
“Be that as it may…”
How easily I lose this fight. When someone makes an offer once, that is more than enough for me. Case closed. You win. Game over. Lights out. Short declarative sentence. See you later.
Sunday, 21 June 2009
Party Fail
I recently semi-organised one of the most unsuccessful parties in my life, if not in history. The Facebook group confides that 109 guests were invited, and guess how many turned up? No, it’s actually embarrassingly less than what you thought. It’s 4. This equates to a 3.6% turnout, the result is so hilarious it seems impossible to feel insulted. I feel more as if the absent guests were taking part in some grand joke, only they weren’t in on it together, they all made private and separate decisions that led to such a small turnout that I wouldn’t have thought possible.
So where did it all go wrong? I can’t help but feel that the event was titled somewhat ambitiously, parading under the moniker ‘Epic Houseparty Awesomeness’. ‘Houseparty’ itself denotes a significant gathering of people, or at least twenty. We probably thought this was a safe bet when we invited over five times this amount. As embarrassing as a 20% turnout would have been, it would undeniably be a house party, just neither Epic nor Awesome.
I wonder if people felt intimidated by the name, perhaps they didn’t feel ready for such heady experiences. Or perhaps the more cynical among them felt that the party had oversold itself, that by using Epic and Awesome in such close proximity their expectations had risen to dangerous heights, and they knew in their heart of hearts that no party whether epic or awesome could match their frenzied imagination.
Perhaps this is just indicative of the noncommittal attitude prevalent among students. An attitude masked by politeness. The most prominent group of invited rsvp’d as ‘Maybe’. Of course, everyone knows that ‘maybe’ doesn’t constitute a completely neutral position that may swing either way. It’s for people who feel too harsh being categorised as someone who has rejected your invitation. In this case it was as good as no, evidenced by no one on the maybe list showing up. On Facebook, even ‘confirmed’ doesn’t mean yes, it just means they intend to come, or at least they did before they realised that the new series of House is on.
If we lived in an alternate universe when confirmed meant confirmed and maybe meant probably yes, then excusing all the people that I’m still waiting on for a reply and those who admitted they wouldn’t be able to make it, I’m looking at 55 potential partygoers. In real life 4 came. Which meant there was a pullout rate of 92%, which is higher than a teenage boy with no condom.
I think we could have expected a larger turnout had people been drinking prior to the party. There’s nothing like alcohol to lubricate the loose bonds formed at a jamboree. Oh, how we reach out for the camaraderie of strangers with a fervour and raw enthusiasm, and what comfort we find in the bosom of their attention! How we agree that from this moment on there will be plenty more meets, getting togethers, getting to know one anothers. Only once the alcohol has worn off do we retreat to our solitude. Why did I agree to that? We think, and pray the other party has forgotten.
Of course, they’re usually thinking the exact same thing, but it isn’t always the case. Sometimes they ring back, and what a terrifying experience that is. In these circumstances it is perfectly acceptable to change your SIM card and passport photo.
In the end, the party became a small gathering of men and one lady. We played Rockband all night and had ourselves a ruddy good time.
So where did it all go wrong? I can’t help but feel that the event was titled somewhat ambitiously, parading under the moniker ‘Epic Houseparty Awesomeness’. ‘Houseparty’ itself denotes a significant gathering of people, or at least twenty. We probably thought this was a safe bet when we invited over five times this amount. As embarrassing as a 20% turnout would have been, it would undeniably be a house party, just neither Epic nor Awesome.
I wonder if people felt intimidated by the name, perhaps they didn’t feel ready for such heady experiences. Or perhaps the more cynical among them felt that the party had oversold itself, that by using Epic and Awesome in such close proximity their expectations had risen to dangerous heights, and they knew in their heart of hearts that no party whether epic or awesome could match their frenzied imagination.
Perhaps this is just indicative of the noncommittal attitude prevalent among students. An attitude masked by politeness. The most prominent group of invited rsvp’d as ‘Maybe’. Of course, everyone knows that ‘maybe’ doesn’t constitute a completely neutral position that may swing either way. It’s for people who feel too harsh being categorised as someone who has rejected your invitation. In this case it was as good as no, evidenced by no one on the maybe list showing up. On Facebook, even ‘confirmed’ doesn’t mean yes, it just means they intend to come, or at least they did before they realised that the new series of House is on.
If we lived in an alternate universe when confirmed meant confirmed and maybe meant probably yes, then excusing all the people that I’m still waiting on for a reply and those who admitted they wouldn’t be able to make it, I’m looking at 55 potential partygoers. In real life 4 came. Which meant there was a pullout rate of 92%, which is higher than a teenage boy with no condom.
I think we could have expected a larger turnout had people been drinking prior to the party. There’s nothing like alcohol to lubricate the loose bonds formed at a jamboree. Oh, how we reach out for the camaraderie of strangers with a fervour and raw enthusiasm, and what comfort we find in the bosom of their attention! How we agree that from this moment on there will be plenty more meets, getting togethers, getting to know one anothers. Only once the alcohol has worn off do we retreat to our solitude. Why did I agree to that? We think, and pray the other party has forgotten.
Of course, they’re usually thinking the exact same thing, but it isn’t always the case. Sometimes they ring back, and what a terrifying experience that is. In these circumstances it is perfectly acceptable to change your SIM card and passport photo.
In the end, the party became a small gathering of men and one lady. We played Rockband all night and had ourselves a ruddy good time.
Saturday, 13 June 2009
Older
I’m 21, but sometimes my body tells me I’m older. There are little signifiers to watch out for. Like the little groan that escapes the back of my throat when I get out of a chair, and the corresponding sigh of relief when I fall into one. Is this really necessary? Is my body that out of shape that it likes to remind me that the transition between sitting and standing is a stressful one to me?
I’m stuck with it now, it’s not going to get any better, but neither will it get worse. There never seems to be much range in this noise, depending on just how decrepit you are. I think it would be a good indication as to how old someone is. In your thirties it’s the sigh, barely noticeable above the sound of the TV. In your fifties it becomes an inappropriate bark, almost angry, as if lifting yourself out of a chair is a battle. By seventy, you’re screaming; afraid that every ascent may be the death of you.
I’ve tried to rectify this problem and eliminate it from my system. I refuse to have it until I’m a dad. So now, I hold my breath, and by the time I’m on my feet my face is purple. For whatever reason, the sighing eases the process, as if there was a major difference in air pressure between my height and the level of the couch. As if the sighing releases a valve that makes it safe to be upright. If I somehow fail to eject myself from my chair (one of the hazards of not breathing) I may have to wait a good quarter of an hour before I’m stable enough to try again, or I risk passing out.
I wonder if there is more to the ‘couch sigh’ than first meets the ear. Perhaps it is a modern rites of passage, that suggests a new phase in life that every man comes to at one point or another. A time when father and son both expel their breaths in agreement, as if so much were contained in their sighs. It suggests experience, a wistfulness and resignation, but an acceptance of life. At this point the father could turn to his son, his eyes shining with pride, whilst his shaking hand proffers an ancient technology. Passed from fathers to sons in livingrooms across the country. As if to say, you can’t control life, but you can control TV.
The sighing in unison is a rare and mystical phenomenon. At a family gathering I once stood up at the same time as my dad and one of my uncles. The resulting noise was a chorus of effort, as if we were an a cappella group demonstrating a synchronised cough. It was like four doors of a car being shut simultaneously, so that it didn’t sound like four doors, but instead one huge booming door. This occurs as seldom as the perfect alignment of the planets in our solar system, but with less catastrophic events. In this instance we accidentally blew out the candles on my cousin’s birthday cake.
I’m stuck with it now, it’s not going to get any better, but neither will it get worse. There never seems to be much range in this noise, depending on just how decrepit you are. I think it would be a good indication as to how old someone is. In your thirties it’s the sigh, barely noticeable above the sound of the TV. In your fifties it becomes an inappropriate bark, almost angry, as if lifting yourself out of a chair is a battle. By seventy, you’re screaming; afraid that every ascent may be the death of you.
I’ve tried to rectify this problem and eliminate it from my system. I refuse to have it until I’m a dad. So now, I hold my breath, and by the time I’m on my feet my face is purple. For whatever reason, the sighing eases the process, as if there was a major difference in air pressure between my height and the level of the couch. As if the sighing releases a valve that makes it safe to be upright. If I somehow fail to eject myself from my chair (one of the hazards of not breathing) I may have to wait a good quarter of an hour before I’m stable enough to try again, or I risk passing out.
I wonder if there is more to the ‘couch sigh’ than first meets the ear. Perhaps it is a modern rites of passage, that suggests a new phase in life that every man comes to at one point or another. A time when father and son both expel their breaths in agreement, as if so much were contained in their sighs. It suggests experience, a wistfulness and resignation, but an acceptance of life. At this point the father could turn to his son, his eyes shining with pride, whilst his shaking hand proffers an ancient technology. Passed from fathers to sons in livingrooms across the country. As if to say, you can’t control life, but you can control TV.
The sighing in unison is a rare and mystical phenomenon. At a family gathering I once stood up at the same time as my dad and one of my uncles. The resulting noise was a chorus of effort, as if we were an a cappella group demonstrating a synchronised cough. It was like four doors of a car being shut simultaneously, so that it didn’t sound like four doors, but instead one huge booming door. This occurs as seldom as the perfect alignment of the planets in our solar system, but with less catastrophic events. In this instance we accidentally blew out the candles on my cousin’s birthday cake.
Saturday, 6 June 2009
Shirt Shopping
As anyone who’s bought a shirt for work or special occasions will know, your size is based on the thickness of your neck. I was making such a purchase the other day, when I approached a sales assistant for help. He was a stately man of great height, as if his height was entirely influenced by how well he thought of himself. Even without speaking to him I picked up an air of authority emanating from him, though this may have just been his broom moustache. I went to tap him on the shoulder but thought better of it; I noticed a coiled tension in his back muscles, as if they wanted to burst free. He became quickly aware of my presence and spun round to face me. Without further adieu he looked at me piercingly, his eyes seeing something indiscernible to everyone else. “I’d say you’re 15 and a half inches,” he said with confidence. I was about to ask him how he could possibly know that when I realised he was referring to my neck.
I was awestruck by this display. This was surely the coolest party trick ever, to just by looking, gauge the circumference of someone’s limbs, to peer at their appendages and croon sagely, “Yes. Just what I thought, you have a fat neck.”
What worried me is that this man saw more than just my 15 and a half inches, the amount of scrutiny he gave made me wonder what else he observed. Perhaps the eyes aren’t the windows to the soul at all, we’ve been looking in the wrong place all along. He surprised me when he followed up with, “You were never happy as a child, were you Khyan?”
I was stunned into silence, although I didn’t ask how he knew my name, he answered me regardless, “I have ears everywhere.” His eyes darted to each far corner of the room to indicate this. My own eyes darted to follow his gaze, very much expecting to find fleshy lobes hanging from handrails, invisible to me until now.
“I was happy,” I said uncertainly.
“Don’t lie,” he said, “I can always tell when you lie.”
I’m not lying, I wanted to say, but his piercing glare had now become scarily wide-eyed. I felt a sensation of weightlessness descend on me, as if I were falling from a great height until a cough developed from deep within me. I was able to retrieve my handkerchief just in time to splutter what felt like a warm mucous. I looked into my hanky to find a stain of blood.
“Blood,” the sales assistant confirmed. He seemed please by this development, and offered me a clean handkerchief, apparently in trade for my soiled one. I felt wary about accepting any gifts from such an unnerving man, and re-pocketed my own hanky. The sales assistant was now very close to me, his head bent down towards my own. The smell of menthol was overpowering, which he blasted into my face with exertion. I soon became aware of a massive hand invading my pocket; it seemed less concerned with finding the hanky than violently groping my leg. His breaths now became short and sharp whilst his eyes bulged. They bulged so much I was afraid they were going to fall on me. And then just as suddenly as the hand was there, it was gone, taking the hanky with it.
We looked at each other for a while after. I had no idea how I should react, and oddly felt little need to. My reverie was broken when I heard the pounding of feet behind me; the sales assistant reacted physically, bolting into a graceless run, as if he were unused to using his legs. Two burly security guards charged past, giving chase and calling to no one in particular, “It’s him again! The bastard’s back again!”
Afterwards I was called into the manager’s office, a glorified cupboard with cheap wood panelling. The manager, a tired looking man who hid his girth behind a dinky desk said to me, “That bastard,” which was how he was commonly known around here, “that bastard did it again. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. It won’t be the last.” He turned suddenly to face the miserable view out the window, and he let the silence build, perhaps to weight the importance of his words. I was impressed with how long he drew this out, until he said again, this time with less conviction, “It won’t be the last.” The security guards, who flanked him on either side of the desk – and made the room even more claustrophobic – looked uneasily at each other, as if their boss did this a lot.
The manager turned back to face me, looking older already, as if he aged by the minute. He pulled on a drawer in the desk, and retrieved a brown envelope and gun which he placed on the desk in front of him, then quickly replaced the gun in the drawer and looked at me anxiously, as if he was worried I saw. He pushed the envelope towards me, “If you could not say anything…” he said, letting his sentence drop off, either too embarrassed to finish it, or happier just suggesting it. I took the envelope and had a quick look inside, disappointed to find a thick wad of Marks and Spencer vouchers. One of the guards got the door and let me out, immediately closing it after me.
I went home and showered for a long time after that.
I was awestruck by this display. This was surely the coolest party trick ever, to just by looking, gauge the circumference of someone’s limbs, to peer at their appendages and croon sagely, “Yes. Just what I thought, you have a fat neck.”
What worried me is that this man saw more than just my 15 and a half inches, the amount of scrutiny he gave made me wonder what else he observed. Perhaps the eyes aren’t the windows to the soul at all, we’ve been looking in the wrong place all along. He surprised me when he followed up with, “You were never happy as a child, were you Khyan?”
I was stunned into silence, although I didn’t ask how he knew my name, he answered me regardless, “I have ears everywhere.” His eyes darted to each far corner of the room to indicate this. My own eyes darted to follow his gaze, very much expecting to find fleshy lobes hanging from handrails, invisible to me until now.
“I was happy,” I said uncertainly.
“Don’t lie,” he said, “I can always tell when you lie.”
I’m not lying, I wanted to say, but his piercing glare had now become scarily wide-eyed. I felt a sensation of weightlessness descend on me, as if I were falling from a great height until a cough developed from deep within me. I was able to retrieve my handkerchief just in time to splutter what felt like a warm mucous. I looked into my hanky to find a stain of blood.
“Blood,” the sales assistant confirmed. He seemed please by this development, and offered me a clean handkerchief, apparently in trade for my soiled one. I felt wary about accepting any gifts from such an unnerving man, and re-pocketed my own hanky. The sales assistant was now very close to me, his head bent down towards my own. The smell of menthol was overpowering, which he blasted into my face with exertion. I soon became aware of a massive hand invading my pocket; it seemed less concerned with finding the hanky than violently groping my leg. His breaths now became short and sharp whilst his eyes bulged. They bulged so much I was afraid they were going to fall on me. And then just as suddenly as the hand was there, it was gone, taking the hanky with it.
We looked at each other for a while after. I had no idea how I should react, and oddly felt little need to. My reverie was broken when I heard the pounding of feet behind me; the sales assistant reacted physically, bolting into a graceless run, as if he were unused to using his legs. Two burly security guards charged past, giving chase and calling to no one in particular, “It’s him again! The bastard’s back again!”
Afterwards I was called into the manager’s office, a glorified cupboard with cheap wood panelling. The manager, a tired looking man who hid his girth behind a dinky desk said to me, “That bastard,” which was how he was commonly known around here, “that bastard did it again. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. It won’t be the last.” He turned suddenly to face the miserable view out the window, and he let the silence build, perhaps to weight the importance of his words. I was impressed with how long he drew this out, until he said again, this time with less conviction, “It won’t be the last.” The security guards, who flanked him on either side of the desk – and made the room even more claustrophobic – looked uneasily at each other, as if their boss did this a lot.
The manager turned back to face me, looking older already, as if he aged by the minute. He pulled on a drawer in the desk, and retrieved a brown envelope and gun which he placed on the desk in front of him, then quickly replaced the gun in the drawer and looked at me anxiously, as if he was worried I saw. He pushed the envelope towards me, “If you could not say anything…” he said, letting his sentence drop off, either too embarrassed to finish it, or happier just suggesting it. I took the envelope and had a quick look inside, disappointed to find a thick wad of Marks and Spencer vouchers. One of the guards got the door and let me out, immediately closing it after me.
I went home and showered for a long time after that.
Saturday, 30 May 2009
Mr. Crane
Last night I cricked my neck in response to an attacking crane fly; you could say I was craning my neck. It was more like a twist though, but it would be fitting to refer to it as craning. Perhaps that is how it got its name. However, it also commonly goes by the name Daddy Long Legs. Now, I think we all understand the Long Legs part, but Daddy? How could this possibly have come about?
Was an orphan scholar woken in the night by a flickering at his oil lamp, and on seeing a creature unfamiliar to him, which on closer inspection was surely a common fly but a fly granted the power of spaghetti legs, he called out uncertainly to it, “Father?”
It seems somewhat diminutive to refer to the daddy long legs as a fly. I’ve always considered it a winged spider, which is perhaps why I always regard it as more of a threat. I don’t like spiders as it is, so the idea of giving a creepy crawly aviation is monstrous.
The naming can give a creature more power. Think of the dragonfly for example. How proud must it be to have ‘dragon’ in its name? They are probably the most boastful of flies, but their arrogance is ill founded. They are not nearly as impressive as their name suggests. I remember people talking about them as a child. I imagined them as great beasts the size of human torsos. How bitterly disappointed I was on meeting the reality; a pin stripe with wings. They exhibited no dragon like abilities. I wouldn’t even call them dragon-esque, even for the insect world.
It didn’t actually work out that well for the daddy long legs, in order for it to defy gravity, there was a great deal of slim-lining involved. Yes, it decided to keep its spider legs, but it had to compromise if it wanted to be light enough to fly. Consequently its legs are detachable. They’re about as strong as spider web, and can be popped off with ease. Not only are they one of the most ugly of creatures, because they only live a day, they never learn to fly with any grace; and what could be graceful with those legs, spread uncertainly in all directions? They’re like a plane that’s left its wheels out for the whole journey – if those wheels were giant gay roller blades.
Much like moths, it is the unpredictability with which they fly that scares me most. There is an urgency in their movement which suggests chaos. Whereas the grounded spider prowls, sometimes creeping; it is like an omen. Even this is preferable to the devil may care daddy long legs.
I believe the daddy long legs knows my fear. I believe they are drawn to my face, which is as attractive to them as a 40-watt bulb. They seem determined on exploring my head’s orifices.
This is a major difference between the spider and the crane fly. The spider takes refuge in darkness, like a ninja. Stalking pray, its presence hidden. By comparison the crane fly is the football hooligan of the insect world. It demands your attention, seeking the brightest light it can find and bashing its skull against it, “Fucking c’mon!” It craves intensity. Perhaps because it only lives for a day, its only goal is to live its last day like its last, spreading havoc, herding humans over cliffs like a wayward sheepdog.
After fifteen minutes of ineffectual batting with my Guitar Hero controller – the crane fly was having none of it – I resorted to the old trap-in-a-glass-and-slide-paper-under technique. Predictably, it lost a few legs in the process. How pathetic you truly are, I began to think. I brought him over to my open window and ejected him into the night sky, almost throwing the glass in the process. I checked the glass several times afterward to make sure he wasn’t still desperately clinging to the base, ready to take his revenge on my face. I shut my window, and haven’t opened it since.
Was an orphan scholar woken in the night by a flickering at his oil lamp, and on seeing a creature unfamiliar to him, which on closer inspection was surely a common fly but a fly granted the power of spaghetti legs, he called out uncertainly to it, “Father?”
It seems somewhat diminutive to refer to the daddy long legs as a fly. I’ve always considered it a winged spider, which is perhaps why I always regard it as more of a threat. I don’t like spiders as it is, so the idea of giving a creepy crawly aviation is monstrous.
The naming can give a creature more power. Think of the dragonfly for example. How proud must it be to have ‘dragon’ in its name? They are probably the most boastful of flies, but their arrogance is ill founded. They are not nearly as impressive as their name suggests. I remember people talking about them as a child. I imagined them as great beasts the size of human torsos. How bitterly disappointed I was on meeting the reality; a pin stripe with wings. They exhibited no dragon like abilities. I wouldn’t even call them dragon-esque, even for the insect world.
It didn’t actually work out that well for the daddy long legs, in order for it to defy gravity, there was a great deal of slim-lining involved. Yes, it decided to keep its spider legs, but it had to compromise if it wanted to be light enough to fly. Consequently its legs are detachable. They’re about as strong as spider web, and can be popped off with ease. Not only are they one of the most ugly of creatures, because they only live a day, they never learn to fly with any grace; and what could be graceful with those legs, spread uncertainly in all directions? They’re like a plane that’s left its wheels out for the whole journey – if those wheels were giant gay roller blades.
Much like moths, it is the unpredictability with which they fly that scares me most. There is an urgency in their movement which suggests chaos. Whereas the grounded spider prowls, sometimes creeping; it is like an omen. Even this is preferable to the devil may care daddy long legs.
I believe the daddy long legs knows my fear. I believe they are drawn to my face, which is as attractive to them as a 40-watt bulb. They seem determined on exploring my head’s orifices.
This is a major difference between the spider and the crane fly. The spider takes refuge in darkness, like a ninja. Stalking pray, its presence hidden. By comparison the crane fly is the football hooligan of the insect world. It demands your attention, seeking the brightest light it can find and bashing its skull against it, “Fucking c’mon!” It craves intensity. Perhaps because it only lives for a day, its only goal is to live its last day like its last, spreading havoc, herding humans over cliffs like a wayward sheepdog.
After fifteen minutes of ineffectual batting with my Guitar Hero controller – the crane fly was having none of it – I resorted to the old trap-in-a-glass-and-slide-paper-under technique. Predictably, it lost a few legs in the process. How pathetic you truly are, I began to think. I brought him over to my open window and ejected him into the night sky, almost throwing the glass in the process. I checked the glass several times afterward to make sure he wasn’t still desperately clinging to the base, ready to take his revenge on my face. I shut my window, and haven’t opened it since.
Saturday, 14 March 2009
Facial Foliage
I’m currently growing a beard. It’s official. I’ve made a conscious decision to grow hair on my face. It’s not as if I have any say in the matter, sure I can shave, but the hair grows regardless of any mental effort to stop. So I’ve decided to stop arguing with my face. You win this time, Beard. It’s been a constant battle since I was about 16. I even like to think of my razor as a tiny sword.
Admittedly, when I was 16, my face was putting up a bit of a pathetic fight. A fight that I wanted to lose. Because every boy at 16 just wants some fur for his top lip. He wants to look more mature, but you can’t really grow anything worth boasting about. If you try to sidle down to the breakfast table, pluck up your collar and ask the family, “Notice anything different about me?” They’ll probably think you forgot to wash your face.
I remember when going to college though, I found out that this wasn’t entirely true. There were exceptions. Boys with all the maturation of a thirty year old, sporting full tramp beards. I used to look at these boys in wonder. They weren’t really boys at all, but Manly idols. How did this happen?
Perhaps young Jimmy was walking to school when he noticed a tear in a hedge. A hedge that had always seemed so ordinary and unnoticeable. But then he remembered what Old Man Jenkins had whispered to him after Jimmy had finished mowing his lawn in exchange for lemonade, “Take the uncertain path…look out for hedges,” and for some reason “crazy golf.” But at this same time, he remembered what his parents had told him on the first day of school, “Stick to the roads…stay away from the hedges,” and when he had asked why, they had looked at each other with a deep sense of knowing, and his father said, “Just because…damnit.”
Now once that something had been forbidden, there was no turning back for young Jimmy, and so through the hedge he went and fell head first into a vat of testosterone. There really is no other explanation.
Admittedly, when I was 16, my face was putting up a bit of a pathetic fight. A fight that I wanted to lose. Because every boy at 16 just wants some fur for his top lip. He wants to look more mature, but you can’t really grow anything worth boasting about. If you try to sidle down to the breakfast table, pluck up your collar and ask the family, “Notice anything different about me?” They’ll probably think you forgot to wash your face.
I remember when going to college though, I found out that this wasn’t entirely true. There were exceptions. Boys with all the maturation of a thirty year old, sporting full tramp beards. I used to look at these boys in wonder. They weren’t really boys at all, but Manly idols. How did this happen?
Perhaps young Jimmy was walking to school when he noticed a tear in a hedge. A hedge that had always seemed so ordinary and unnoticeable. But then he remembered what Old Man Jenkins had whispered to him after Jimmy had finished mowing his lawn in exchange for lemonade, “Take the uncertain path…look out for hedges,” and for some reason “crazy golf.” But at this same time, he remembered what his parents had told him on the first day of school, “Stick to the roads…stay away from the hedges,” and when he had asked why, they had looked at each other with a deep sense of knowing, and his father said, “Just because…damnit.”
Now once that something had been forbidden, there was no turning back for young Jimmy, and so through the hedge he went and fell head first into a vat of testosterone. There really is no other explanation.
Saturday, 28 February 2009
Don't Touch My Crutch
I was in WHSmith today, browsing the magazine rack. I knelt down to get a look at the mags on the lower shelf. I reached for TimeOut, and only noticed once I was touching the magazine that I had reached between a man’s leg and one of the crutch’s he was using. Was this rude, to reach between a man’s leg and his crutch? I had gone unnoticed, but for how long?
I began to wonder if he thought of his crutch just as he would a real leg, and it was therefore improper to put my arm between them. Perhaps it was even more sensitive, and there were laws in fact. Laws that only the Crutched knew of, inscribed on a papyrus scroll rolled inside the crutch. Laws of a Divine nature, number 11 on Moses’ Tablet: Thou Shalt Not Reach Between A Man’s Leg And His Crutch. It seemed unlikely, but the thought was uneasing me.
I had put myself in an awkward position by reaching, but now I had frozen, unsure as how best to get out of this situation in the most dignified manner possible. For one mad second, I decided it would be a good idea to pass the magazine to my other hand, but for my other hand to reach, I had to move in closer. I bent my arm to make the pass. Now I was hugging the man’s crutch, which was seeming more and more like an artificial leg. I found myself wondering, had this man become so accustomed to his crutches that they actually felt like his own limbs? Extensions of his body.
I had still managed to go unnoticed. Either that or the man had thought it best not to say anything to someone being intimate with his crutch. Either way, I needed to change my tactics. I decided to pull the magazine back through the cavern between real and fake leg. I started wheedling my arm through, trying to avoid any contact, like those electric wire games that give you a buzz if your hoop touches the metal. Except this time the buzz would at best be social embarrassment, and at worst, prison.
I was almost out of there when I saw the gap beginning to close, the metal crutch drifting towards his thigh, only it looked more like a guillotine. I would rather my arm be cut off than unintentionally stroke this man’s leg. I watched in horror as the gap became smaller, and I knew that a minor collision was becoming unavoidable. There was a point when I could have cut my losses, dropped the magazine and retrieved my hand ninja-stylee, but this chance was already milliseconds passed, which in my adrenal state felt like years. I saw it all unravelling before me with a terrible inevitability, there was no turning back.
At this point, I estimate I had the strength of four retired boxers, and so when I whipped my hand back, my arm swept through his support like leaves. He fell like a skittle, his face ploughing through the rack, each shelf at a time. I tucked the magazine into myself and performed a commando roll for effect, emerging from the chaos into a bull-charge that the security guard was too scared to challenge. I ran all the way home, stopped only by my front door which I knocked off the hinges. I don’t think I’ll be going back there for a while.
I began to wonder if he thought of his crutch just as he would a real leg, and it was therefore improper to put my arm between them. Perhaps it was even more sensitive, and there were laws in fact. Laws that only the Crutched knew of, inscribed on a papyrus scroll rolled inside the crutch. Laws of a Divine nature, number 11 on Moses’ Tablet: Thou Shalt Not Reach Between A Man’s Leg And His Crutch. It seemed unlikely, but the thought was uneasing me.
I had put myself in an awkward position by reaching, but now I had frozen, unsure as how best to get out of this situation in the most dignified manner possible. For one mad second, I decided it would be a good idea to pass the magazine to my other hand, but for my other hand to reach, I had to move in closer. I bent my arm to make the pass. Now I was hugging the man’s crutch, which was seeming more and more like an artificial leg. I found myself wondering, had this man become so accustomed to his crutches that they actually felt like his own limbs? Extensions of his body.
I had still managed to go unnoticed. Either that or the man had thought it best not to say anything to someone being intimate with his crutch. Either way, I needed to change my tactics. I decided to pull the magazine back through the cavern between real and fake leg. I started wheedling my arm through, trying to avoid any contact, like those electric wire games that give you a buzz if your hoop touches the metal. Except this time the buzz would at best be social embarrassment, and at worst, prison.
I was almost out of there when I saw the gap beginning to close, the metal crutch drifting towards his thigh, only it looked more like a guillotine. I would rather my arm be cut off than unintentionally stroke this man’s leg. I watched in horror as the gap became smaller, and I knew that a minor collision was becoming unavoidable. There was a point when I could have cut my losses, dropped the magazine and retrieved my hand ninja-stylee, but this chance was already milliseconds passed, which in my adrenal state felt like years. I saw it all unravelling before me with a terrible inevitability, there was no turning back.
At this point, I estimate I had the strength of four retired boxers, and so when I whipped my hand back, my arm swept through his support like leaves. He fell like a skittle, his face ploughing through the rack, each shelf at a time. I tucked the magazine into myself and performed a commando roll for effect, emerging from the chaos into a bull-charge that the security guard was too scared to challenge. I ran all the way home, stopped only by my front door which I knocked off the hinges. I don’t think I’ll be going back there for a while.
Saturday, 21 February 2009
Just not necessary
I called for a taxi recently, and the first thing I heard after the phone had been picked up was the most world-weary and exaggerated sigh ever. Darth Vader couldn’t have done a better job. It was a woman, and I had already pissed her off, surely this was some kind of record.
I just couldn’t understand how this had happened. I’m sure it wasn’t a yawn, because it was spiked with hate, and it seemed deliberately affected for me. It felt as if she had been storing it up, and decided that that was it. The next person who phoned was going to get it. Once she had finished, I stated with apprehension that I required a taxi. “Destination,” she said with clear disdain, it wasn’t even a question, just an automated response that must have left a bad taste in her mouth. No one had ever despised their job this much. At some point this woman had been hired because of her people skills, and now she hated life. It’s not as if she was a weathered prostitute who was asked on a regular basis to perform the most despicable acts on the most despicable people, only to come home to get slapped in the face by a pimp’s dick. Only this would be enough to explain the level of contempt I felt through my earpiece.
I’m sometimes a bit nervous when speaking to service people. I tend to mentally rehearse what I’m going to say before hand, to avoid the embarrassment of wasting their time as I think under pressure. The problem with this is that I become too fixed on what I am going to say, so if they ask me questions in a different order to what I was expecting, I can’t deprogram myself, and carry on with my recital. For example, if I wanted to order some cider and crisps at the bar, it might go something like this:
“What can I get you?”
“Magners.”
“Do you want a glass for that?”
“Cheese and onion.”
It isn’t always this catastrophic, but it feels awkward and confusing to break this line of thought. If I am aware that there has been a change in plan, then the only way I can save myself is to try and wrangle the conversation in my direction. E.g. ordering a taxi might go something like this:
“Where do you want to be picked up from?”
“I would like to go to the train station.”
“Where are you now?”
“Can I have one in ten minutes please?”
“Did you say you wanted to go to the train station?”
“I’ll be waiting by the library.”
I just couldn’t understand how this had happened. I’m sure it wasn’t a yawn, because it was spiked with hate, and it seemed deliberately affected for me. It felt as if she had been storing it up, and decided that that was it. The next person who phoned was going to get it. Once she had finished, I stated with apprehension that I required a taxi. “Destination,” she said with clear disdain, it wasn’t even a question, just an automated response that must have left a bad taste in her mouth. No one had ever despised their job this much. At some point this woman had been hired because of her people skills, and now she hated life. It’s not as if she was a weathered prostitute who was asked on a regular basis to perform the most despicable acts on the most despicable people, only to come home to get slapped in the face by a pimp’s dick. Only this would be enough to explain the level of contempt I felt through my earpiece.
I’m sometimes a bit nervous when speaking to service people. I tend to mentally rehearse what I’m going to say before hand, to avoid the embarrassment of wasting their time as I think under pressure. The problem with this is that I become too fixed on what I am going to say, so if they ask me questions in a different order to what I was expecting, I can’t deprogram myself, and carry on with my recital. For example, if I wanted to order some cider and crisps at the bar, it might go something like this:
“What can I get you?”
“Magners.”
“Do you want a glass for that?”
“Cheese and onion.”
It isn’t always this catastrophic, but it feels awkward and confusing to break this line of thought. If I am aware that there has been a change in plan, then the only way I can save myself is to try and wrangle the conversation in my direction. E.g. ordering a taxi might go something like this:
“Where do you want to be picked up from?”
“I would like to go to the train station.”
“Where are you now?”
“Can I have one in ten minutes please?”
“Did you say you wanted to go to the train station?”
“I’ll be waiting by the library.”
Sunday, 8 February 2009
Are you taking the piss?
Just missed my train. I arrived with time to spare, and joined a short queue. The amount of people seemed to give little indication as to how long they were going to spend at the window. How hard could it be? You say your destination and pay your money. When I was dealt with, I took all of thirty seconds before I was moved on. Why was everyone taking so long? They all seemed to spend a great deal of time in embarrassed silence, apparently unaware of the procedure, or indeed unaware of what a train actually is. I thought some form of counselling was taking place.
These people were so oblivious of the hurry I was in, which I wouldn’t have been in if they had all been in a hurry themselves. The people seemed to think it was a general enquiry desk, not because they had anything to ask, just because they had so much time to kill in their dull and lethargic lives. I wondered if they were doing this on purpose, that these people’s only pleasure was in delaying innocent passengers. I was probably imagining it, but I could have sworn I saw secret and cruel smiles that disappeared whenever I looked at the conspirators.
The equipment for Southampton Central seemed entirely out of date as well, they had no self-service machines, and I ended up spending half my time waiting for my single ticket to be printed. It was so slow I suspected that their ‘printer’ wasn’t a printer at all, but in fact an underpaid man in a box with good handwriting. In London, they print your tickets before you’ve even finished your sentence. You’ll ask them where it is and they’ll assure you it is already safely in your pocket. The ticket itself is an artistic masterpiece, and can be redeemed on ebay for over four times its initial worth.
The staff are no great help either, apparently it was ‘Bring your retard to work and let them do your work’ day, because the cretins that served me seemed entirely unprepared for my very reasonable demands. They probably would have felt more at ease if I told them I wanted to take the grey-tube machine when the big hand meets twelve, and the little hand rests on two.
I am now on the train and it has been difficult writing because I am constantly distracted by the mumblings of the train driver, the only discernible words being the destinations, “mumble-mumble…Romsey…mumble…Salisbury… mumble-mumble…Cardiff…mumble.” For all I know this could be a compelling narrative with vital information, “Frodo finally found the ring under a park bench in Romsey, but he didn’t know the town has a train station, so he’s rung ahead, and we’re picking him up at Salisbury, I hope you’ll all welcome him aboard. He’s convinced that Snowdon is in fact Mount Doom, so we'll be taking him through Mordor, more commonly known as Wales, and drop him off at Minas Morgul, or Cardiff if you like. Let’s wish him the best of luck.”
Why is it that we still have to put up with these unclear messages? Are they afraid that if they installed Dolby Surround Sound and stopped using a cup as a microphone that the perfect clarity would scare us into believing that they were transmitting these messages telepathically? Would we misinterpret this noise as the voice of God? “Go to Bradford, for it is your home. Take the East line, for it is faster, and crisps are only 40p.”
There really should be more done in the form of entertainment for train journeys. At the moment we are limited to stealing newspapers and smelling each other. I understand it might not be in their interest to install 8” LCD screens on the back of every chair, but perhaps the staff could read over the intercom. “Our Barry is now going to read one of his charming prose poems that he’s been working on. He’s a bit of an up and coming talent, and has been posting his work on writing forums across the Internet. He’s received such comments as ‘Roflcopter’ from ‘yahooslut’ and ‘keep it up’ from ‘fatwallet77’ and is hoping you’ll be able to give him some creative feedback when he comes by with the food-trolley.”
These people were so oblivious of the hurry I was in, which I wouldn’t have been in if they had all been in a hurry themselves. The people seemed to think it was a general enquiry desk, not because they had anything to ask, just because they had so much time to kill in their dull and lethargic lives. I wondered if they were doing this on purpose, that these people’s only pleasure was in delaying innocent passengers. I was probably imagining it, but I could have sworn I saw secret and cruel smiles that disappeared whenever I looked at the conspirators.
The equipment for Southampton Central seemed entirely out of date as well, they had no self-service machines, and I ended up spending half my time waiting for my single ticket to be printed. It was so slow I suspected that their ‘printer’ wasn’t a printer at all, but in fact an underpaid man in a box with good handwriting. In London, they print your tickets before you’ve even finished your sentence. You’ll ask them where it is and they’ll assure you it is already safely in your pocket. The ticket itself is an artistic masterpiece, and can be redeemed on ebay for over four times its initial worth.
The staff are no great help either, apparently it was ‘Bring your retard to work and let them do your work’ day, because the cretins that served me seemed entirely unprepared for my very reasonable demands. They probably would have felt more at ease if I told them I wanted to take the grey-tube machine when the big hand meets twelve, and the little hand rests on two.
I am now on the train and it has been difficult writing because I am constantly distracted by the mumblings of the train driver, the only discernible words being the destinations, “mumble-mumble…Romsey…mumble…Salisbury… mumble-mumble…Cardiff…mumble.” For all I know this could be a compelling narrative with vital information, “Frodo finally found the ring under a park bench in Romsey, but he didn’t know the town has a train station, so he’s rung ahead, and we’re picking him up at Salisbury, I hope you’ll all welcome him aboard. He’s convinced that Snowdon is in fact Mount Doom, so we'll be taking him through Mordor, more commonly known as Wales, and drop him off at Minas Morgul, or Cardiff if you like. Let’s wish him the best of luck.”
Why is it that we still have to put up with these unclear messages? Are they afraid that if they installed Dolby Surround Sound and stopped using a cup as a microphone that the perfect clarity would scare us into believing that they were transmitting these messages telepathically? Would we misinterpret this noise as the voice of God? “Go to Bradford, for it is your home. Take the East line, for it is faster, and crisps are only 40p.”
There really should be more done in the form of entertainment for train journeys. At the moment we are limited to stealing newspapers and smelling each other. I understand it might not be in their interest to install 8” LCD screens on the back of every chair, but perhaps the staff could read over the intercom. “Our Barry is now going to read one of his charming prose poems that he’s been working on. He’s a bit of an up and coming talent, and has been posting his work on writing forums across the Internet. He’s received such comments as ‘Roflcopter’ from ‘yahooslut’ and ‘keep it up’ from ‘fatwallet77’ and is hoping you’ll be able to give him some creative feedback when he comes by with the food-trolley.”
Wednesday, 4 February 2009
Fart Memory
I remember the most embarrassing fart I’ve ever experienced in public. Luckily, I was just a witness to the exhibition. Protected by the anonymity of a group. We were all young, year 4, junior school. It was story time, and so we had gathered before our teacher: him on a chair, us on the floor.
It must have been a good story, for distraction was at a minimum. We seemed to be hanging off his every word. Our attention was acute and focused, and our heartbeats responded to the soft rise and fall of his voice. He had the voice of a natural storyteller; we felt every stroke of a comma, punch of a full stop, and kiss of a capital letter. It was this interactive style of storytelling that eventually got him fired.
He reached the end of a paragraph, and left a tantalising pause. We bathed in the comfort of that silence, and felt the need for the story to continue. He opened his mouth to oblige us, but instead all we heard was the fanfare of hot air squeezing through the cheeks of a fat kid. It was loud and unhindered. It sounded like wet lips flapping on a trombone. It was silly; an exaggerated imitation of a fart. It was unreal.
All of a sudden there seemed to be one kid on his own, as if a spotlight had been turned on him. It could have been no one else but Phil the fat kid. Only someone as grotesque to behold could be responsible for such an incredible blast. The very noise seemed to suggest uncleanliness, ugliness and obesity. Hands shot up to point at him, to mark him out. I felt my own hand rise with accusation. And then the laughter came, forced and unkind. It barked from the back of our throats viciously. And all the while, Phil the fat kid stared back at us, his eyes wide as marbles, shaking his head in silent terror. ‘Not me’ his head said, ‘not me’. But his face said the rest, and we thought it, ‘yes, you!’ ‘Guilty!’ our fingers said. Despite being grossly outnumbered, Phillip himself was pointing, trying to direct the flow of blame elsewhere. No one looked to where he was pointing; rejecting his explanation. This was an open and shut case.
It’s hard to remember what exactly happened that day, as it was so long ago. I remember things which surely can’t be true. In some of my memories, even the teacher is pointing his finger, the ringleader of Phillip’s humiliation, his lip curled in disdain. I can’t seem to remember what happened next, or how long it lasted. Did he read over the laughter, hoping to save Phil any prolonged embarrassment? Or did the teacher pause, shocked into silence by that flatulent explosion?
It must have been a good story, for distraction was at a minimum. We seemed to be hanging off his every word. Our attention was acute and focused, and our heartbeats responded to the soft rise and fall of his voice. He had the voice of a natural storyteller; we felt every stroke of a comma, punch of a full stop, and kiss of a capital letter. It was this interactive style of storytelling that eventually got him fired.
He reached the end of a paragraph, and left a tantalising pause. We bathed in the comfort of that silence, and felt the need for the story to continue. He opened his mouth to oblige us, but instead all we heard was the fanfare of hot air squeezing through the cheeks of a fat kid. It was loud and unhindered. It sounded like wet lips flapping on a trombone. It was silly; an exaggerated imitation of a fart. It was unreal.
All of a sudden there seemed to be one kid on his own, as if a spotlight had been turned on him. It could have been no one else but Phil the fat kid. Only someone as grotesque to behold could be responsible for such an incredible blast. The very noise seemed to suggest uncleanliness, ugliness and obesity. Hands shot up to point at him, to mark him out. I felt my own hand rise with accusation. And then the laughter came, forced and unkind. It barked from the back of our throats viciously. And all the while, Phil the fat kid stared back at us, his eyes wide as marbles, shaking his head in silent terror. ‘Not me’ his head said, ‘not me’. But his face said the rest, and we thought it, ‘yes, you!’ ‘Guilty!’ our fingers said. Despite being grossly outnumbered, Phillip himself was pointing, trying to direct the flow of blame elsewhere. No one looked to where he was pointing; rejecting his explanation. This was an open and shut case.
It’s hard to remember what exactly happened that day, as it was so long ago. I remember things which surely can’t be true. In some of my memories, even the teacher is pointing his finger, the ringleader of Phillip’s humiliation, his lip curled in disdain. I can’t seem to remember what happened next, or how long it lasted. Did he read over the laughter, hoping to save Phil any prolonged embarrassment? Or did the teacher pause, shocked into silence by that flatulent explosion?
Friday, 23 January 2009
Rule Breaker
The other day, after rising, I came downstairs to a row of letters addressed to each member of our household. This was not a good sign. Official looking letters always instil a certain anxiety in me, I find they always tend to say, ‘You owe X amount of money’ or ‘You have failed to return The Breakfast Club for over two years now, are you taking the piss? You now owe £600’ or worse still ‘Hallo English pen pal, when you come to visit? It has been 18 months now, and still you have not replied.
P.S. please sends 250 of your English pounds immediately or our protection racket will kill us.
P.P.S. sorry for using scary and official looking envelope.’
In this instance my trepidation was compounded by a hand-written post-it note from my housemate, Hannah, which said she had gone to see our estate agent. This was serious. I decided not to open my letter; otherwise I might not be able to eat my breakfast.
A few minutes afterwards, Hannah came home looking a little flustered. “Did you read the letter?” she said in a, ‘do you have any idea of the kind of shit we’re in’ sort of way.
“No,” I said, my lips quivering. I opened my letter nervously. It was from the council, and it said I had not paid my Council Tax. It then said in bold capitals, ‘YOU ARE THEREFORE SUMMONED TO APPEAR BEFORE THE MAGISTRATES SITTING AT NORTH PARADE ROAD, BATH AT 11.00AM ON Thursday, 12th February 2009.' That’s a bit overkill, isn’t it? Bold and capitals? It was as if they were taking a disturbing amount of pleasure in my worry, and the only thing they could think of was how to maximise the damage. They stopped short at an army Sergeant delivering a telegram – that was too expensive – so they settled on large, black shouty words. Did they expect me to read it louder, give myself a hard going over?
If you’re interested the due amount was £889.77. Hannah said we needed to phone the council, and explain that we’re students so didn’t have to pay the obscene amount, and that we may need to provide evidence. It all sounded like a lot of bother.
After 20 minutes on hold, she explained the situation, and the council man asked what uni we went to, and she told him, and so he consulted his list of students, and yep, we were on there, so we in fact didn’t owe any money. Now where the fuck was this list when they sent out their ‘You’re going to court you criminal’ letters? He seemed to resolve the situation so easily and quickly that I presume it was laid beside him next to his worn issue of that week’s Heat magazine and an untouched copy of How to do Your Fucking Job Properly: For Fucking Morons.
Why is it that those in power always go straight for these scare mongering tactics, as if you had personally punched their mum in the face, when they haven’t even bothered to check their facts before sending out their death threats? I got the same thing from TV Licensing. A few months after having bought a license I received a letter stating that they knew I had a TV and no license and they were going to be paying me an unfriendly visit soon. They told me to feel guilty, ashamed even. They said live on the edge of your seat, jump at every ring of the bell and knock at the door. They said my heartbeat will never go below 80bpm, that I will develop high blood pressure, and suffer annoying headaches. I will become addicted to aspirin, and subsequently heroin. We’ve seen this before, they said, a million times before, and the only way I’ll be able to pay for my addiction is by performing lewd sex acts on foreign businessmen, stingy businessmen with smelly cocks and pubic wigs. ‘Oh, Doris!’ they’ll whisper as they pull my hair and reach climax. They said I will spend entire days watching the same episode of Deal or No Deal but not noticing because I am distracted by every van that goes past the window. They said they would wait for that one moment when I let my guard down: buttering my toast, only to drop the jar of strawberry jam as they forced entry through my upstairs window. Broken glass and jam everywhere – what is blood and what is jam? The chaos! THE CHAOS!
These people are sick.
P.S. please sends 250 of your English pounds immediately or our protection racket will kill us.
P.P.S. sorry for using scary and official looking envelope.’
In this instance my trepidation was compounded by a hand-written post-it note from my housemate, Hannah, which said she had gone to see our estate agent. This was serious. I decided not to open my letter; otherwise I might not be able to eat my breakfast.
A few minutes afterwards, Hannah came home looking a little flustered. “Did you read the letter?” she said in a, ‘do you have any idea of the kind of shit we’re in’ sort of way.
“No,” I said, my lips quivering. I opened my letter nervously. It was from the council, and it said I had not paid my Council Tax. It then said in bold capitals, ‘YOU ARE THEREFORE SUMMONED TO APPEAR BEFORE THE MAGISTRATES SITTING AT NORTH PARADE ROAD, BATH AT 11.00AM ON Thursday, 12th February 2009.' That’s a bit overkill, isn’t it? Bold and capitals? It was as if they were taking a disturbing amount of pleasure in my worry, and the only thing they could think of was how to maximise the damage. They stopped short at an army Sergeant delivering a telegram – that was too expensive – so they settled on large, black shouty words. Did they expect me to read it louder, give myself a hard going over?
If you’re interested the due amount was £889.77. Hannah said we needed to phone the council, and explain that we’re students so didn’t have to pay the obscene amount, and that we may need to provide evidence. It all sounded like a lot of bother.
After 20 minutes on hold, she explained the situation, and the council man asked what uni we went to, and she told him, and so he consulted his list of students, and yep, we were on there, so we in fact didn’t owe any money. Now where the fuck was this list when they sent out their ‘You’re going to court you criminal’ letters? He seemed to resolve the situation so easily and quickly that I presume it was laid beside him next to his worn issue of that week’s Heat magazine and an untouched copy of How to do Your Fucking Job Properly: For Fucking Morons.
Why is it that those in power always go straight for these scare mongering tactics, as if you had personally punched their mum in the face, when they haven’t even bothered to check their facts before sending out their death threats? I got the same thing from TV Licensing. A few months after having bought a license I received a letter stating that they knew I had a TV and no license and they were going to be paying me an unfriendly visit soon. They told me to feel guilty, ashamed even. They said live on the edge of your seat, jump at every ring of the bell and knock at the door. They said my heartbeat will never go below 80bpm, that I will develop high blood pressure, and suffer annoying headaches. I will become addicted to aspirin, and subsequently heroin. We’ve seen this before, they said, a million times before, and the only way I’ll be able to pay for my addiction is by performing lewd sex acts on foreign businessmen, stingy businessmen with smelly cocks and pubic wigs. ‘Oh, Doris!’ they’ll whisper as they pull my hair and reach climax. They said I will spend entire days watching the same episode of Deal or No Deal but not noticing because I am distracted by every van that goes past the window. They said they would wait for that one moment when I let my guard down: buttering my toast, only to drop the jar of strawberry jam as they forced entry through my upstairs window. Broken glass and jam everywhere – what is blood and what is jam? The chaos! THE CHAOS!
These people are sick.
Tuesday, 13 January 2009
Pretty Lady
Sometimes I think I fall in love too easily. I use the word lightly here, but it’s a dangerous mistake, to begin associating the word ‘love’ with a crush. I get worried I’ll be on a date that’s going well, only to declare my love as she discovers my member in the bottom of her popcorn. Not just lying there. It’s not dismembered. How terrifying would that be? I love you! Have my willy!
The reason I bring this up is because the other night I was served by a very pretty barmaid; she had hair and teeth and everything. This was a momentous event, very rarely am I attracted to someone so strongly. She wasn’t just pretty. There was an intelligence behind those eyes. She looked like she read. I felt like I could ask her if she had read Ulysses, and she would say, “Which edition?” And we would throw our heads back laughing. On the downside she had small boobs.
Now, I know I’ve broken an unwritten rule here, and opened wide the ‘Does Size Matter?’ debate. I know some of you are hating me right now. So I’ll tell you my stance on it. Does it matter? Well, not in real terms. If I’m developing an attraction for someone and it comes to the crunch (ahem), then a lack of boobage isn’t going to veto my decision. However, I suppose the shallow truth of it is that I do notice, and the details are noted. I always tend to balance this out with the positive that if we grew old together, there is going to limited to nil droopage. They’re still going to be fastened to her like newly sewn buttons on a teddy bear.
So how to approach the situation? You may have guessed I didn’t do anything about it that night. You see, I’ve never chatted anyone up before, and how do you go about doing it to someone who’s working? Something like this?
“Barmaid!” I snap my fingers.
“Yes?”
“Clean this table immediately.”
“Pardon?”
“I want to have sex with you.”
Hmm, perhaps a bit full on. What if I were to make a solo appearance, and sit in moody and deep thought until she approaches:
“What’s the matter?” She asks.
“I’m just trying to figure the best way to ask you out.”
She smiles, but her attention becomes distracted, “Are you bleeding?”
“Yes, I carved your face in my arm. Do you like it? I love you!”
Ok, ok. I’m not as creepy as I’m making out to be (breathes deeply), and I know I don’t love the barmaid, but I got a good vibe from her. It’s not about sex either, not with this one. I’ll tell you when it was about sex, in a club, earlier in the week. Remember the horrifically drunk night?
I was getting a drink when two bleach blonde bombshells sidled up to the bar. They looked unreal, otherworldly, like Californian goddesses. Their makeup and dress suggested they were used to being filmed. Interestingly, they were also covered in cool tattoos, and what Mitch Hedberg would call ‘Cranium Accessories’. It struck me that they would come as a pair, so if I could pull one, I’d be in for an experimental night. Tee bee aych, this wasn’t even about sex, it was about a personal victory, and impressing my housemates, “You got with them?”
My imagination was already hours ahead, thinking how I would surreptitiously take a photo to prove that I had achieved the impossible. This reminds me of a classic episode of Frasier when our eponymous hero does the very same after a steamy night with the hottie from his high school. The closest I got was thinking of saying, “Nice tattoos…”
The reason I bring this up is because the other night I was served by a very pretty barmaid; she had hair and teeth and everything. This was a momentous event, very rarely am I attracted to someone so strongly. She wasn’t just pretty. There was an intelligence behind those eyes. She looked like she read. I felt like I could ask her if she had read Ulysses, and she would say, “Which edition?” And we would throw our heads back laughing. On the downside she had small boobs.
Now, I know I’ve broken an unwritten rule here, and opened wide the ‘Does Size Matter?’ debate. I know some of you are hating me right now. So I’ll tell you my stance on it. Does it matter? Well, not in real terms. If I’m developing an attraction for someone and it comes to the crunch (ahem), then a lack of boobage isn’t going to veto my decision. However, I suppose the shallow truth of it is that I do notice, and the details are noted. I always tend to balance this out with the positive that if we grew old together, there is going to limited to nil droopage. They’re still going to be fastened to her like newly sewn buttons on a teddy bear.
So how to approach the situation? You may have guessed I didn’t do anything about it that night. You see, I’ve never chatted anyone up before, and how do you go about doing it to someone who’s working? Something like this?
“Barmaid!” I snap my fingers.
“Yes?”
“Clean this table immediately.”
“Pardon?”
“I want to have sex with you.”
Hmm, perhaps a bit full on. What if I were to make a solo appearance, and sit in moody and deep thought until she approaches:
“What’s the matter?” She asks.
“I’m just trying to figure the best way to ask you out.”
She smiles, but her attention becomes distracted, “Are you bleeding?”
“Yes, I carved your face in my arm. Do you like it? I love you!”
Ok, ok. I’m not as creepy as I’m making out to be (breathes deeply), and I know I don’t love the barmaid, but I got a good vibe from her. It’s not about sex either, not with this one. I’ll tell you when it was about sex, in a club, earlier in the week. Remember the horrifically drunk night?
I was getting a drink when two bleach blonde bombshells sidled up to the bar. They looked unreal, otherworldly, like Californian goddesses. Their makeup and dress suggested they were used to being filmed. Interestingly, they were also covered in cool tattoos, and what Mitch Hedberg would call ‘Cranium Accessories’. It struck me that they would come as a pair, so if I could pull one, I’d be in for an experimental night. Tee bee aych, this wasn’t even about sex, it was about a personal victory, and impressing my housemates, “You got with them?”
My imagination was already hours ahead, thinking how I would surreptitiously take a photo to prove that I had achieved the impossible. This reminds me of a classic episode of Frasier when our eponymous hero does the very same after a steamy night with the hottie from his high school. The closest I got was thinking of saying, “Nice tattoos…”
Thursday, 8 January 2009
Good Night, Bad Morning
Last night is the most horrifically drunk I have ever been.
If you're curious, I drank:
1 pint of Fosters
2 double Sailor Jerrys and coke
4 double Jägermeisters and coke
1 double JD and coke
Is this a lot? I don't know, but it was enough for me. I think it was the JD that tipped me over the precipice from happy drunk to dangerously ill drunk. I think I had even decided I had finished on the last Jägermeister, but was handed the JD by a destructive housemate (you know who you are) and did what any man would do with a fresh drink.
Sorry to spoil the content but I am aware of my limited readership, so if vivid descriptions on the negative effects of alcohol consumption bother you, then stop reading this post now.
It wasn't until we got home that I realised how drunk and suddenly nauseous I was. I couldn't focus my eyes on anything. The classic symptons, really. Sleeping was out of the question. I went straight for the bathroom, and after a few heaves I produced a prodigious and probably poisonous flow. I looked on the evidence with admiration. My eyes, blurred with loose tears could only discern the colour. Black, laced with traces of blood. Incredible. I wanted to show my housemates, hoping to impress them, but there must have been one brain cell with the light still on that said they probably wouldn't appreciate this kind of sharing. If only that brain cell had reminded me I have a camera-phone. I decided that I would have a bath, perhaps this would sober me up? Nope, now I was wet and drunk.
Then I thought perhaps a cigarette would be sobering? Where did this come from? I don't smoke, but there seemed to be a strange drunken logic that this would help. I don't have cigarettes, and neither do my housemates, so stage two of sobering was foiled.
I decided that drinking water could probably only help, which I did inbetween vomitting. A lot of the night consisted of me trying to make a headrest out of the toilet seat. But it was no use, I didn't seem to be getting anymore sober. Everytime I returned to the lounge to watch more TV my focus was clearly as bad as it was before. I just wanted to feel better, I just wanted to stop being drunk. By 4am, I was this close - - to calling a paramedic and getting put on a drip. I had enough money for a taxi home. I had the necessary digits typed into my phone when my housemate Sean appeared, biceps gleaming, legs striking the floor like a stallion. He gathered me into his arms and tenderly kissed my forehead, giving me the strength to carry on.
OK, this last bit is an exageration. What actually happened is I told Sean I was probably going to call a paramedic, and he said, "Nah, you just need to Man-It." Although this is a less romantic image, I found a similar strength from it, and by 5am, was this possible? I was beginning to feel not so horrifically drunk. Sure, the nausea was still there. And I was becoming quite accustomed to sending my fingers to the back of my throat to feel that fleeting relief post-vomit. It was mostly water by this stage, but somehow my body was able to find chunks from deep recesses, pockets long forgotten. Chunks that probably weren't food at all.
I'm not sure what time I fell into my bed, semi-clothed. But needless to say, I missed my 9am seminar. I think there's a lesson to be learned from this, I'm not sure what though. I have to go now, I think it's time to start drinking again.
If you're curious, I drank:
1 pint of Fosters
2 double Sailor Jerrys and coke
4 double Jägermeisters and coke
1 double JD and coke
Is this a lot? I don't know, but it was enough for me. I think it was the JD that tipped me over the precipice from happy drunk to dangerously ill drunk. I think I had even decided I had finished on the last Jägermeister, but was handed the JD by a destructive housemate (you know who you are) and did what any man would do with a fresh drink.
Sorry to spoil the content but I am aware of my limited readership, so if vivid descriptions on the negative effects of alcohol consumption bother you, then stop reading this post now.
It wasn't until we got home that I realised how drunk and suddenly nauseous I was. I couldn't focus my eyes on anything. The classic symptons, really. Sleeping was out of the question. I went straight for the bathroom, and after a few heaves I produced a prodigious and probably poisonous flow. I looked on the evidence with admiration. My eyes, blurred with loose tears could only discern the colour. Black, laced with traces of blood. Incredible. I wanted to show my housemates, hoping to impress them, but there must have been one brain cell with the light still on that said they probably wouldn't appreciate this kind of sharing. If only that brain cell had reminded me I have a camera-phone. I decided that I would have a bath, perhaps this would sober me up? Nope, now I was wet and drunk.
Then I thought perhaps a cigarette would be sobering? Where did this come from? I don't smoke, but there seemed to be a strange drunken logic that this would help. I don't have cigarettes, and neither do my housemates, so stage two of sobering was foiled.
I decided that drinking water could probably only help, which I did inbetween vomitting. A lot of the night consisted of me trying to make a headrest out of the toilet seat. But it was no use, I didn't seem to be getting anymore sober. Everytime I returned to the lounge to watch more TV my focus was clearly as bad as it was before. I just wanted to feel better, I just wanted to stop being drunk. By 4am, I was this close - - to calling a paramedic and getting put on a drip. I had enough money for a taxi home. I had the necessary digits typed into my phone when my housemate Sean appeared, biceps gleaming, legs striking the floor like a stallion. He gathered me into his arms and tenderly kissed my forehead, giving me the strength to carry on.
OK, this last bit is an exageration. What actually happened is I told Sean I was probably going to call a paramedic, and he said, "Nah, you just need to Man-It." Although this is a less romantic image, I found a similar strength from it, and by 5am, was this possible? I was beginning to feel not so horrifically drunk. Sure, the nausea was still there. And I was becoming quite accustomed to sending my fingers to the back of my throat to feel that fleeting relief post-vomit. It was mostly water by this stage, but somehow my body was able to find chunks from deep recesses, pockets long forgotten. Chunks that probably weren't food at all.
I'm not sure what time I fell into my bed, semi-clothed. But needless to say, I missed my 9am seminar. I think there's a lesson to be learned from this, I'm not sure what though. I have to go now, I think it's time to start drinking again.
Tuesday, 6 January 2009
Little Cousin
Christmas as usual provided the only excuse last year for my family to see each other in small and inoffensive doses. It is in these moments where you share the kind of conversation that no one enjoys and your uncles used to remark on how tall you'd gotten, and you were forbidden to remark on how fat they'd got.
At the time I swore I'd never pass such dull comments once I reached adulthood. This turned out to be easier said than done. Now that uncles and aunties are starting their first and second families, there is a slight amazement that is hard to contain when you see the phenomenal rate of growth. I feel the words come tumbling out of my mouth in a knee-jerk reaction, "Ooh, look how you've grown!" And then the instant shame as the young cousin bows his head in a familiar embarrassment, and swears silently to himself that he will not propagate such comments once he comes of age.
This last Christmas gone an uncle came over with a couple of his kids, one of them from his first marriage, whose three years older than me, and has changed very little since I last saw him (besides horizontally) and his younger son, Sam, from his new marriage.
When I came downstairs I was greeted by the unfamiliar sight of a man with the head of a child, a Man-Child if you will. "Is that Sam?" I said. He turned to me with a glazed stare found only in young kids and the mentally devoid and barked a reply that seemed to surprise even him, as if his voice box had a will of its own, and was thrall to no one. I was so shocked I forgot to remark on his height, which was rivalling mine at six feet.
I was beginning to think, 'Wow, Sam's a lot older than I remember. I swear he was a toddler the last time I saw him.' In truth, I would have been less surprised if Sam came in on all fours. "So," my mother asked, "you looking forward to senior school?" Senior school! Sam was only ten!?
What fascinated me most was the premature fur that was gracing his top lip. "If that grows anymore you're going to have to start shaving," I laughed.
"I shaved this morning," he croaked, and took a swift swig from a hip flask that appeared from nowhere and returned there. I imagine it contained hard liquor laced with chocolate milk.
At this point my uncle noticed the study which had been converted into my younger brother's weight room. My brother is sixteen and currently benching 50kg. Sam thought it was a dumbbell. He began pumping with vigour - no one could believe it, 23, 24, 25. Who knows how long he would have gone on for before he became distracted by the sound of jangling keys, dropping the bar on my uncle's foot - crushing two bones - and pursuing the noise.
"How are you going to get home?" asked my concerned mother.
"It's alright, Sam drove us here."
At the time I swore I'd never pass such dull comments once I reached adulthood. This turned out to be easier said than done. Now that uncles and aunties are starting their first and second families, there is a slight amazement that is hard to contain when you see the phenomenal rate of growth. I feel the words come tumbling out of my mouth in a knee-jerk reaction, "Ooh, look how you've grown!" And then the instant shame as the young cousin bows his head in a familiar embarrassment, and swears silently to himself that he will not propagate such comments once he comes of age.
This last Christmas gone an uncle came over with a couple of his kids, one of them from his first marriage, whose three years older than me, and has changed very little since I last saw him (besides horizontally) and his younger son, Sam, from his new marriage.
When I came downstairs I was greeted by the unfamiliar sight of a man with the head of a child, a Man-Child if you will. "Is that Sam?" I said. He turned to me with a glazed stare found only in young kids and the mentally devoid and barked a reply that seemed to surprise even him, as if his voice box had a will of its own, and was thrall to no one. I was so shocked I forgot to remark on his height, which was rivalling mine at six feet.
I was beginning to think, 'Wow, Sam's a lot older than I remember. I swear he was a toddler the last time I saw him.' In truth, I would have been less surprised if Sam came in on all fours. "So," my mother asked, "you looking forward to senior school?" Senior school! Sam was only ten!?
What fascinated me most was the premature fur that was gracing his top lip. "If that grows anymore you're going to have to start shaving," I laughed.
"I shaved this morning," he croaked, and took a swift swig from a hip flask that appeared from nowhere and returned there. I imagine it contained hard liquor laced with chocolate milk.
At this point my uncle noticed the study which had been converted into my younger brother's weight room. My brother is sixteen and currently benching 50kg. Sam thought it was a dumbbell. He began pumping with vigour - no one could believe it, 23, 24, 25. Who knows how long he would have gone on for before he became distracted by the sound of jangling keys, dropping the bar on my uncle's foot - crushing two bones - and pursuing the noise.
"How are you going to get home?" asked my concerned mother.
"It's alright, Sam drove us here."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
