Monday, 12 October 2009
Monday, 28 September 2009
New Vlog: Special K hates horny drivers
This was a bitch to upload, being almost a gb, it took five hours. Which I had to do twice! I stopped enjoying it a few days ago, but hopefully as my computer skills improve, I'll be able to get these videos out faster. Just waiting on a new tripod so I can resume filming. Enjoy
Monday, 21 September 2009
Vlog Launch
Hello friends, I have an announcement to make. You can now see me in animation. Wonder no longer about how handsome I really am, see for your self!
OK, so it's my first video, it's a little rough, a bit rambly, but I'm new to this. Even if my videos never quite break out of mediocre, there shall always be enjoyment in the title sequence, which would be nothing if it weren't for my exploited friends.
Irisz Heathershaw assisted me in creating the logo, and Stephen Barlow knocked together the jingle in under three hours when I arrived on his doorstep and demanded he help me. He would also like me to point out that I requested the solo guitar be amped up. It was just so camp I couldn't help myself.
I would like to sincerely apologise to them for making such impositions when they both so busy, and to express my deepest gratitude and awe for their work.
OK, so it's my first video, it's a little rough, a bit rambly, but I'm new to this. Even if my videos never quite break out of mediocre, there shall always be enjoyment in the title sequence, which would be nothing if it weren't for my exploited friends.
Irisz Heathershaw assisted me in creating the logo, and Stephen Barlow knocked together the jingle in under three hours when I arrived on his doorstep and demanded he help me. He would also like me to point out that I requested the solo guitar be amped up. It was just so camp I couldn't help myself.
I would like to sincerely apologise to them for making such impositions when they both so busy, and to express my deepest gratitude and awe for their work.
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
Sorry for neglecting you
So I finally came back with another actual blog post, and not a cop-out excerpt. Allow me to apologise profusely to all ten people who actually follow this blog, really, you guys mean a lot to me. I was pretty dismayed to see that I only managed one post in August. That's pretty pathetic, especially compared to my fifteen in January.
For the time being, most of my creative juices are being expended on the novel, which is sometimes going well. Looks like it's gonna need another couple of months before I finish it, and that's before I even get down to editing the son of a bitch.
For those interested in any of my other creative exploits, I've ordered a lovely Creative Vado HD which I'll be using to start vlogging. Will this replace my blogs? Probably not. But I think the website that I'm setting up for my third year will. Stay tuned for more deets. Or follow me at my twitter.
For the time being, most of my creative juices are being expended on the novel, which is sometimes going well. Looks like it's gonna need another couple of months before I finish it, and that's before I even get down to editing the son of a bitch.
For those interested in any of my other creative exploits, I've ordered a lovely Creative Vado HD which I'll be using to start vlogging. Will this replace my blogs? Probably not. But I think the website that I'm setting up for my third year will. Stay tuned for more deets. Or follow me at my twitter.
Why smokers look so cool and how to stop them
There’s something about the act of smoking that speaks to me of moral corruption. Perhaps it’s because I have always wanted to, but never dared. The teachers from school and parents, the institutions of guardianship, instilling their values so thoroughly, their voices loud with an unquestionable truth. Smoking is bad.
Perhaps this is why smokers appear so dangerous to me. If they’re willing to do that to themselves, where do they draw the line for others? All I’m saying is that second hand smoke is just a taster of what they’re capable of. These people habitually carry around the tools to start fires.
For them, smoking is freeing. It’s a gateway into a life of anti-authority. They’re aware of the overwhelming evidence which condemns them to a shorter lifespan. They read the block capital portents of misery and infanticide on every packet, and ignore them, becoming stronger with each tiny act of rebellion.
In truth, I’m jealous; I’m weak enough to actually feel threatened by a slow and tar ridden death. But perhaps this is what appeals to them. They are controlling their own death, deciding their fate. Leaving the door unlocked for that assassin, so they can greet him in their armchair, and rasp their goodbye. People have been dying from cigarette related illnesses for years. There’s a certain comfort in that, in the predictability of the symptoms, which can be traced and measured, related anecdotally to other smokers, charted against each other, graphing their own timeline, whilst sharing a hacking and face-purpling laughter.
It would seem the government has mistaken humanity's health concerns. Smokers share cigarette packet labels, these banners of mortality with a private revelry, buying cigarettes not by brand, but instead by effect: “Can I get the ‘Causes harm to unborn babies,’ please?” If we can’t appeal to a smoker’s health, then perhaps we can appeal to their wallet, displaying instead the price in wide bold letters, £5.45, and what this equates to in their life, such as an hours’ wage, or a Coldplay album.
If we take this further, each packet would come with a calculator to determine what else they could have bought compared to what they spend in a year. The results wouldn’t show the meaningless numbers, but instead precious items in a glorious and high definition display. I’m not thinking so much rubies, but Xboxs, cashmere garments and conservatories. Or for developing countries, twenty camels.
From what I can understand though, the real reason many people start smoking is because it looks cool, and there’s very little evidence to undermine this claim, because it does. All musicians and actors smoke. Fact. Or at least the cool ones do. There’s something very mysterious about a figure with a cigarette. They’re introspective, probably because their hands are occupied, they have no choice but to confront their thoughts. When I think of smokers, I think of an unshaven man sipping whiskey at a bar, staring into the middle distance. Unapproachable, untouchable. Or a writer pouring over a manuscript, squinting through his haze of smoke. These are images cast from film, but the reality is much less cinematic. We have to be aware that cigarettes are like berets, people who own them tend to have smelly breath.
And wear stripy blue and white shirts. And speak French. What I’m saying is that there are side effects. But then again, we live in a world of skinny jeans and high-heeled shoes, piercings and tattoos. In youth we constantly sacrifice comfort for image, looking ahead only far enough to realise the immediate impact, and screaming to our future selves, “Fuck you future self!” And our future selves, who stopped caring about the way they look the day they wore slippers to Tesco, who feel only embarrassed by the Chinese character tats that were once emblazoned on a chest taut with muscle, but now sag unreadable, beneath three layers of wool. They think about their young unruly selves, how they were such a different person, only connected by memories, and they moan back to the past in phlegmy rattling breaths, “Damn you past self, damn you…”
Perhaps this is why smokers appear so dangerous to me. If they’re willing to do that to themselves, where do they draw the line for others? All I’m saying is that second hand smoke is just a taster of what they’re capable of. These people habitually carry around the tools to start fires.
For them, smoking is freeing. It’s a gateway into a life of anti-authority. They’re aware of the overwhelming evidence which condemns them to a shorter lifespan. They read the block capital portents of misery and infanticide on every packet, and ignore them, becoming stronger with each tiny act of rebellion.
In truth, I’m jealous; I’m weak enough to actually feel threatened by a slow and tar ridden death. But perhaps this is what appeals to them. They are controlling their own death, deciding their fate. Leaving the door unlocked for that assassin, so they can greet him in their armchair, and rasp their goodbye. People have been dying from cigarette related illnesses for years. There’s a certain comfort in that, in the predictability of the symptoms, which can be traced and measured, related anecdotally to other smokers, charted against each other, graphing their own timeline, whilst sharing a hacking and face-purpling laughter.
It would seem the government has mistaken humanity's health concerns. Smokers share cigarette packet labels, these banners of mortality with a private revelry, buying cigarettes not by brand, but instead by effect: “Can I get the ‘Causes harm to unborn babies,’ please?” If we can’t appeal to a smoker’s health, then perhaps we can appeal to their wallet, displaying instead the price in wide bold letters, £5.45, and what this equates to in their life, such as an hours’ wage, or a Coldplay album.
If we take this further, each packet would come with a calculator to determine what else they could have bought compared to what they spend in a year. The results wouldn’t show the meaningless numbers, but instead precious items in a glorious and high definition display. I’m not thinking so much rubies, but Xboxs, cashmere garments and conservatories. Or for developing countries, twenty camels.
From what I can understand though, the real reason many people start smoking is because it looks cool, and there’s very little evidence to undermine this claim, because it does. All musicians and actors smoke. Fact. Or at least the cool ones do. There’s something very mysterious about a figure with a cigarette. They’re introspective, probably because their hands are occupied, they have no choice but to confront their thoughts. When I think of smokers, I think of an unshaven man sipping whiskey at a bar, staring into the middle distance. Unapproachable, untouchable. Or a writer pouring over a manuscript, squinting through his haze of smoke. These are images cast from film, but the reality is much less cinematic. We have to be aware that cigarettes are like berets, people who own them tend to have smelly breath.
And wear stripy blue and white shirts. And speak French. What I’m saying is that there are side effects. But then again, we live in a world of skinny jeans and high-heeled shoes, piercings and tattoos. In youth we constantly sacrifice comfort for image, looking ahead only far enough to realise the immediate impact, and screaming to our future selves, “Fuck you future self!” And our future selves, who stopped caring about the way they look the day they wore slippers to Tesco, who feel only embarrassed by the Chinese character tats that were once emblazoned on a chest taut with muscle, but now sag unreadable, beneath three layers of wool. They think about their young unruly selves, how they were such a different person, only connected by memories, and they moan back to the past in phlegmy rattling breaths, “Damn you past self, damn you…”
Wednesday, 2 September 2009
Excerpt 4 - David and the trophy cabinet
In the university main house, in the hallway that visitors and prospective students are most often ferried down is a long wall smothered in framed photographs. Photographs from fifty years ago to the near present, of high achievers, and graduates, receiving various awards, medals, trophies and oversized cheques. In the centre of this hallway is the glass cabinet housing these accolades of student achievement, these embodiments of graduate brilliance. Valueless metal cups are inscribed all the way round and down with names that have lost all meaning, of dubious characters whose deepest impressions were left on these glorified containers. What promise these names must have once held, but where are they now? What kind of stories unfolded after these displays of heroic sport and grand intelligence?
Would there be the usual tales of marriage, children and the eventual divorce? From rising to the giddy heights of regional manager of a prominent paper company, to the mid-life crisis, that led to cashing in that old life in search of something new, young and dangerous. Or did these individuals live blessed lives? Was this merely the beginning, the first realisations of the kind of potential that they would learn to harvest?
I read the names, instantly forgetting them, as if they were the ingredients to recipes made up in the kitchens of talentless, yet enthusiastic cooks. They feel familiar, the kind of names you read in a phonebook, lumped together with thousands of others, all written in the same small and neat font. Impossible to distinguish from one another, they seem doomed to averageness. These impressions left on these unremarkable awards are just a blip in lives that quickly resumed normal paths, unexplained anomalies, but proudly recounted to future partners and offspring.
There is one recurring name, one name which draws the eye again and again, as if it were etched more deeply, and more conspicuously onto the awards: David Misen. It is my brother’s face that I see again and again, shaking the hands of the university principal and the heads of staff from various denominations of sport, English and philosophy. Everyone smiles in these pictures. They smile so broadly, it would seem impossible to link these smiles with the death of the most promising student of the university’s history. Looking at these pictures, no one could see anything but brilliance in that smile. No one could say that suicide made sense.
“Must be weird, seeing your brother everywhere,” says Natalie. She has crept up on me; I have no idea how long she’s been standing there – how long she’s been watching me watch my brother. How long have I been standing here?
“I’m used to it. There were plenty more of these at home.” Almost every picture we have of David is professionally shot, whilst he shakes the hands of important men. Men David earned respect from, even from a young age. I can’t think of any pictures that contain us together above the age of six.
“And what about you, are there many pictures of you at home?”
“I don’t think there is enough room.”
She smiles sadly at me, expressing not only her sympathy towards me, but my right to her sympathy. Natalie has an air of understanding everything you say, as if she’s not just hearing the words, and not just seeing what you want her to see when you express yourself, but also what you wanted to say, but felt too embarrassed to share. Somehow Natalie knows all that I want to hide, and simultaneously assures me that it is okay.
I wonder how well she knew my brother, and what she understood about him. Perhaps she knows something I don’t. “I had no idea David had left such an impression here. Though it doesn’t surprise me, it’s just…he never said.”
“I don’t think David thought too much of all this,” she points to the cabinet of applause, as if she thinks as little of it as David did. How well did she know him? How well did she understand him?
“It just makes me realise that I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did. Especially since he came here. We spoke occasionally online whilst he was away, but the last time I actually saw him, actually heard his voice was before he went away for his second year.”
“You only have to ask, David knew a lot of people, perhaps if you start asking, you’ll find what you’re looking for.”
“What I’m looking for? I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
“Answers?”
Would there be the usual tales of marriage, children and the eventual divorce? From rising to the giddy heights of regional manager of a prominent paper company, to the mid-life crisis, that led to cashing in that old life in search of something new, young and dangerous. Or did these individuals live blessed lives? Was this merely the beginning, the first realisations of the kind of potential that they would learn to harvest?
I read the names, instantly forgetting them, as if they were the ingredients to recipes made up in the kitchens of talentless, yet enthusiastic cooks. They feel familiar, the kind of names you read in a phonebook, lumped together with thousands of others, all written in the same small and neat font. Impossible to distinguish from one another, they seem doomed to averageness. These impressions left on these unremarkable awards are just a blip in lives that quickly resumed normal paths, unexplained anomalies, but proudly recounted to future partners and offspring.
There is one recurring name, one name which draws the eye again and again, as if it were etched more deeply, and more conspicuously onto the awards: David Misen. It is my brother’s face that I see again and again, shaking the hands of the university principal and the heads of staff from various denominations of sport, English and philosophy. Everyone smiles in these pictures. They smile so broadly, it would seem impossible to link these smiles with the death of the most promising student of the university’s history. Looking at these pictures, no one could see anything but brilliance in that smile. No one could say that suicide made sense.
“Must be weird, seeing your brother everywhere,” says Natalie. She has crept up on me; I have no idea how long she’s been standing there – how long she’s been watching me watch my brother. How long have I been standing here?
“I’m used to it. There were plenty more of these at home.” Almost every picture we have of David is professionally shot, whilst he shakes the hands of important men. Men David earned respect from, even from a young age. I can’t think of any pictures that contain us together above the age of six.
“And what about you, are there many pictures of you at home?”
“I don’t think there is enough room.”
She smiles sadly at me, expressing not only her sympathy towards me, but my right to her sympathy. Natalie has an air of understanding everything you say, as if she’s not just hearing the words, and not just seeing what you want her to see when you express yourself, but also what you wanted to say, but felt too embarrassed to share. Somehow Natalie knows all that I want to hide, and simultaneously assures me that it is okay.
I wonder how well she knew my brother, and what she understood about him. Perhaps she knows something I don’t. “I had no idea David had left such an impression here. Though it doesn’t surprise me, it’s just…he never said.”
“I don’t think David thought too much of all this,” she points to the cabinet of applause, as if she thinks as little of it as David did. How well did she know him? How well did she understand him?
“It just makes me realise that I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did. Especially since he came here. We spoke occasionally online whilst he was away, but the last time I actually saw him, actually heard his voice was before he went away for his second year.”
“You only have to ask, David knew a lot of people, perhaps if you start asking, you’ll find what you’re looking for.”
“What I’m looking for? I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
“Answers?”
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.
Wednesday, 29 July 2009
Excerpt 3
When you’re drinking, it doesn’t matter whether you know the people you spend time with. You’re all just so happy to have company. We sit on a long couch that extends across the back wall of the upstairs room in the club. People talk over circle tables across from the couch. This is not a booth, this is not our contained world, we are connected with the other drinkers. I drain the rest of my beer. I need to be drunk. I need to feel connected. A guy sitting next to me starts to clap.
“Reeehh!” he says, and puts his arm around me. He takes a large gulp from his own lager, letting it spill over his face. He wipes away the dripping lager with his forearm and then levers his head upward to belch loudly; using his whole torso to create an impressive rumble that sounds like thunder from a distance. He turns to me and raises his eyebrows. Is he trying to challenge me?
“You alright, mate?” he says.
“Yes, are you well?”
“Fucking ace, mate!” he nods drunkenly.
I wonder what he means with his insistence of the word, ‘mate’. I wonder if he truly means to befriend me, and if he thinks that by calling me ‘mate’ he can convince me that we are already friends. I am not easily manipulated, and don’t appreciate when people are dishonest with me. Why can’t we be more accurate with our labels, and call each other ‘Stranger’ or ‘Suspicious Drunk’?
Kanye West says, “Let's get lost tonight, you can be my black Kate Moss tonight.”
“Fucking choon!” says Excessive Lad.
“We’re gonna hit the dance floor again,” says Fraser, “you coming?”
As much as I want to be away from Uneducated Troglodyte, I can’t stand the thought of re-entering that pit of sweating and oversexed bodies. “I’ll stay here,” I say.
“You sure?” says Daisy, surprised that I’d picked bonding with a male stranger over the euphoria of the dance floor.
My housemates leaves, but Meathead’s arm remains. Has this not overstepped the mark of masculine camaraderie to a come on? His friends seem to think nothing of it. They look as trashed as he does. His arm connects me, by association; I’ve now become part of his group.
I look around the room to see who is looking at me. I will meet their eyes and tell them that this is normal. Do I want to be part of this group? I want to join this group as much as I want Kevin to pant in my face. People can’t tell this though, there’s no way they can read my thoughts, but they can read my face. And what face am I wearing? I try to smile, but it probably looks unconvincing. People can tell a fake smile, there are a lot of facial muscles that don’t get used in a fake smile. I’ve read you can tell by looking at the eyes. I wouldn’t have this problem online; there is time to edit yourself, to present whatever image you choose. There are representative emoticons. Smileys. I will wear a smiley. Maybe people won’t notice, I’ll be so normal. Maybe too normal, strikingly normal. But someone has noticed.
She’s tall and slender, like a model. It’s times like these you realise that most girls aren’t built like models. Most girls are short and fat or tall and broad – bulky. She’s not a model at all, no ones looking up to her (besides literally), she’s a freak. She sticks out like a sore thumb on a row of toes. I notice her because she’s just come up the stairs. I notice her because the first thing she does is look at me. She looks at me as if she was looking for me, and now she’s found me, she’s not turning away.
We lock eyes, something I’m not usually good at. I find it hard to maintain eye contact with women because when you see them looking at you it means they can see you looking at them. She’s walking over now, and she’s biting her lip. She’s got something to ask me or something important to tell me and I can’t look away. I just can’t believe she’s still looking at me, and coming towards me, just as if we know each other. Do we know each other? Perhaps sometime from the first semester? Is her name Karen?
She’s crossed half the room now and isn’t changing course, it’s too much now. I break her gaze and look to the rugby players that I’ve somehow become a part of. I don’t want her to think this is who I am. I take Meathead’s arm from around my neck and place it in his lap. He turns to me, looking hurt. I just rejected him. He then turns to the girl fast approaching, and his mouth falls open stupidly.
She strides the whole way, and doesn’t break her motion until she’s sitting next to me. I continue staring ahead. If I keep looking ahead, maybe we’ll just forget that we were even looking at each other. She’s sitting so close to me, her hip is touching mine, and she’s cold, as if she were a dead body left to float down stream. She floated and drowned for so long, but then she finally shored and she got up and sat next to me. She could be dead or in my head, but Meathead saw her. In fact, he’s still looking at her.
“Ahrun?” she says, turning to me.
Our faces are very close now. I can’t smell her breath, but I’m worried she can smell mine.
“Yeah,” I say.
“I know your brother, David.”
“You mean, knew.”
“Yes, I knew him very well.”
I’m almost afraid to ask, and I already think I know the answer, “Were you his girlfriend?”
“Yes, at one point. Your brother had a lot of girlfriends.”
“My brother had a lot of girlfriends,” I say in wonder. Of course, it makes perfect sense. He was handsome, though not as handsome as me, and a genius, and a charmer. He was always the charmer. I guess I figured he’d be a catch, but he never told me about his girlfriends.
Meathead says, “Mate, do you know this bird?”
“Natalie,” she corrects.
“She knew my brother,” I say.
“Who was your brother?”
“David Misen,” says Natalie.
“Misey?” Meathead says back, his eyes becoming moons.
What the fuck does he mean, Misey?
“Lads, lads” Meathead says to his fellow Meatheads, “this is fuckin’ Misey’s brother!”
The rugby players all turn to me with the same mooneyes as Meathead. I am the brother of David Misen. I am the brother of a dead guy. The amount of awe is overwhelming, there is too much of it for anyone to say anything, only for them to breathe heavily and gape. I’ve had to become used to this reaction, no doubt they will now feel impelled to share their experiences with me.
“Mate,” says one of them, “your brother was a good player. He was a fucking tank. I mean, he was a fucking weed, but people just couldn’t take him down. It was like his feet were roots that went deep into the earth, he was always upright. At the end of every game his kit was always as clean as when he first put it on,” he licks his lips. “It was like people were afraid of touching him. Like they might break him. No one wanted to be responsible for destroying something so rare; there was so much potential in those bones, in that face. You could see it. And when people grabbed hold of him, their hands never stayed, like they got burned, like he was on fire.”
A hushed sense of held breaths falls over the rugby players, as if they think their words might break what is left of David. This is all that is left of David, the words of others. Even the music seems to have drop a few notches, out of respect, but more like it’s been muted by a filter that makes it sound like it’s on the other side of a wall. They do this in dance tracks.
“Why the fuck he have to go kill himself?” The players turn to me, looking to me for the answer to this question. And who else are they going to turn to. I’m his brother. I’m the brother of someone who killed himself. Only he didn’t kill himself.
What they’re looking for is family tragedy, so I’ll tell them what they think they know, “David was a genius, but he paid the price. He thought too deeply about things. Things that are best not thinking about.” Of course this untrue. David was the most well adjusted person I knew, at least in our family. Our family has a history of malfunction. My grandfather and two uncles committed suicide. My dad might have killed himself if he hadn’t have been killed first. History has a way of repeating itself, and when suicide gets into a family, it gets set on a loop. The same story, again and again. I always figured it would be me. I think even my mum thought it would be me. I’ve felt something from when I was about six. A very real desire, sometimes a whimsy to extinguish my life, or just a life. I become paralysed when I cross over railway bridges. What if I were to suddenly throw myself over? Half an hour later I think, I could be dead now. I can’t decide whether this is terrifying or liberating. It doesn’t seem so bad to not be living anymore.
Natalie says, “Your brother became very distant before he died.”
“The last time I spoke to him, he was happy,” I said, “then three months later we received a phone call to inform us of his death.”
“He became very preoccupied in his final months, he wasn’t his usual self.”
“Did he become involved with anyone? Dangerous people?”
“He was involved with everyone. Everyone knew him, and everyone loved and admired him.”
“David didn’t do this to himself. He couldn’t. He wasn’t able to.”
“You don’t think David killed himself?”
He mustn’t have killed himself. It’s important to me that he didn’t kill himself.
“Reeehh!” he says, and puts his arm around me. He takes a large gulp from his own lager, letting it spill over his face. He wipes away the dripping lager with his forearm and then levers his head upward to belch loudly; using his whole torso to create an impressive rumble that sounds like thunder from a distance. He turns to me and raises his eyebrows. Is he trying to challenge me?
“You alright, mate?” he says.
“Yes, are you well?”
“Fucking ace, mate!” he nods drunkenly.
I wonder what he means with his insistence of the word, ‘mate’. I wonder if he truly means to befriend me, and if he thinks that by calling me ‘mate’ he can convince me that we are already friends. I am not easily manipulated, and don’t appreciate when people are dishonest with me. Why can’t we be more accurate with our labels, and call each other ‘Stranger’ or ‘Suspicious Drunk’?
Kanye West says, “Let's get lost tonight, you can be my black Kate Moss tonight.”
“Fucking choon!” says Excessive Lad.
“We’re gonna hit the dance floor again,” says Fraser, “you coming?”
As much as I want to be away from Uneducated Troglodyte, I can’t stand the thought of re-entering that pit of sweating and oversexed bodies. “I’ll stay here,” I say.
“You sure?” says Daisy, surprised that I’d picked bonding with a male stranger over the euphoria of the dance floor.
My housemates leaves, but Meathead’s arm remains. Has this not overstepped the mark of masculine camaraderie to a come on? His friends seem to think nothing of it. They look as trashed as he does. His arm connects me, by association; I’ve now become part of his group.
I look around the room to see who is looking at me. I will meet their eyes and tell them that this is normal. Do I want to be part of this group? I want to join this group as much as I want Kevin to pant in my face. People can’t tell this though, there’s no way they can read my thoughts, but they can read my face. And what face am I wearing? I try to smile, but it probably looks unconvincing. People can tell a fake smile, there are a lot of facial muscles that don’t get used in a fake smile. I’ve read you can tell by looking at the eyes. I wouldn’t have this problem online; there is time to edit yourself, to present whatever image you choose. There are representative emoticons. Smileys. I will wear a smiley. Maybe people won’t notice, I’ll be so normal. Maybe too normal, strikingly normal. But someone has noticed.
She’s tall and slender, like a model. It’s times like these you realise that most girls aren’t built like models. Most girls are short and fat or tall and broad – bulky. She’s not a model at all, no ones looking up to her (besides literally), she’s a freak. She sticks out like a sore thumb on a row of toes. I notice her because she’s just come up the stairs. I notice her because the first thing she does is look at me. She looks at me as if she was looking for me, and now she’s found me, she’s not turning away.
We lock eyes, something I’m not usually good at. I find it hard to maintain eye contact with women because when you see them looking at you it means they can see you looking at them. She’s walking over now, and she’s biting her lip. She’s got something to ask me or something important to tell me and I can’t look away. I just can’t believe she’s still looking at me, and coming towards me, just as if we know each other. Do we know each other? Perhaps sometime from the first semester? Is her name Karen?
She’s crossed half the room now and isn’t changing course, it’s too much now. I break her gaze and look to the rugby players that I’ve somehow become a part of. I don’t want her to think this is who I am. I take Meathead’s arm from around my neck and place it in his lap. He turns to me, looking hurt. I just rejected him. He then turns to the girl fast approaching, and his mouth falls open stupidly.
She strides the whole way, and doesn’t break her motion until she’s sitting next to me. I continue staring ahead. If I keep looking ahead, maybe we’ll just forget that we were even looking at each other. She’s sitting so close to me, her hip is touching mine, and she’s cold, as if she were a dead body left to float down stream. She floated and drowned for so long, but then she finally shored and she got up and sat next to me. She could be dead or in my head, but Meathead saw her. In fact, he’s still looking at her.
“Ahrun?” she says, turning to me.
Our faces are very close now. I can’t smell her breath, but I’m worried she can smell mine.
“Yeah,” I say.
“I know your brother, David.”
“You mean, knew.”
“Yes, I knew him very well.”
I’m almost afraid to ask, and I already think I know the answer, “Were you his girlfriend?”
“Yes, at one point. Your brother had a lot of girlfriends.”
“My brother had a lot of girlfriends,” I say in wonder. Of course, it makes perfect sense. He was handsome, though not as handsome as me, and a genius, and a charmer. He was always the charmer. I guess I figured he’d be a catch, but he never told me about his girlfriends.
Meathead says, “Mate, do you know this bird?”
“Natalie,” she corrects.
“She knew my brother,” I say.
“Who was your brother?”
“David Misen,” says Natalie.
“Misey?” Meathead says back, his eyes becoming moons.
What the fuck does he mean, Misey?
“Lads, lads” Meathead says to his fellow Meatheads, “this is fuckin’ Misey’s brother!”
The rugby players all turn to me with the same mooneyes as Meathead. I am the brother of David Misen. I am the brother of a dead guy. The amount of awe is overwhelming, there is too much of it for anyone to say anything, only for them to breathe heavily and gape. I’ve had to become used to this reaction, no doubt they will now feel impelled to share their experiences with me.
“Mate,” says one of them, “your brother was a good player. He was a fucking tank. I mean, he was a fucking weed, but people just couldn’t take him down. It was like his feet were roots that went deep into the earth, he was always upright. At the end of every game his kit was always as clean as when he first put it on,” he licks his lips. “It was like people were afraid of touching him. Like they might break him. No one wanted to be responsible for destroying something so rare; there was so much potential in those bones, in that face. You could see it. And when people grabbed hold of him, their hands never stayed, like they got burned, like he was on fire.”
A hushed sense of held breaths falls over the rugby players, as if they think their words might break what is left of David. This is all that is left of David, the words of others. Even the music seems to have drop a few notches, out of respect, but more like it’s been muted by a filter that makes it sound like it’s on the other side of a wall. They do this in dance tracks.
“Why the fuck he have to go kill himself?” The players turn to me, looking to me for the answer to this question. And who else are they going to turn to. I’m his brother. I’m the brother of someone who killed himself. Only he didn’t kill himself.
What they’re looking for is family tragedy, so I’ll tell them what they think they know, “David was a genius, but he paid the price. He thought too deeply about things. Things that are best not thinking about.” Of course this untrue. David was the most well adjusted person I knew, at least in our family. Our family has a history of malfunction. My grandfather and two uncles committed suicide. My dad might have killed himself if he hadn’t have been killed first. History has a way of repeating itself, and when suicide gets into a family, it gets set on a loop. The same story, again and again. I always figured it would be me. I think even my mum thought it would be me. I’ve felt something from when I was about six. A very real desire, sometimes a whimsy to extinguish my life, or just a life. I become paralysed when I cross over railway bridges. What if I were to suddenly throw myself over? Half an hour later I think, I could be dead now. I can’t decide whether this is terrifying or liberating. It doesn’t seem so bad to not be living anymore.
Natalie says, “Your brother became very distant before he died.”
“The last time I spoke to him, he was happy,” I said, “then three months later we received a phone call to inform us of his death.”
“He became very preoccupied in his final months, he wasn’t his usual self.”
“Did he become involved with anyone? Dangerous people?”
“He was involved with everyone. Everyone knew him, and everyone loved and admired him.”
“David didn’t do this to himself. He couldn’t. He wasn’t able to.”
“You don’t think David killed himself?”
He mustn’t have killed himself. It’s important to me that he didn’t kill himself.
Friday, 24 July 2009
House Hypochondria
House M.D is a hospital drama about solving medical mysteries. The ailments are almost always fatal and the patients are almost always saved from the jaws of death, or about 38 minutes into the 40 minute episodes. If we were to breakdown an episode, most of it concerns the specialist and expert crew of House’s (that’s Hugh Laurie) lackeys brainstorming potential suspects (it’s usually a tumour), whilst prescribing the wrong treatment three or four times, nudging their patients ever closer to death, as the time ticks loudly away.
It sounds like a good show, I know – that’s why I watch it. The intro to each episode starts with a new set of characters who seem healthy enough, or show only the mildest of clues that they may be ill – a cough, a twinge, a bleeding anus. So each episode is a guessing game of whose seriously ill. You see teenager reach for his prescription medicine, and you begin to think, this guy ain’t looking so good. But it’s usually a red herring, because his mum is now clutching her chest as she takes a sharp intake of breath. The onset of a cardiac arrest? No, it’s turns out to just be heartburn because who’s really got our attention now is the boy with cream coming out of his ears as he goes into a seizure. The point here is that, everyone seems healthy enough, and the person who hits the deck is never who you think it is. How is that these people, who exhibit little or no symptoms, are suddenly attacked by the most violent and often humiliating of viruses?
This show seems to be suggesting that this is how life-threatening illnesses make themselves apparent. Striking without warning and with maximum damage or a mysteriously bleeding anus (that one’s happened a few times, actually). This must be the worst show to watch for hypochondriacs, as it encourages the view that even common symptoms are indicative of something far more foreboding. I myself have fallen prey to this alarmist response to anything unusual in my body’s function. Every twitch of the eye, creak of the neck, every skipped heartbeat and bleeding anus becomes transformed into a death sentence, masquerading under the names lupus, Wilson’s disease and lymphoma (my medical knowledge has skyrocketed since tuning in). It’s become difficult to function since worrying about every hurty knee and itchy nipple (so far just temporary).
What’s scarier still is just how fast the patient’s health declines, and how it pushes the genius House to his mental limits until someone makes an off the cuff remark about another case that just happens to link to his, like, “the woman’s having twins,” or perhaps someone’s anecdote triggers a moment of realisation, shown through a big close up of House. With a face that says, ‘My god, it’s been there all along. It’s been staring us in the face this whole time, how could I have been so stupid? Wilson!’
Of course, most of the ailments are easily treatable, so that the episodes can end happily, but the bigger problem facing the team of specialists is the correct diagnosis. Throughout each episode they exhaust so many options, performing expensive tests one after the other. You get the sense that normal doctors are idiots, and if weren’t for this detective department that is unique to that hospital, all these patients would die, the reasons only becoming clear on autopsy.
So where can we turn? If you’re British, you’re lucky enough to have the NHS. What’s great about the NHS is its self-diagnosing facilities on its website. Now an informed database of symptoms and their corresponding illnesses can be accessed by those who looking for comfort in their time of worry. It uses a traffic light system to let you know how scared you should be. Green is ‘visit your GP.’ This is the least scared you should be, and yet you still need to see a doctor. There are apparently no symptoms where the website simply tells you to ‘Not bother, there’s nothing to worry about.’ I would at least expect a ‘Put an icepack on it you idiot.’ Surely a program with such a wealth of knowledge could afford to be more specific in such minor cases of health issues, such as ‘apply Deep Heat to area of pain’ or ‘make vertical incision along trachea.’
What should be next in this traffic light system is amber (it’s orange, really), but the NHS feels that anything more urgent than a skin rash is a serious threat, and so you are presented with a red page that screams at you to dial 999 and ask for an ambulance. And if the whole red page thing didn’t quite shout danger enough, they’ve also provided an exclamation point in an orange triangle.
The combination of shows like House M.D and the NHS’s hysterical advice page is enough to send hypochondriacs into a frenzy. I can understand the sensationalism of entertainment, but the NHS is basically asking for timewasters and really annoying ‘self-diagnosers.’
Now, if you’ll excuse me, my nipples are raised again, which either means I’m cold, or dying. The emergency services have been informed.
It sounds like a good show, I know – that’s why I watch it. The intro to each episode starts with a new set of characters who seem healthy enough, or show only the mildest of clues that they may be ill – a cough, a twinge, a bleeding anus. So each episode is a guessing game of whose seriously ill. You see teenager reach for his prescription medicine, and you begin to think, this guy ain’t looking so good. But it’s usually a red herring, because his mum is now clutching her chest as she takes a sharp intake of breath. The onset of a cardiac arrest? No, it’s turns out to just be heartburn because who’s really got our attention now is the boy with cream coming out of his ears as he goes into a seizure. The point here is that, everyone seems healthy enough, and the person who hits the deck is never who you think it is. How is that these people, who exhibit little or no symptoms, are suddenly attacked by the most violent and often humiliating of viruses?
This show seems to be suggesting that this is how life-threatening illnesses make themselves apparent. Striking without warning and with maximum damage or a mysteriously bleeding anus (that one’s happened a few times, actually). This must be the worst show to watch for hypochondriacs, as it encourages the view that even common symptoms are indicative of something far more foreboding. I myself have fallen prey to this alarmist response to anything unusual in my body’s function. Every twitch of the eye, creak of the neck, every skipped heartbeat and bleeding anus becomes transformed into a death sentence, masquerading under the names lupus, Wilson’s disease and lymphoma (my medical knowledge has skyrocketed since tuning in). It’s become difficult to function since worrying about every hurty knee and itchy nipple (so far just temporary).
What’s scarier still is just how fast the patient’s health declines, and how it pushes the genius House to his mental limits until someone makes an off the cuff remark about another case that just happens to link to his, like, “the woman’s having twins,” or perhaps someone’s anecdote triggers a moment of realisation, shown through a big close up of House. With a face that says, ‘My god, it’s been there all along. It’s been staring us in the face this whole time, how could I have been so stupid? Wilson!’
Of course, most of the ailments are easily treatable, so that the episodes can end happily, but the bigger problem facing the team of specialists is the correct diagnosis. Throughout each episode they exhaust so many options, performing expensive tests one after the other. You get the sense that normal doctors are idiots, and if weren’t for this detective department that is unique to that hospital, all these patients would die, the reasons only becoming clear on autopsy.
So where can we turn? If you’re British, you’re lucky enough to have the NHS. What’s great about the NHS is its self-diagnosing facilities on its website. Now an informed database of symptoms and their corresponding illnesses can be accessed by those who looking for comfort in their time of worry. It uses a traffic light system to let you know how scared you should be. Green is ‘visit your GP.’ This is the least scared you should be, and yet you still need to see a doctor. There are apparently no symptoms where the website simply tells you to ‘Not bother, there’s nothing to worry about.’ I would at least expect a ‘Put an icepack on it you idiot.’ Surely a program with such a wealth of knowledge could afford to be more specific in such minor cases of health issues, such as ‘apply Deep Heat to area of pain’ or ‘make vertical incision along trachea.’
What should be next in this traffic light system is amber (it’s orange, really), but the NHS feels that anything more urgent than a skin rash is a serious threat, and so you are presented with a red page that screams at you to dial 999 and ask for an ambulance. And if the whole red page thing didn’t quite shout danger enough, they’ve also provided an exclamation point in an orange triangle.
The combination of shows like House M.D and the NHS’s hysterical advice page is enough to send hypochondriacs into a frenzy. I can understand the sensationalism of entertainment, but the NHS is basically asking for timewasters and really annoying ‘self-diagnosers.’
Now, if you’ll excuse me, my nipples are raised again, which either means I’m cold, or dying. The emergency services have been informed.
Tuesday, 21 July 2009
Saturday, 18 July 2009
The Best of Keyboard Cat
I'm sure you're all aware of the wonderful keyboard cat, so I present to you the best three videos inspired by this phenomenom.
This is also absolutely genius, and must not be missed.
This is also absolutely genius, and must not be missed.
Wednesday, 15 July 2009
Excerpt 2
This week is another excerpt from the novel. Is this laziness? I guess so, but I'm also writing more than I ever have and am just plain struggling to maintain this blog as well. This will probably be the case until the end of September. If these excerpts don't feel adequate enough a replacement then kick up a fuss and I'll try harder. Little context for this passage, Ahrun, the protagonist, is in a nightclub. Enjoy.
* * *
I see many familiar faces of students from different classes. Their names escape me. I knew them only last semester, and now we know each other no longer. When their eyes meet mine they don’t register recognition, because all they see is a stranger. This is not true of all students though. Some of them can’t shake the fact that we no longer need to speak anymore. One such catches my eye, his name is Kevin and he has acne. He nods casually at me, I nod back, thinking nothing of this harmless exchange, but he’s misread my nod, he thinks I’ve called him over.
Clubs aren’t designed for talking. They’re for the wordless communication, the mating rituals that existed before chivalry and language.
“Hey,” he says, reaching me. His voice carries easily despite the deafening decibels that drown out all else.
I say hi back, but I can’t even hear myself.
“How’s it going?” he says, stepping forward. The fetid stench of wine breath punches me in the face.
I assure him all is normal, and return the question. Can he even hear me?
“Yeah, haven’t seen you around in a while,” he says this as if this is a great shame, but can he really mean it? Or is his insincerity so honed, so practised, it is indistinguishable from his sincerity? Can he even tell which he is being?
I return the sentiment, and make a wry observation about it being part of the uni experience.
He laughs politely, expelling clouds of condensed stink into my mouth. It wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t standing so close to me. Why is he standing so close to me?
I take a step back but he immediately presses forward, afraid he might lose me. He touches my arm to steady himself. He’s very drunk.
“What modules are you taking this semester?” I’m looking in all directions but directly at him to avoid the full force of his mouth funk.
I tell him my modules.
“Yeah, I was thinking of taking ‘Cornish Cinema’ but I didn’t have good enough grades from college.”
I start to edge away again, leaning and shuffling, making incremental and indiscernible movements to widen the gap between us. Kevin doesn’t realise on any conscious level what I am doing, but when it is soon apparent that there is now a foot in distance between us he becomes uncomfortable and closes the gap, almost stepping on my shoes. I can see the bristles of his fluffy moustache quiver as his toxic vapour spills out of his face.
“What are you up to?” he says.
I make like I can’t hear him, even though everyone within five metres can hear him. He moves closer and grabs hold of me, bringing his mouth to my ear, “What are you up to?” he says loudly. My eardrum shakes unpleasantly, but at least it has no sense of smell.
Drinking, I scream in his ear, hoping it hurts. This is it. This conversation has come as far as it can. He should know to leave now, that there is nothing to be gained by hanging around. It can only become more awkward. But he just stands there. The fool is smiling; he’s enjoying my company.
I close my eyes, pretending that this particular beat has sent me into dance trance. I begin swinging my arms wildly, as if they were possessed by the music; I let them crash into Kevin.
“Hey,” he says, taking a step back.
I do this for a while longer and then peek through my lids. He’s still standing there, watching in wonderment.
I feel hands clap on my shoulders, “Looks like you’ve pulled,” says Fraser.
Kevin is still standing there, watching both of us.
I introduce Kevin, saying, This is Kevin.
Kevin says, “I’m Kevin. Ahrun’s friend.”
“Fraser; I’m shit-faced,” they shake hands. Fraser says to me, “Where you been, mate? You need to get your drink on. You’re gonna get some minge tonight, I can smell it.”
I motion a goodbye to Kevin as Fraser and I head for the bar.
“Wait,” he says, “we should meet up sometime.”
Definitely, I say.
“Give me your number.”
No, I want to say. No, don’t talk to me anymore. I watch him for a while, and his face begins to fall. Did I say that out loud? OK, I say. He’s smiling again, but maybe he was smiling all along, anyway. He never stopped smiling.
I wonder if I’m really going to do this. My uncertainty rises when he passes me his phone to type my number in. I type the standard 07 and then make up the rest of the numbers.
“I’ll just prank you, so you have my number,” he says.
No.
He presses call and holds the phone to his ear, as if he were calling someone that wasn’t standing in front of him.
I get my own phone out and hold it, like I really believe his call is about to come through. He calls, he calls; my phone is tellingly silent. When will he realise that I gave him a fake number? I’m trying to think of an excuse when my phone comes to life, chirruping at me, and the name ‘Kevin’ comes up. Kevin cuts the call.
“I’ll call you sometime,” he says, before disappearing into the press of bodies.
I’m still looking at my phone. A cold heavy stone drops through me and lands in my testicles. Kevin has my number. I gave Kevin a false number, which at the same time is my number. Am I a false number?
* * *
* * *
I see many familiar faces of students from different classes. Their names escape me. I knew them only last semester, and now we know each other no longer. When their eyes meet mine they don’t register recognition, because all they see is a stranger. This is not true of all students though. Some of them can’t shake the fact that we no longer need to speak anymore. One such catches my eye, his name is Kevin and he has acne. He nods casually at me, I nod back, thinking nothing of this harmless exchange, but he’s misread my nod, he thinks I’ve called him over.
Clubs aren’t designed for talking. They’re for the wordless communication, the mating rituals that existed before chivalry and language.
“Hey,” he says, reaching me. His voice carries easily despite the deafening decibels that drown out all else.
I say hi back, but I can’t even hear myself.
“How’s it going?” he says, stepping forward. The fetid stench of wine breath punches me in the face.
I assure him all is normal, and return the question. Can he even hear me?
“Yeah, haven’t seen you around in a while,” he says this as if this is a great shame, but can he really mean it? Or is his insincerity so honed, so practised, it is indistinguishable from his sincerity? Can he even tell which he is being?
I return the sentiment, and make a wry observation about it being part of the uni experience.
He laughs politely, expelling clouds of condensed stink into my mouth. It wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t standing so close to me. Why is he standing so close to me?
I take a step back but he immediately presses forward, afraid he might lose me. He touches my arm to steady himself. He’s very drunk.
“What modules are you taking this semester?” I’m looking in all directions but directly at him to avoid the full force of his mouth funk.
I tell him my modules.
“Yeah, I was thinking of taking ‘Cornish Cinema’ but I didn’t have good enough grades from college.”
I start to edge away again, leaning and shuffling, making incremental and indiscernible movements to widen the gap between us. Kevin doesn’t realise on any conscious level what I am doing, but when it is soon apparent that there is now a foot in distance between us he becomes uncomfortable and closes the gap, almost stepping on my shoes. I can see the bristles of his fluffy moustache quiver as his toxic vapour spills out of his face.
“What are you up to?” he says.
I make like I can’t hear him, even though everyone within five metres can hear him. He moves closer and grabs hold of me, bringing his mouth to my ear, “What are you up to?” he says loudly. My eardrum shakes unpleasantly, but at least it has no sense of smell.
Drinking, I scream in his ear, hoping it hurts. This is it. This conversation has come as far as it can. He should know to leave now, that there is nothing to be gained by hanging around. It can only become more awkward. But he just stands there. The fool is smiling; he’s enjoying my company.
I close my eyes, pretending that this particular beat has sent me into dance trance. I begin swinging my arms wildly, as if they were possessed by the music; I let them crash into Kevin.
“Hey,” he says, taking a step back.
I do this for a while longer and then peek through my lids. He’s still standing there, watching in wonderment.
I feel hands clap on my shoulders, “Looks like you’ve pulled,” says Fraser.
Kevin is still standing there, watching both of us.
I introduce Kevin, saying, This is Kevin.
Kevin says, “I’m Kevin. Ahrun’s friend.”
“Fraser; I’m shit-faced,” they shake hands. Fraser says to me, “Where you been, mate? You need to get your drink on. You’re gonna get some minge tonight, I can smell it.”
I motion a goodbye to Kevin as Fraser and I head for the bar.
“Wait,” he says, “we should meet up sometime.”
Definitely, I say.
“Give me your number.”
No, I want to say. No, don’t talk to me anymore. I watch him for a while, and his face begins to fall. Did I say that out loud? OK, I say. He’s smiling again, but maybe he was smiling all along, anyway. He never stopped smiling.
I wonder if I’m really going to do this. My uncertainty rises when he passes me his phone to type my number in. I type the standard 07 and then make up the rest of the numbers.
“I’ll just prank you, so you have my number,” he says.
No.
He presses call and holds the phone to his ear, as if he were calling someone that wasn’t standing in front of him.
I get my own phone out and hold it, like I really believe his call is about to come through. He calls, he calls; my phone is tellingly silent. When will he realise that I gave him a fake number? I’m trying to think of an excuse when my phone comes to life, chirruping at me, and the name ‘Kevin’ comes up. Kevin cuts the call.
“I’ll call you sometime,” he says, before disappearing into the press of bodies.
I’m still looking at my phone. A cold heavy stone drops through me and lands in my testicles. Kevin has my number. I gave Kevin a false number, which at the same time is my number. Am I a false number?
* * *
Wednesday, 8 July 2009
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
Dealing with Social Pariahs
How to identify a social pariah
In every school and in every workplace you will find these creatures. They appear human, but there is something distinctly wrong about them. It’s hard to place, but you notice it in the way that they walk. It’s different, it’s not dysfunctional but it lacks grace. As if they read about walking online before they tried it. They go through the same motions, but everything they do is a cheap imitation of human behaviour, a foreign knockoff.
It is perfectly acceptable to ask after someone’s plans for the weekend, but if they start getting too specific with their questions you may be in danger. Watch out for this line of questions: “Got any plans for the weekend?…oh bowling, where do you go to do that?…I know the place, what time will you be arriving?…and how long will you will stay?…yeah, I know each game doesn’t have a specific time but if you were to make an educated guess?…OK, OK, there’s no need to get angry…will you be wearing my fav- I mean, your favourite jeans?”
One of the pariah’s most obvious traits is its need to please. A pariah will fall over himself to perform favours of any kind for you. A typical conversation with a pariah might go something like this:
Me: Seen any good films lately?
Pariah: Yes, I re-watched The Dark Knight last night. It is brilliant.
Me: Oh yeah, I’ve been meaning to watch that.
Pariah: (pulling out a copy) You can watch mine.
Me: You just carry it around with you?
Pariah: I wanted to be ready in case you asked.
Me: Is this signed by Christopher Nolan?
Pariah: Yes, I bought it for £138 on ebay.
Me: Wow.
Pariah: Do you want it?
Notice in this example the act of present giving. This is another common ploy of the pariah. They believe that present giving is acceptable at all levels and a fast way to curry favour. This is not to say that gift sharing is weird, just that there are certain boundaries that we all follow, and a pariah will often reveal himself by stepping over these boundaries. For example, giving a work colleague 10p so that they have enough to get a toffee crisp from the vending machine is decent, if not encouraged. But buying a toffee crisp each day and leaving it on their keyboard in a ribbon is creepy. The only way to make this situation worse is by waiting for them to look up in gratitude so you can offer your sickly grin. A grin that says, “I only want you to love me!”
The threat they pose
Everyone wants human connection, but none more so than the social pariah. They crave it with an alarming intensity, reaching hungrily towards it like a wilted flower to sunlight. Indeed, their desire is so strong, that it is impossible for them to hide it. They wear it like an ugly mask – more unnerving than any Halloween equivalent.
Outcasts thrive on your attention; they leech off of it like life-force. The best piece of advice I can offer is to treat them like a bully. I.e. ignore them. If you see an outcast crying into his lunch, wiping away his tears with his cheese and pickle sandwiches, steer well clear. This is one of their many ploys to gain your sympathy. It is the only way they know of attracting others, trapping them into ‘friend’ status.
You see, when you become ‘friends’ with an outcast, however loose you may consider this term, you’re actually entering a relationship. The outcast will latch on to you, developing a rapid dependency multiplied by any goodwill you send their way.
How to get rid of them
Much like leeches, pariahs are sensitive to heat, and are most easily removed by extinguishing matches on their bellies. Another option is imitate their behaviour in a more frightening manor. Turn up at their house late at night and hang around till they come home. If they invite you in, refuse by saying you better be off now, and then wank on their windows.
Closing thoughts
What makes pariahs so dangerous are their abilities to tap into the kinder man’s natural sympathies for its fellow man. When an outcast presses us with it its piercing questions, despite feeling unsettled, we would rather tell vague white lies than be rude, because god forbid we should offend the freak. Perhaps we need to reassess the way we treat these social pariahs. We shouldn’t be looking on with benevolence, but instead take the opportunity to satiate our deeper, and repressed cruel instinct. They only use our compassion as a weapon against us anyway, so why not take this opportunity to dump our pent up ‘badwill’ on them?
We’ve all had days when we want to hit and scream at our loved ones, and when is that ever productive? Why not save it for those who are used to the abuse? Those that have made a life out of suffering; those who even in their own minds have thoughts only of self-deprecation. These of all people are equipped to deal with the pain of a nation. They should not be feared, but revered as a gift to soothe our ugly sides that would disgust a normal human being.
It’s a controversial theory, but what other choice to we have when to be kind to an outcast is to be cruel to yourself?
In every school and in every workplace you will find these creatures. They appear human, but there is something distinctly wrong about them. It’s hard to place, but you notice it in the way that they walk. It’s different, it’s not dysfunctional but it lacks grace. As if they read about walking online before they tried it. They go through the same motions, but everything they do is a cheap imitation of human behaviour, a foreign knockoff.
It is perfectly acceptable to ask after someone’s plans for the weekend, but if they start getting too specific with their questions you may be in danger. Watch out for this line of questions: “Got any plans for the weekend?…oh bowling, where do you go to do that?…I know the place, what time will you be arriving?…and how long will you will stay?…yeah, I know each game doesn’t have a specific time but if you were to make an educated guess?…OK, OK, there’s no need to get angry…will you be wearing my fav- I mean, your favourite jeans?”
One of the pariah’s most obvious traits is its need to please. A pariah will fall over himself to perform favours of any kind for you. A typical conversation with a pariah might go something like this:
Me: Seen any good films lately?
Pariah: Yes, I re-watched The Dark Knight last night. It is brilliant.
Me: Oh yeah, I’ve been meaning to watch that.
Pariah: (pulling out a copy) You can watch mine.
Me: You just carry it around with you?
Pariah: I wanted to be ready in case you asked.
Me: Is this signed by Christopher Nolan?
Pariah: Yes, I bought it for £138 on ebay.
Me: Wow.
Pariah: Do you want it?
Notice in this example the act of present giving. This is another common ploy of the pariah. They believe that present giving is acceptable at all levels and a fast way to curry favour. This is not to say that gift sharing is weird, just that there are certain boundaries that we all follow, and a pariah will often reveal himself by stepping over these boundaries. For example, giving a work colleague 10p so that they have enough to get a toffee crisp from the vending machine is decent, if not encouraged. But buying a toffee crisp each day and leaving it on their keyboard in a ribbon is creepy. The only way to make this situation worse is by waiting for them to look up in gratitude so you can offer your sickly grin. A grin that says, “I only want you to love me!”
The threat they pose
Everyone wants human connection, but none more so than the social pariah. They crave it with an alarming intensity, reaching hungrily towards it like a wilted flower to sunlight. Indeed, their desire is so strong, that it is impossible for them to hide it. They wear it like an ugly mask – more unnerving than any Halloween equivalent.
Outcasts thrive on your attention; they leech off of it like life-force. The best piece of advice I can offer is to treat them like a bully. I.e. ignore them. If you see an outcast crying into his lunch, wiping away his tears with his cheese and pickle sandwiches, steer well clear. This is one of their many ploys to gain your sympathy. It is the only way they know of attracting others, trapping them into ‘friend’ status.
You see, when you become ‘friends’ with an outcast, however loose you may consider this term, you’re actually entering a relationship. The outcast will latch on to you, developing a rapid dependency multiplied by any goodwill you send their way.
How to get rid of them
Much like leeches, pariahs are sensitive to heat, and are most easily removed by extinguishing matches on their bellies. Another option is imitate their behaviour in a more frightening manor. Turn up at their house late at night and hang around till they come home. If they invite you in, refuse by saying you better be off now, and then wank on their windows.
Closing thoughts
What makes pariahs so dangerous are their abilities to tap into the kinder man’s natural sympathies for its fellow man. When an outcast presses us with it its piercing questions, despite feeling unsettled, we would rather tell vague white lies than be rude, because god forbid we should offend the freak. Perhaps we need to reassess the way we treat these social pariahs. We shouldn’t be looking on with benevolence, but instead take the opportunity to satiate our deeper, and repressed cruel instinct. They only use our compassion as a weapon against us anyway, so why not take this opportunity to dump our pent up ‘badwill’ on them?
We’ve all had days when we want to hit and scream at our loved ones, and when is that ever productive? Why not save it for those who are used to the abuse? Those that have made a life out of suffering; those who even in their own minds have thoughts only of self-deprecation. These of all people are equipped to deal with the pain of a nation. They should not be feared, but revered as a gift to soothe our ugly sides that would disgust a normal human being.
It’s a controversial theory, but what other choice to we have when to be kind to an outcast is to be cruel to yourself?
Wednesday, 24 June 2009
Liquid Soap
Yesterday, we started filming the comedy web series that students from our uni (Bath Spa) have been working on. We began with an episode I wrote co-wrote which I also acted in. During filming the BBC dropped by and later showed this piece on the West Points 6:30 News.
Seem to getting a fair amount of media attention, The Bath Chronicle and Heart FM also stopped by today.
Seem to getting a fair amount of media attention, The Bath Chronicle and Heart FM also stopped by today.
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