I have moved
Manly Pursuits
It's all very strange and compelling in the gym. I started going about 6 months ago, to a rugger-bugger one in Gosforth. The atmosphere is an odd cocktail of potent testosterone mixed with insecurity. You never see average people there; it's either really fat people who ought to be there anyway (and whom I admire, because they presumably don't like being fat and have taken the responsibility to rectify the problem), or dead muscly people with odd personality tics. The gym is like crack to them. If they stopped going, they would turn to water. These are the ones who exude a sense of failure and bitter resentment. Their pent-up frustration frightens me. The gym makes you Narcissistic - working out gives you a licence to look at yourself more, just to see if any new muscles have appeared. You've put in all that effort, so you feel obliged to peek. Anything that makes us more comfortable with our bodies can only be a good thing.
The other thing that the gym provides is a safe environment for primal screaming. You can grunt and girn all you like and nobody really cares. It feels dirty even saying this, but as a man, I do feel a tangible urge to: a) lift heavy things, b) sweat from my head and c) stand around looking pensive - as if a hernia will guide me towards self-actualisation. As a place to default on these instincts, you can't beat it. In the gym, there's a place called 'the middle distance', which is where you stare at in an effort to look as if you're transcending the pain of lifting 2 zillion pounds with your feeble, scrawny biceps. If I were locked in the gym for an indefinite period of time, I'd eat the fat people first. The fit ones would be too tough and a difficult kill. The fat ones would be juicy and tender and I imagine that their good intentions would impart a certain sweetness.
Has anyone ever had a proper wet shave at a traditional barber shop? It's brilliant. I go to a place called G. Scott's, next to the cathedral in town. Dave, the man who shaves me, seems to be the proprietor and has a big beard (perhaps he can't shave himself). He starts by pulling your cheeks about and assessing your facial elasticity, before complaining that "fat people are easier to shave, because they have less corners". A bit of a show is made of the whole procedure, and he makes sure you only get quick glimpses of the blade he's about scrape your neck with. I think the tremor is contrived, but perhaps it's just a more primitive version of those new vibrating razors.
You get your head wrapped in a hot towel for a couple of minutes - the type of hot that borders on pain, but because it's being administered by a professional, you don't complain. They leave a little breathing gap for your nose, which suddenly gets very cold. Then, before you know where you are, the towel is removed and you're lathered up and ready to go. Speed is of the essence here - the soapy foam they use can dry out very quickly. The whole process enhances the senses. The noise of metal on skin suddenly becomes very real, organic, earthy and manly-sounding. You feel that, were you not being shaved, you'd be striking matches off your chin, like Desperate Dan.
The process is repeated on a precision scale. This is the bit where you have to be really still, or something bad may happen. Dave has no qualms about putting you in a headlock and pulling your face completely taut. He also directs the angle of your head by holding the end of your nose. The subjugation is strangely gratifying. Then, just as you thought it was over, and are feeling refresingly beaten up, two enormous hands emerge from behind, and slap you silly with pure menthol. The pain is intense, but fleeting - like having your face slapped. But when you're paid up and walk out of that shop, the wind biting your newly balded chin, you feel, essentially, that you can take on the world. And that's why all men should try a proper cut-throat shave at least once.
The other thing that the gym provides is a safe environment for primal screaming. You can grunt and girn all you like and nobody really cares. It feels dirty even saying this, but as a man, I do feel a tangible urge to: a) lift heavy things, b) sweat from my head and c) stand around looking pensive - as if a hernia will guide me towards self-actualisation. As a place to default on these instincts, you can't beat it. In the gym, there's a place called 'the middle distance', which is where you stare at in an effort to look as if you're transcending the pain of lifting 2 zillion pounds with your feeble, scrawny biceps. If I were locked in the gym for an indefinite period of time, I'd eat the fat people first. The fit ones would be too tough and a difficult kill. The fat ones would be juicy and tender and I imagine that their good intentions would impart a certain sweetness.
Has anyone ever had a proper wet shave at a traditional barber shop? It's brilliant. I go to a place called G. Scott's, next to the cathedral in town. Dave, the man who shaves me, seems to be the proprietor and has a big beard (perhaps he can't shave himself). He starts by pulling your cheeks about and assessing your facial elasticity, before complaining that "fat people are easier to shave, because they have less corners". A bit of a show is made of the whole procedure, and he makes sure you only get quick glimpses of the blade he's about scrape your neck with. I think the tremor is contrived, but perhaps it's just a more primitive version of those new vibrating razors.
You get your head wrapped in a hot towel for a couple of minutes - the type of hot that borders on pain, but because it's being administered by a professional, you don't complain. They leave a little breathing gap for your nose, which suddenly gets very cold. Then, before you know where you are, the towel is removed and you're lathered up and ready to go. Speed is of the essence here - the soapy foam they use can dry out very quickly. The whole process enhances the senses. The noise of metal on skin suddenly becomes very real, organic, earthy and manly-sounding. You feel that, were you not being shaved, you'd be striking matches off your chin, like Desperate Dan.
The process is repeated on a precision scale. This is the bit where you have to be really still, or something bad may happen. Dave has no qualms about putting you in a headlock and pulling your face completely taut. He also directs the angle of your head by holding the end of your nose. The subjugation is strangely gratifying. Then, just as you thought it was over, and are feeling refresingly beaten up, two enormous hands emerge from behind, and slap you silly with pure menthol. The pain is intense, but fleeting - like having your face slapped. But when you're paid up and walk out of that shop, the wind biting your newly balded chin, you feel, essentially, that you can take on the world. And that's why all men should try a proper cut-throat shave at least once.
Shift Brake
It's time for a brand new pseudo-academic cultural theory post. It's as tenuous as it is pretentious, but doing this beats what I do for a day job. Oh, you lucky readers.
I just got a car - didn't need one, but everybody else has one, so they must be good. One thing I've noticed is that having a car alters your sense of personal space and thus your relationship with the world. It's a subtle change - especially if you don't drive much - but an interesting one, particularly when you've reached a point in your life where perceptual shifts don't seem to happen so often (despite the relative effect of time moving faster, whereby you perceive a given amount of time - say, a year - as a fraction of your lifetime hitherto and so, as that fraction reduces with age, each passing year appears shorter, which would imply that the gap between events appears shorter)... It's a silver one.
So it's rather pleasant when you can apprehend the world in a different way, under control, yet profoundly skewed. I wonder, for those who drive a lot, is the car an extension of the body. Cybernetically speaking, yes, but in reflexive terms, like a prosthetic limb, it probably takes a while to adopt that mindset. If it is considered an extension of the body, then presumably the organ being replicated / augmented is the skin - the boundary that seperates self from other. If so, does the subject undergo ego-death every time they leave their vehicle? Presumably not, because they occupy the same subjective space in the world as they did when they were inside their car. But I can't let go of the idea that the shell, whose shape is used to protect and define your space within the wider world, is emerged from, aligning the soft, organic body with its soft, organic environment.
What about when a hermit crab leaves its shell? Does it feel at one with nature, or just vulnerable? I suppose when your environment is constructed (on one level) by social mores, then getting your clothes off in public is a different thing altogether, although naturists and streakers seem to delight in the liberation in a non-sexual way. Perhaps the thrill of being marginally closer to nature and actively working against inhibition equates to a sort of nirvana-lite. It's more dangerous, yet a more authentic experience of the world. Naturists are usually weirdos anyway - don't they know that cocks looks stupid and are vulnerable when swinging in the breeze?
But back to the car. Once you've worked out your boundaries (i.e. can parallel park), then you do tend to accept it as a sort of second skin, or cocoon. When you get out after a long journey, it feels as if you're shedding one layer of reality in order to get closer to 'authentic' reality. yet it's not the same. You're still entirely autonomous inside the car - more so with passengers, their very subjectivity impinging on your objectivity and therefore defining it to an extent, but logic shouldn't stand in the way here.
So I suppose thats what ties cars up with arrogance and masculinity. It would be otiose to make comparisons with cocks and things like that, but when you're driving well, and are one with the vehicle (as it were), then leaving said vehicle is similar to the sense of loss of agency experienced when leaving the physical body. It's a very small feeling in comparison to true, religious or psychedelic ego-death, but it's there, and the psyche can magnify it as much as is necessary. Girls, with their differently shaped egos and comparative lack of masculine arrogance do not experience this, which is why they are less interested in cars. Basically. Aye.
Yuk - enough of this
Alright. It's the end for all that rubbish about banana skins and dogs on walls (although the jury is out on whether they can walk backwards). I've decided to pursue a more egotistical, less self-effacing line. I'm looking for jobs now, and this blog is linked to from my website, so no swearing, no erudite navel-gazing and no libel.
What to say... ?
That's the problem. All of us poor mites trying to find jobs in the media are encouraged to write blogs to 'keep up our chops' and to have something people can refer to at any given point - yet we're also led to belive that the internet is some sort of final frontier where freedom of expression exists in its purest form. Then the good folks at Channel 4 (or any other given channel) tell us that we're being spied upon by the powers that be. Yes, two blogs would be a great idea, but frankly, who can be bothered?
I blame social networking.
I'm interested in music. Mine in particular, although I won't push it too hard. I've submitted to the fact that eighties music is the best and I just can't shake it. Perhaps that's why I'm hearing so much of it right now. Listen to Nelly Furtado, or even Britney's new single and you'll see what I mean. I've ranted about this before - it centered on Phil Collins, which was embarrassing (article on Genesis in the current issue of Lifestyle Mag by yours truly, incidentally). I know everything is recycled after a while, but this 80s thing is different. there's an honesty about it that I like - yet is frightening. I'd love to be able to think that it's part of the standard cycle, but it seems more a decleration of sorts... Not sure where I'm going with this, but it seems right. I'll sum it up later...
Much later - my laptop has bitten the dust and I'm computerless (whilst not at work) for the forseeable future.
What to say... ?
That's the problem. All of us poor mites trying to find jobs in the media are encouraged to write blogs to 'keep up our chops' and to have something people can refer to at any given point - yet we're also led to belive that the internet is some sort of final frontier where freedom of expression exists in its purest form. Then the good folks at Channel 4 (or any other given channel) tell us that we're being spied upon by the powers that be. Yes, two blogs would be a great idea, but frankly, who can be bothered?
I blame social networking.
I'm interested in music. Mine in particular, although I won't push it too hard. I've submitted to the fact that eighties music is the best and I just can't shake it. Perhaps that's why I'm hearing so much of it right now. Listen to Nelly Furtado, or even Britney's new single and you'll see what I mean. I've ranted about this before - it centered on Phil Collins, which was embarrassing (article on Genesis in the current issue of Lifestyle Mag by yours truly, incidentally). I know everything is recycled after a while, but this 80s thing is different. there's an honesty about it that I like - yet is frightening. I'd love to be able to think that it's part of the standard cycle, but it seems more a decleration of sorts... Not sure where I'm going with this, but it seems right. I'll sum it up later...
Much later - my laptop has bitten the dust and I'm computerless (whilst not at work) for the forseeable future.
Question:
Would a vignette of a man slipping on a banana skin be classified in the Greek dramatic tradition as a tragedy or a comedy?
I'm bored.
Maus
Jeeeez.
I haven't written anything for ages. I could tell you about the paedophile who lived opposite me on Sidney Grove, or the exciting adventures to be had in Prague. I could go on about the fact that two days after I moved out of Fenham, a bunch of tiny Chinese girls turned our old house into a cannabis farm, or I could detail my thrilling courtroon drama with Lloyds TSB (I won). But by far the most exciting thing that has happened to me of late, is seeing a little field mouse in ASDA, running around and terrifying the old ladies. And, of course, moving in with my lovely girlfriend, Hilary.
It occurred to me in the bath today: if it were possible to bring the dead back to life, would you kill yourself? I'm not talking in a Flatliners kind of way; just in general... I'm not really in the mood for writing today anyway - not feeling too good - but I'll get back to it.
Stay tuned.
I haven't written anything for ages. I could tell you about the paedophile who lived opposite me on Sidney Grove, or the exciting adventures to be had in Prague. I could go on about the fact that two days after I moved out of Fenham, a bunch of tiny Chinese girls turned our old house into a cannabis farm, or I could detail my thrilling courtroon drama with Lloyds TSB (I won). But by far the most exciting thing that has happened to me of late, is seeing a little field mouse in ASDA, running around and terrifying the old ladies. And, of course, moving in with my lovely girlfriend, Hilary.
It occurred to me in the bath today: if it were possible to bring the dead back to life, would you kill yourself? I'm not talking in a Flatliners kind of way; just in general... I'm not really in the mood for writing today anyway - not feeling too good - but I'll get back to it.
Stay tuned.
Don't go into the bushes
As some of you know, I often commute by bike between Fenham and Gosforth. The route I use is fairly direct and takes me across the town moor. The path has recently been refurbished, making for a smooth and pleasurable ride. One end goes round the side of Cow Hill, through a wooded area and then on to a footbridge over the motorway. This section of the path is relatively secluded and badly lit - exactly the type of location for some sort of sexual tryst. The foliage is dense enough to obscure any nefarious activity, but light enough that even the most limp-wristed explorer could penetrate its leafy environs.
The area has therefore always struck me as an ideal place for cruising, should one be so inclined. I don't entertain the idea myself, but I have noticed a few particulars that would indicate such activity may occur. I might point out that these are merely observations, which would otherwise be unremarkable and wouldn't normally warrant mention, but yesterday my suspicions were confirmed that the place is definitely a hotbed of covert al-fresco sexual activity. The evidence also emphasises the sordidness of that particular world, which I understand to be part of the turn on. Outsiders to 'the scene', such as myself, have a justifiable interest, because it illustrates a slightly darker fringe and therefore has inherent curiosity value.
My suspictions were first aroused when the signpost indicating the by-laws for Newcastle's largest area of greenbelt was defaced with the most subtle of codes, designed only to be understood by individuals of a certain persuasion to indicate that the area might be of a special interest to those who are fond of colours (see fig.1 ). I admit I arrived at this conclusion myself, using the fairly sound reasoning that a set of by-laws cannot in itself be homosexual, so please forgive me if I've made rather a bold assumption.
Article two is a person. I don't know how many people regularly use that route, but I go there almost every day and more often than not, in the evenings, I see the same man. He wears a garish multi-coloured shell-suit of the variety you may have worn during the late '80s before you developed a sense of style. This would ostensibly indicate the man is engaging in fitness activities - there are many joggers on the town moor - and uses the place as a convenient stopping area and shade from the sun. Yet I never see him jogging anywhere or even looking particularly tired. From a distance, he appears to be resting, but as soon as I approach, the man begins to frantically engage in star-jumps so vigorous that I worry he may do himself a mischief if he hasn't warmed up properly. This is all I ever see him do and he only does it when there is an audience (you can see him from quite far off when approaching from the North). Now, suspend your disbelief and imagine if you will, that this is not just an exercise regime, but perhaps a signal of sorts - it is not implausible to imagine that a star-jump, in the right context, could possibly indicate "I would like to engage in sexual activity with a stranger, please". The subtext of the exercise implying also: "I am fit".
And finally, the most damning evidence of all: I won't describe it in too much detail, but there is a gate across the path, with gateposts, the top of which is approximately the size of a fist (coincidence?) and this is where I found Article 2 (fig. 2). 'What an odd looking postage stamp', I thought, as I checked for a postmark, before recoiling in horror at the image before me. Now, I'm all for cruising if it's conducted safely and carried out with discretion, but a man's cock is a man's cock, and not what I want to see on my daily commute to and from Gosforth. The next time I see star-jump man, I shall ask him about the cock and perhaps advise him to change his routine, lest he gets intercepted by an officer of the law.*
So. Cow Hill. Not as wholesome as I once thought. If anyone could enlighten me as to the particulars of what activity a star-jump may indicate, I would be most grateful. It's always useful to know these things.
* Incidentally, I saw star-jump man today in a rather grubby anorak. I tried to photograph him, but he seemed to be keeping an eye on me. When I finally capture his image, be assured that I will post it up here - it's technically not libel. Didn't ask about the cock.
The area has therefore always struck me as an ideal place for cruising, should one be so inclined. I don't entertain the idea myself, but I have noticed a few particulars that would indicate such activity may occur. I might point out that these are merely observations, which would otherwise be unremarkable and wouldn't normally warrant mention, but yesterday my suspicions were confirmed that the place is definitely a hotbed of covert al-fresco sexual activity. The evidence also emphasises the sordidness of that particular world, which I understand to be part of the turn on. Outsiders to 'the scene', such as myself, have a justifiable interest, because it illustrates a slightly darker fringe and therefore has inherent curiosity value.
My suspictions were first aroused when the signpost indicating the by-laws for Newcastle's largest area of greenbelt was defaced with the most subtle of codes, designed only to be understood by individuals of a certain persuasion to indicate that the area might be of a special interest to those who are fond of colours (see fig.1 ). I admit I arrived at this conclusion myself, using the fairly sound reasoning that a set of by-laws cannot in itself be homosexual, so please forgive me if I've made rather a bold assumption.
Article two is a person. I don't know how many people regularly use that route, but I go there almost every day and more often than not, in the evenings, I see the same man. He wears a garish multi-coloured shell-suit of the variety you may have worn during the late '80s before you developed a sense of style. This would ostensibly indicate the man is engaging in fitness activities - there are many joggers on the town moor - and uses the place as a convenient stopping area and shade from the sun. Yet I never see him jogging anywhere or even looking particularly tired. From a distance, he appears to be resting, but as soon as I approach, the man begins to frantically engage in star-jumps so vigorous that I worry he may do himself a mischief if he hasn't warmed up properly. This is all I ever see him do and he only does it when there is an audience (you can see him from quite far off when approaching from the North). Now, suspend your disbelief and imagine if you will, that this is not just an exercise regime, but perhaps a signal of sorts - it is not implausible to imagine that a star-jump, in the right context, could possibly indicate "I would like to engage in sexual activity with a stranger, please". The subtext of the exercise implying also: "I am fit".
And finally, the most damning evidence of all: I won't describe it in too much detail, but there is a gate across the path, with gateposts, the top of which is approximately the size of a fist (coincidence?) and this is where I found Article 2 (fig. 2). 'What an odd looking postage stamp', I thought, as I checked for a postmark, before recoiling in horror at the image before me. Now, I'm all for cruising if it's conducted safely and carried out with discretion, but a man's cock is a man's cock, and not what I want to see on my daily commute to and from Gosforth. The next time I see star-jump man, I shall ask him about the cock and perhaps advise him to change his routine, lest he gets intercepted by an officer of the law.*
So. Cow Hill. Not as wholesome as I once thought. If anyone could enlighten me as to the particulars of what activity a star-jump may indicate, I would be most grateful. It's always useful to know these things.
* Incidentally, I saw star-jump man today in a rather grubby anorak. I tried to photograph him, but he seemed to be keeping an eye on me. When I finally capture his image, be assured that I will post it up here - it's technically not libel. Didn't ask about the cock.
They make it up as they go along
I see the pope has abolished the state of Limbo. Limbo is where children who have not been baptised go (because they haven't comitted any personal sin, yet have not been freed from original sin) instead of Heaven or Hell. Limbo seems such a cop-out anyway - you'd have thought a religion as punitive as Christianity would just send heathens to Hell and be done with it. If they can send perfectly innocent non-Christians, then why not children? Is it because they are just sooo diddy and cute? Imagine: "Sorry, you can't enter the Kingdom of Heaven on a technical point, but we can't bear to send your little souls off to burn, so we've conceptualised this sort of... crêche area just outside Hell - it's lovely and warm. We call it Limbo."
Pope Benedict XVI has said: "There are serious grounds to believe that children who died without being baptised could go to Heaven after all." These grounds are not stated, but they follow a three-year study by a theological commission, so you'd be forgiven for thinking that there might be some evidence of Limbo's existence. Except that evidence of any kind would immediately destabilise the faith base on which the religion is situated, so presumably the study attempts to avoid 'evidence' per se.
And surely on this basis, there are grounds to question other Catholic baulbles - such as 'original sin', the abolition of which would also neatly solve the problem of how not to burn innocent children. In fact, if they just removed the the concepts of original sin and unbridled forgiveness, the problem would dissolve. The abolition of forgiveness would encourage everyone to 'try to be good' while they are alive - but then there would be no need for Christianity, so we couldn't have that. Priests fiddle with kids because they (of all people) know they can get away with it when they end up making their peace with God - and they effectively assume forgiveness every time they utter the words "forgive us our sins...". But if the rules were tweaked, just like they did with this Limbo thing, then perhaps the dirty old vicar will think twice.
So you've got to admire the Catholic Faith; one of the largest and most powerful religions in the world and they are brazenly making up the rules as they go along. Granted, Limbo is an 800 year-old man-made concept, so presumably a man can also reject the idea, but the bible is also man-made and only a few years older... They say it's because the church has no formal doctrine on the matter - of course it doesn't; how can you possibly cover every eventuality when you've made it all up in the first place? Just changing things on a whim further undermines the ridiculousness of the entire concept.
But the report says: "There is greater theological awareness today that God is merciful and wants all human beings to be saved... The exclusion of innocent babies from Heaven does not seem to reflect Christ's special love for the little ones." So I presume all the other religions are getting in too? The church won't like that, but they'll probably have a bit of doctrine to cover it already, or at least a makeshift sign on the pearly gates saying: "No Heathens. No Junk Mail. Please go to Hell (Limbo no longer an option; told you we were right)." The report says it's still a good idea to baptise your child - but what's the point now? One of the compilers, Father Paul McPartlin, says: "We cannot say we know with certainty what will happen with unbaptised children." Well duh. I bet they're glad they spent three years investigating it then.
The question is: does the pope think he's doing everyone a massive favour? Is this just a big PR stunt to make him appear nice, or does he really think he can just arbitrarily decide against established, yet imaginary concepts? It must be a strange job.
Pope Benedict XVI has said: "There are serious grounds to believe that children who died without being baptised could go to Heaven after all." These grounds are not stated, but they follow a three-year study by a theological commission, so you'd be forgiven for thinking that there might be some evidence of Limbo's existence. Except that evidence of any kind would immediately destabilise the faith base on which the religion is situated, so presumably the study attempts to avoid 'evidence' per se.
And surely on this basis, there are grounds to question other Catholic baulbles - such as 'original sin', the abolition of which would also neatly solve the problem of how not to burn innocent children. In fact, if they just removed the the concepts of original sin and unbridled forgiveness, the problem would dissolve. The abolition of forgiveness would encourage everyone to 'try to be good' while they are alive - but then there would be no need for Christianity, so we couldn't have that. Priests fiddle with kids because they (of all people) know they can get away with it when they end up making their peace with God - and they effectively assume forgiveness every time they utter the words "forgive us our sins...". But if the rules were tweaked, just like they did with this Limbo thing, then perhaps the dirty old vicar will think twice.
So you've got to admire the Catholic Faith; one of the largest and most powerful religions in the world and they are brazenly making up the rules as they go along. Granted, Limbo is an 800 year-old man-made concept, so presumably a man can also reject the idea, but the bible is also man-made and only a few years older... They say it's because the church has no formal doctrine on the matter - of course it doesn't; how can you possibly cover every eventuality when you've made it all up in the first place? Just changing things on a whim further undermines the ridiculousness of the entire concept.
But the report says: "There is greater theological awareness today that God is merciful and wants all human beings to be saved... The exclusion of innocent babies from Heaven does not seem to reflect Christ's special love for the little ones." So I presume all the other religions are getting in too? The church won't like that, but they'll probably have a bit of doctrine to cover it already, or at least a makeshift sign on the pearly gates saying: "No Heathens. No Junk Mail. Please go to Hell (Limbo no longer an option; told you we were right)." The report says it's still a good idea to baptise your child - but what's the point now? One of the compilers, Father Paul McPartlin, says: "We cannot say we know with certainty what will happen with unbaptised children." Well duh. I bet they're glad they spent three years investigating it then.
The question is: does the pope think he's doing everyone a massive favour? Is this just a big PR stunt to make him appear nice, or does he really think he can just arbitrarily decide against established, yet imaginary concepts? It must be a strange job.
Bovine Selector
Bovine: I notice with great pleasure that the cows of Newcastle's town moor have returned for the summer. These gentle creatures always cheer me up with their benevolent and mellow temperaments. They always give me a smile as I glide past them on my bike and I always smile back. A friend from school, Nick Evans, once said I had 'cow-eyes' - I now take this as a compliment.
Selector: The rear derailleur of my bike snapped off the other day. I'm quite upset about the whole thing. This means that I now have to walk everywhere, which is no great problem in itself, except when I have to cross the moor, with those sinister cows that always stare with a blood-lust at my tender body. I don't think I could ever outrun one, so I'll have to be more careful in the near future.
Further to my rant about the commies, my housemate, Alex, said this to me in the kitchen today: "There's nothing worse than a Yorkshire Communist, because you know they're just trying to save themselves some money."
How true.
Selector: The rear derailleur of my bike snapped off the other day. I'm quite upset about the whole thing. This means that I now have to walk everywhere, which is no great problem in itself, except when I have to cross the moor, with those sinister cows that always stare with a blood-lust at my tender body. I don't think I could ever outrun one, so I'll have to be more careful in the near future.
Further to my rant about the commies, my housemate, Alex, said this to me in the kitchen today: "There's nothing worse than a Yorkshire Communist, because you know they're just trying to save themselves some money."
How true.
Reaffirming my suspicions
I was involved in a car accident today; a badly judged corner taken by my mate Sam, who left a tiny scratch on some guy's 'body-coloured' bumper.
The man was very angry and tooted his horn for a good four or five seconds (a long time, I thought). He got out and began ranting and raving. Sam was very apologetic, but the guy just went mental. I got out, because it sounded like there may have been trouble (I know, I know, but you can't just sit there, can you?). It's rare that you see someone so apoplectic - scary and funny in equal measure. The funniest bit was when he asked: "How old are you? Are you on drugs?" Then, strangely, "Who's your boss?" I had to laugh, which strangely, made him more angry. Had he not been such a burly fuckhead, I'd have asked him the same question.
Where do these people come from? They are strange, miserable, odd little men (he was physically quite fat, but 'little' as a person). How do they get by in the world without just committing suicide from the sheer misery of it all? How come he doesn't get an aneurism every time he picks up his Daily Mail. I could see his wife in the wing mirror looking sad and wan. I despair sometimes. There are wankers in the world, then there are people like that. At least it helps me put things into perspective.
Before I forget, his number plate was X92 WGR. If anyone sees a metallic blue people-carrier with this plate, I advise them to key it. Don't worry - he deserves it.
My knee. Yesterday. Evil faces. Probably dates back to the dark ages...
The man was very angry and tooted his horn for a good four or five seconds (a long time, I thought). He got out and began ranting and raving. Sam was very apologetic, but the guy just went mental. I got out, because it sounded like there may have been trouble (I know, I know, but you can't just sit there, can you?). It's rare that you see someone so apoplectic - scary and funny in equal measure. The funniest bit was when he asked: "How old are you? Are you on drugs?" Then, strangely, "Who's your boss?" I had to laugh, which strangely, made him more angry. Had he not been such a burly fuckhead, I'd have asked him the same question.
Where do these people come from? They are strange, miserable, odd little men (he was physically quite fat, but 'little' as a person). How do they get by in the world without just committing suicide from the sheer misery of it all? How come he doesn't get an aneurism every time he picks up his Daily Mail. I could see his wife in the wing mirror looking sad and wan. I despair sometimes. There are wankers in the world, then there are people like that. At least it helps me put things into perspective.
Before I forget, his number plate was X92 WGR. If anyone sees a metallic blue people-carrier with this plate, I advise them to key it. Don't worry - he deserves it.
***
My knee. Yesterday. Evil faces. Probably dates back to the dark ages...
How do I put this?
I had an embarassing moment at the pool the other day. I'd just got out and was having a shower - naked, of course - and in walked a man with (presumably) his two kids. A boy and a girl, both in the region of five to seven years old. I was in the corner and wasn't noticed at first. The dad rinsed off and made his way to the changing room, while the kids stayed behind to lark about, or do whatever it is that kids do nowadays.
It wasn't long before they noticed me. And, being kids, they were completely un self-conscious about staring at my willy. The girl with shock and the boy with awe. I caught myself thinking: "For god's sake, haven't you seen a full-grown man's cock before?" then thinking: "You can't think that, Fletch", which brought on the classic paranoid cycle of: "What if someone somewhere can hear what I'm thinking?" etcetera ad infinitum.
By this stage, I'd washed my hair and wanted to have a good old scrub of rest of my body. But I couldn't. What if the dad came back to collect them and I'm frantically lathering up the old chap, or rubbing shower gel invitingly across my buttocks? And I couldn't face the wall either; somehow, that would just look even worse. It's not like I could hiss "fuck off, you little brats" - talking to them would be the final nail in my coffin. Even making eye-contact would guarantee a particularly sadistic execution. So I just had to stand there. Nude. Exposed. Running away would have implied guilt and I'd be hung, drawn and quartered before you could say paedo-geddon.
They went away eventually, leaving me feeling slightly seedy and also with the problem of: how long do I remain in the shower before going to get dressed, lest it appears I'm following them? I gave it a good five minutes, whilst weighing up my defence if it ever came to that (it's a changing room; there will be men in there and they will be naked; I had to get the chlorine off; what else could I do? Honest, m'lud).
So I wonder: does this render me a paranoid wreck, or do I have every right to be wary of small children getting an eyeful of cock? Is it the paedophile / bogeyman model presented by the media that has created this climate of fear, or should a guy be more discrete - even in his own domain? I don't know. Nothing bad happened, so I'm not that bothered, but it was an uncomfortable situation, made worse by the fact that when I eventually got into the changing room - still starkers - the dad hurriedly ushered the little girl into a cubicle.
Perhaps he'd abducted them - then I'd be in the clear, right?
It wasn't long before they noticed me. And, being kids, they were completely un self-conscious about staring at my willy. The girl with shock and the boy with awe. I caught myself thinking: "For god's sake, haven't you seen a full-grown man's cock before?" then thinking: "You can't think that, Fletch", which brought on the classic paranoid cycle of: "What if someone somewhere can hear what I'm thinking?" etcetera ad infinitum.
By this stage, I'd washed my hair and wanted to have a good old scrub of rest of my body. But I couldn't. What if the dad came back to collect them and I'm frantically lathering up the old chap, or rubbing shower gel invitingly across my buttocks? And I couldn't face the wall either; somehow, that would just look even worse. It's not like I could hiss "fuck off, you little brats" - talking to them would be the final nail in my coffin. Even making eye-contact would guarantee a particularly sadistic execution. So I just had to stand there. Nude. Exposed. Running away would have implied guilt and I'd be hung, drawn and quartered before you could say paedo-geddon.
They went away eventually, leaving me feeling slightly seedy and also with the problem of: how long do I remain in the shower before going to get dressed, lest it appears I'm following them? I gave it a good five minutes, whilst weighing up my defence if it ever came to that (it's a changing room; there will be men in there and they will be naked; I had to get the chlorine off; what else could I do? Honest, m'lud).
So I wonder: does this render me a paranoid wreck, or do I have every right to be wary of small children getting an eyeful of cock? Is it the paedophile / bogeyman model presented by the media that has created this climate of fear, or should a guy be more discrete - even in his own domain? I don't know. Nothing bad happened, so I'm not that bothered, but it was an uncomfortable situation, made worse by the fact that when I eventually got into the changing room - still starkers - the dad hurriedly ushered the little girl into a cubicle.
Perhaps he'd abducted them - then I'd be in the clear, right?
Nostalgia theory / Why I like Phil Collins
It is not a sin to enjoy the music of Philip Collins. I'm self-assured enough to believe that liking Phil Collins does not harm anyone and is therefore not wrong. Unfashionable, perhaps - but not wrong. So in order to work out why people take the piss out of it, I trawled through my understanding of nostalgia and even had a bit of a think about retroism before settling on a theory. It's not much of a theory, but it serves my needs - and that's what theories do, so I'll run with it.
I went to see Gilles Peterson the other day at the Sage. I wasn't expecting much, having never been particularly interested in world music(s), but I feel it's important to remain open to new things (remaining open is a passive activity (interpret that how you like) and is therefore a good thing to do. Presumably that's why people like fishing; you do very little and you might get a fish out of it). Anyway, Peterson played a lot of vaguely Brazilian / Central American infused funk, which reminded me of big collars, swarthiness, tanned skin, cocaine barons, Miami, gold-rimmed Aviator sunglasses, moustaches... basically Grand Theft Auto Vice City came to mind and I got that horrible sinking feeling of: "Oh, bugger, I'm trapped in a retro". But I enjoyed it. Vice City seeks to capture a specific time and place and it's one I can identify with - not first-hand, but closer than many. I wonder why I'm drawn to this slightly sleazy world. I'm not interested in cocaine and I tend to slightly disapprove the high-capitalist late 70s / 80s America where I was brought up (briefly) and that contributed to the state America is in today.
My theory provides partial justification for feeling drawn to this era worlds away from my current reality. People aren't just nostalgic for elements from their childhood - yeah, an image of your tricycle when you were three can be pretty powerful - but that's not all. Most of us are emotionally evolved enough to be able to realise that the past is gone and mourning it is futile. We'll never let go completely, but nostalgia is more powerful than this; its emotional gravity seems disproportionate to our sense of loss of the past. This is why I reckon that that sense of loss is for the present. A present that we had predicted at some point in the past - primarily our childhood, before cynicism had crept in and our visions of the future were shaped by our inquisitive, yet still developing egos. Essentially, when you're a child, you think that there will be hoverboards in the future. Now there aren't and it's disappointing. Of course, that's a rather clumsy example, but I'm talking here about far more deep-rooted and subtle ideals. These are based on your childhood knowledge of the present (our past), before you're old enough to gain the perspective that tells you: things change over time. This idealised future is made all the more alluring when those images are of things that you're not old enough to do (this is where the hoverboard analogy ends), but you know you've got it all coming to you when you're an adult.
When you were a child, you watched TV, saw in the media and sometimes even observed first-hand, the more glamourous and exaggerated elements of that era. For me, it was a dark and vaguely morally destitute society (not where I lived, but what I perceived in the media) which was reaching a pinnacle of capitalist power and corruption. This wasn't real life, but I didn't know that when I was little. I saw all this as a promise of what life would be like when I was grown up and old enough to do what I wanted. Drugs were in the news a lot - so despite some apprehension, I assumed that they would be a part of my life later on. Sex was something I didn't know about and was therefore also exciting. It still is, but in my idealised future, it was sleazy and glamourous, like on TV when your parents are out and the babysitter lets you stay up late. For that matter, in retrospect, in my childhood imagination, it was also with said babysitter.
So when you grow up, all these things become available to you. Only, society grows up too. It develops out of itself and moves on. You notice this on the surface - I started doing drugs and sex in the mid-90s in Newcastle, which is markedly different to Detroit in the mid-80s. I had based my assumptions contemporaneously on films like Risky Business, rather than in the more emotionally literate reality of my teenage present. So for me, nostalgia is: not missing the past, but rather, the loss of a misinformed assumption about the future based on a media image from a time when I didn't understand that media images were not a true representation of reality.
And so Phil Collins, apart from having hits both in the UK and stateside and therefore being present in that media, and who sang about cheap sex (Easy Lover), the poverty I hoped I'd never have to encounter (Another Day in Paradise) and power, corruption and money (Jesus He Knows Me) provided the soundtrack to that. I thought my future would involve navigating the pitfalls of what uncle Phil sang about. It doesn't - and although I'm not upset about that, it contributes to my sense of nostalgia. I never realised at the time that Phil was being critical. I thought he was just reflecting reality. Although I never knew at the time, his highly polished production - a style which is out of fashion now, since it does not adequately reflect the infinitely more complex details and vicissitudes of real life - was in fact a comment on the morally bankrupt world which both he and I saw - all surface. Only he understood it better because he was older.
If I were more sentimental, I'd say that the melancholic plaintiveness of 'In The Air Tonight' voiced a warning to the children of the '80s that although it all looks exciting and glamourous on the surface, real life is shit, and not worth looking forward to. So cheers, Phil. You got me there, but at least my ignorance prevented me from becoming a pessimist - it's just resulted in a nostalgia for something that never existed in the first place and I am genuinely grateful for that.
I went to see Gilles Peterson the other day at the Sage. I wasn't expecting much, having never been particularly interested in world music(s), but I feel it's important to remain open to new things (remaining open is a passive activity (interpret that how you like) and is therefore a good thing to do. Presumably that's why people like fishing; you do very little and you might get a fish out of it). Anyway, Peterson played a lot of vaguely Brazilian / Central American infused funk, which reminded me of big collars, swarthiness, tanned skin, cocaine barons, Miami, gold-rimmed Aviator sunglasses, moustaches... basically Grand Theft Auto Vice City came to mind and I got that horrible sinking feeling of: "Oh, bugger, I'm trapped in a retro". But I enjoyed it. Vice City seeks to capture a specific time and place and it's one I can identify with - not first-hand, but closer than many. I wonder why I'm drawn to this slightly sleazy world. I'm not interested in cocaine and I tend to slightly disapprove the high-capitalist late 70s / 80s America where I was brought up (briefly) and that contributed to the state America is in today.
My theory provides partial justification for feeling drawn to this era worlds away from my current reality. People aren't just nostalgic for elements from their childhood - yeah, an image of your tricycle when you were three can be pretty powerful - but that's not all. Most of us are emotionally evolved enough to be able to realise that the past is gone and mourning it is futile. We'll never let go completely, but nostalgia is more powerful than this; its emotional gravity seems disproportionate to our sense of loss of the past. This is why I reckon that that sense of loss is for the present. A present that we had predicted at some point in the past - primarily our childhood, before cynicism had crept in and our visions of the future were shaped by our inquisitive, yet still developing egos. Essentially, when you're a child, you think that there will be hoverboards in the future. Now there aren't and it's disappointing. Of course, that's a rather clumsy example, but I'm talking here about far more deep-rooted and subtle ideals. These are based on your childhood knowledge of the present (our past), before you're old enough to gain the perspective that tells you: things change over time. This idealised future is made all the more alluring when those images are of things that you're not old enough to do (this is where the hoverboard analogy ends), but you know you've got it all coming to you when you're an adult.
When you were a child, you watched TV, saw in the media and sometimes even observed first-hand, the more glamourous and exaggerated elements of that era. For me, it was a dark and vaguely morally destitute society (not where I lived, but what I perceived in the media) which was reaching a pinnacle of capitalist power and corruption. This wasn't real life, but I didn't know that when I was little. I saw all this as a promise of what life would be like when I was grown up and old enough to do what I wanted. Drugs were in the news a lot - so despite some apprehension, I assumed that they would be a part of my life later on. Sex was something I didn't know about and was therefore also exciting. It still is, but in my idealised future, it was sleazy and glamourous, like on TV when your parents are out and the babysitter lets you stay up late. For that matter, in retrospect, in my childhood imagination, it was also with said babysitter.
So when you grow up, all these things become available to you. Only, society grows up too. It develops out of itself and moves on. You notice this on the surface - I started doing drugs and sex in the mid-90s in Newcastle, which is markedly different to Detroit in the mid-80s. I had based my assumptions contemporaneously on films like Risky Business, rather than in the more emotionally literate reality of my teenage present. So for me, nostalgia is: not missing the past, but rather, the loss of a misinformed assumption about the future based on a media image from a time when I didn't understand that media images were not a true representation of reality.
And so Phil Collins, apart from having hits both in the UK and stateside and therefore being present in that media, and who sang about cheap sex (Easy Lover), the poverty I hoped I'd never have to encounter (Another Day in Paradise) and power, corruption and money (Jesus He Knows Me) provided the soundtrack to that. I thought my future would involve navigating the pitfalls of what uncle Phil sang about. It doesn't - and although I'm not upset about that, it contributes to my sense of nostalgia. I never realised at the time that Phil was being critical. I thought he was just reflecting reality. Although I never knew at the time, his highly polished production - a style which is out of fashion now, since it does not adequately reflect the infinitely more complex details and vicissitudes of real life - was in fact a comment on the morally bankrupt world which both he and I saw - all surface. Only he understood it better because he was older.
If I were more sentimental, I'd say that the melancholic plaintiveness of 'In The Air Tonight' voiced a warning to the children of the '80s that although it all looks exciting and glamourous on the surface, real life is shit, and not worth looking forward to. So cheers, Phil. You got me there, but at least my ignorance prevented me from becoming a pessimist - it's just resulted in a nostalgia for something that never existed in the first place and I am genuinely grateful for that.
The death of two Johns
Last week was interesting. Both Jean Baudrillard and John Inman died within days of one another. I'd like to think they will meet in some sort of afterlife - presumably in the J - K section of the registration queue (assuming they go by first names - which they probably don't).
I fell off my bike again the other day. The council have very kindly replaced the North / South path across the moor, thus completing their regeneration programme for that particular patch of land. But the fuckers also reversed the gate in the middle, so although the hinges are on the same side, the gate now swings open towards Gosforth rather than Fenham. I used to be able to shunt it open with my front wheel without losing much speed and fly through - but as I discovered last Thursday, the said gate would not yield and I flew over the top of it. I'm fine. In fact, since I haven't done that particular manoeuvre for a while, it was refreshing to feel reality come flooding back into sharp focus as I hit the ground. So in that respect, it's 1-0 to me, Baudrillard. You need to fall off your bike more, son.
What else? I get a lift to uni with my mum on most days. When nearing the place where she drops me off, there's always a fat kid at the bus stop. He's always jolly and smiling and is a fine and sturdy example of child obesity. Today, however, he wasn't there. Perhaps he's getting too much stick at school, following the recent media campaign about fat kids and can't hack it any more. Perhaps he's ill. Perhaps the vast concentration of adipose in his body caused him to spontaneously combust. Who knows? - But his smiling face always brightens my morning. I'll keep you posted (cos I know you care).
I fell off my bike again the other day. The council have very kindly replaced the North / South path across the moor, thus completing their regeneration programme for that particular patch of land. But the fuckers also reversed the gate in the middle, so although the hinges are on the same side, the gate now swings open towards Gosforth rather than Fenham. I used to be able to shunt it open with my front wheel without losing much speed and fly through - but as I discovered last Thursday, the said gate would not yield and I flew over the top of it. I'm fine. In fact, since I haven't done that particular manoeuvre for a while, it was refreshing to feel reality come flooding back into sharp focus as I hit the ground. So in that respect, it's 1-0 to me, Baudrillard. You need to fall off your bike more, son.
What else? I get a lift to uni with my mum on most days. When nearing the place where she drops me off, there's always a fat kid at the bus stop. He's always jolly and smiling and is a fine and sturdy example of child obesity. Today, however, he wasn't there. Perhaps he's getting too much stick at school, following the recent media campaign about fat kids and can't hack it any more. Perhaps he's ill. Perhaps the vast concentration of adipose in his body caused him to spontaneously combust. Who knows? - But his smiling face always brightens my morning. I'll keep you posted (cos I know you care).
What Fresh Hell is This?
The damn commies - that's what. I was happily minding my own business, sipping tea, late last Friday afternoon, when I heard this annoying pseudo-working class (but definitely not working class) accent drifting up the stairs. My housemate, Good Will (who is quite nice, despite being a vegetarian) has hooked up with a cooperative, where they bulk-buy food and then share it out amongst themselves. Not a bad idea. Good home economics, in fact.
It's the kind of thing Will does. It makes sense. He's a sensible guy - and smart, too. But have you met the kind of people who join these cooperatives? What a bunch of self-satisfied, feculant, non-intellectual, hessian-wearing, pompous cunts they actually are.
I really hate those bastards. They leave a funnny smell in the hall - and if they're not pathetically lanky mid-30s sandal-wearing guys with involuntary dreadlocks and full beards (what are they hiding?), then they're those watery, pale, 50-something women who've been to Peru and have a yeast infection. Bitches.
They'll jauntily saunter in, pick up their 80 kilograms of lentils, demand a cup of 'herbal' tea (cos, like, normal tea tastes of the blood of the oppressed) and look disdainfully at anything with a brand on it (me, Adidas). They can't take a joke and exude this same kind of pompousness as the teenager who's just read Kafka for the first time and wants everybody to know about it (Brontë, if you're a girl). I'd fight them if I were a fighter (I'm not), but I know they'd snap because their bones are made from glass because they'll only drink soya milk (which actually tastes quite nice, but not as nice as milk).
Perhaps I'm being racist (?) against those white Westerners who consider themselves 'ethnic', or 'citizens of the world'. Is it becase they smell? Perhaps a little. Is it because (think) they make you feel guilty? Nah - I don't feel guilt. Is it because they won't let you into their house if you wear leather shoes? Not really - I don't go to their houses. Why do I hate these crusty fuckers? I think it's because it's quarter to nine in the morning right now and I need somebody to hate. I have an aunty who I hate - one of those grey little women who's spent her entire life aspiring to live somewhere with a name like 'Caversham Heights' or something. But she's different. I'll get on to her another time.
Please don't think me a hateful person. I usually try to reserve judgement, preferring instead to assume that humanity is essentially good. But somehow, it's more fun to hate. It just feels more real. Reality is something I crave and that's why I like to have something to hate. I'm doing this journalism degree because I'd like a job as a low-wage drudge. Not for my entire life, mind you, but for a while. Like self-harm, working in an office with other drones seems to bring reality back into sharp focus. It temporarily obliterates the theory and the speculation and the anchorlessness of imagination. And you've got to have a balance, right? Between author / editor, or schizo / paranoid. Surely? And journalists a lot of get free stuff too. And Tintin was a journalist.
I think I'm getting closer to my 'issues' with music - and creativity in general for that matter - and the 'P' word. It's something to do with reality, but I don't know what. It seems like you construct your own, but everyone is connected by shared perceptions and I'd like to get a handle on these so that I can manipulate them for my own ends. Then I'll be able to control the world and it will be a great place to be. Right. Time to stop. Time for breakfast. Shit. It's five past...
***
Dammit. I was an hour early.
On a lighter note, my brown leather belt snapped yesterday. It was a sad moment, because it was my dad's and had character. It also matched some shoes I have and I was looking forward to début-ing the ensemble. Anyway, to stop my trousers from falling down, I put on a spare belt - a fake Levi's 501 number - designed for a much fatter person. I had to punch a new hole in it to make it fit my wiry frame. As a result, there is a lot of slack, and the thing is much longer than it needs to be.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, I was standing at the urinals of The Bodega (a pub), with one other man approximately 10 feet to my left. I undid the belt and let the slack hang freely. I noticed him glimpse out of the corner of his eye for a second, then do a double-take and exclaim 'Fuck Me' at the apparent 12 inches of shiny black leather hanging at a 45 degree angle to my profile. He then hastily apologised when he realised it was my belt, and hurriedly left the toilet.
Perhaps it was a 'you had to be there' moment...
It's the kind of thing Will does. It makes sense. He's a sensible guy - and smart, too. But have you met the kind of people who join these cooperatives? What a bunch of self-satisfied, feculant, non-intellectual, hessian-wearing, pompous cunts they actually are.
I really hate those bastards. They leave a funnny smell in the hall - and if they're not pathetically lanky mid-30s sandal-wearing guys with involuntary dreadlocks and full beards (what are they hiding?), then they're those watery, pale, 50-something women who've been to Peru and have a yeast infection. Bitches.
They'll jauntily saunter in, pick up their 80 kilograms of lentils, demand a cup of 'herbal' tea (cos, like, normal tea tastes of the blood of the oppressed) and look disdainfully at anything with a brand on it (me, Adidas). They can't take a joke and exude this same kind of pompousness as the teenager who's just read Kafka for the first time and wants everybody to know about it (Brontë, if you're a girl). I'd fight them if I were a fighter (I'm not), but I know they'd snap because their bones are made from glass because they'll only drink soya milk (which actually tastes quite nice, but not as nice as milk).
Perhaps I'm being racist (?) against those white Westerners who consider themselves 'ethnic', or 'citizens of the world'. Is it becase they smell? Perhaps a little. Is it because (think) they make you feel guilty? Nah - I don't feel guilt. Is it because they won't let you into their house if you wear leather shoes? Not really - I don't go to their houses. Why do I hate these crusty fuckers? I think it's because it's quarter to nine in the morning right now and I need somebody to hate. I have an aunty who I hate - one of those grey little women who's spent her entire life aspiring to live somewhere with a name like 'Caversham Heights' or something. But she's different. I'll get on to her another time.
Please don't think me a hateful person. I usually try to reserve judgement, preferring instead to assume that humanity is essentially good. But somehow, it's more fun to hate. It just feels more real. Reality is something I crave and that's why I like to have something to hate. I'm doing this journalism degree because I'd like a job as a low-wage drudge. Not for my entire life, mind you, but for a while. Like self-harm, working in an office with other drones seems to bring reality back into sharp focus. It temporarily obliterates the theory and the speculation and the anchorlessness of imagination. And you've got to have a balance, right? Between author / editor, or schizo / paranoid. Surely? And journalists a lot of get free stuff too. And Tintin was a journalist.
I think I'm getting closer to my 'issues' with music - and creativity in general for that matter - and the 'P' word. It's something to do with reality, but I don't know what. It seems like you construct your own, but everyone is connected by shared perceptions and I'd like to get a handle on these so that I can manipulate them for my own ends. Then I'll be able to control the world and it will be a great place to be. Right. Time to stop. Time for breakfast. Shit. It's five past...
***
Dammit. I was an hour early.
On a lighter note, my brown leather belt snapped yesterday. It was a sad moment, because it was my dad's and had character. It also matched some shoes I have and I was looking forward to début-ing the ensemble. Anyway, to stop my trousers from falling down, I put on a spare belt - a fake Levi's 501 number - designed for a much fatter person. I had to punch a new hole in it to make it fit my wiry frame. As a result, there is a lot of slack, and the thing is much longer than it needs to be.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, I was standing at the urinals of The Bodega (a pub), with one other man approximately 10 feet to my left. I undid the belt and let the slack hang freely. I noticed him glimpse out of the corner of his eye for a second, then do a double-take and exclaim 'Fuck Me' at the apparent 12 inches of shiny black leather hanging at a 45 degree angle to my profile. He then hastily apologised when he realised it was my belt, and hurriedly left the toilet.
Perhaps it was a 'you had to be there' moment...
Yawn
Right. That's the law exams over with. You know I'm not really into Big Brother (though I understand its appeal and don't resent it), but when you've got English 'Meedja' Law to revise, then even BB becomes interesting - and actually, it was - except for that Russell Brand fellow. He gets more embarassing by the minute.
Anyway. To business. Yes.
I'm going to have to get more creative. I've never really been that creative (musically) - particularly not on the music degrees - I really had to force out some of that shit. I'm very glad they introduced me to free improv., otherwise I'd definitely have failed. Yes, I had to do a spot of reading and yes, there were some outrageous lies told about my methods, but I suppose this counts as just another means of production (in the non-Marxist sense). The piss-taking route. I thought I was 'getting away with it', when actually I was just doing something and claiming it as art, just like everyone else. I mention it here because I've become involved in this Culture Lab thing at Newcastle Uni. A man named David Float is putting on some gigs which will be designed specifically to have a pop at 'the academic arts establishment' and he wanted me to co-pilot, because I'm good at subterfuge apparently. It's old hat to me, to be honest, but I reckon this'll be a good project, since I'll have less to lose. It'll be 'well arty' and very, very silly. I hope they give us some money - not in a wasteful, 'KLF' kind of way - more in a 'spend it on ourselves' kind of way. I don't even know who I'm taking the piss out of anymore. Does that mean I'm cured?
I'll also have to get back into that ambient music for the NLP dude. I won't produce anything until I get a contract signed - but I really want to start making sounds anyway, just for fun. I'll need to get off my arse and deal with the paperwork. This all sounds terribly pompous, but I'm new to contracts, so it's also quite interesting to me. I hope I get paid a lot. Have to do another soundtrack for Hedley as well. The film looks pretty good. Simple, but ambiguous. Could be a challenge, but I'm up for it. Looking forward to getting a proper job as well. Don't get me wrong; it'll be a bitch, but it's another step towards self-actualisation / individuaion / whatever you want to call it. I'm tired, I have a headache, the light in here is killing me and yet I like it. When the novelty will wear off? I suppose it's the routine I'm after. I've been pretty scatty recently, which has worked so far, but there's a world out there to slot into... I'd rather be an interesting drone than some rampant individualist the same as all the others. Simple perspective shift, but an important one. Until I change my mind.
Sorry - it's been a very me-based post today - but it is my blog. I'll get that picture of the new leg-markings up. These new ones are really good. Knee-based. Well rounded.
Anyway. To business. Yes.
I'm going to have to get more creative. I've never really been that creative (musically) - particularly not on the music degrees - I really had to force out some of that shit. I'm very glad they introduced me to free improv., otherwise I'd definitely have failed. Yes, I had to do a spot of reading and yes, there were some outrageous lies told about my methods, but I suppose this counts as just another means of production (in the non-Marxist sense). The piss-taking route. I thought I was 'getting away with it', when actually I was just doing something and claiming it as art, just like everyone else. I mention it here because I've become involved in this Culture Lab thing at Newcastle Uni. A man named David Float is putting on some gigs which will be designed specifically to have a pop at 'the academic arts establishment' and he wanted me to co-pilot, because I'm good at subterfuge apparently. It's old hat to me, to be honest, but I reckon this'll be a good project, since I'll have less to lose. It'll be 'well arty' and very, very silly. I hope they give us some money - not in a wasteful, 'KLF' kind of way - more in a 'spend it on ourselves' kind of way. I don't even know who I'm taking the piss out of anymore. Does that mean I'm cured?
I'll also have to get back into that ambient music for the NLP dude. I won't produce anything until I get a contract signed - but I really want to start making sounds anyway, just for fun. I'll need to get off my arse and deal with the paperwork. This all sounds terribly pompous, but I'm new to contracts, so it's also quite interesting to me. I hope I get paid a lot. Have to do another soundtrack for Hedley as well. The film looks pretty good. Simple, but ambiguous. Could be a challenge, but I'm up for it. Looking forward to getting a proper job as well. Don't get me wrong; it'll be a bitch, but it's another step towards self-actualisation / individuaion / whatever you want to call it. I'm tired, I have a headache, the light in here is killing me and yet I like it. When the novelty will wear off? I suppose it's the routine I'm after. I've been pretty scatty recently, which has worked so far, but there's a world out there to slot into... I'd rather be an interesting drone than some rampant individualist the same as all the others. Simple perspective shift, but an important one. Until I change my mind.
Sorry - it's been a very me-based post today - but it is my blog. I'll get that picture of the new leg-markings up. These new ones are really good. Knee-based. Well rounded.
