nunoncastors

I’ve stated my conviction that there are more people in my head than just me on a few occasions now. Curiously, the whole concept is no longer a concern, not really, nor is it a particularly serious statement of worry; I think I may just be obsessed with the way consciousness works and the division between the conscious and subconscious mind. What with everyone’s mind working in different ways, I think it’s possible that I’m not actually unbalanced in any real sense; it’s just the case that mine works somewhat more differently than most. A part of me feels that that’s the worst sort of egotism, the idea that I’m in some way different or *ahem* ‘special’, but what’s a man to do?

Anyway, at best my concerns aren’t actually separate entities; they’re just various iterations of myself possessed, as it were, of a greater degree of independence than could reasonably be expected. I don’t know if anyone else has songs running through their head all day, or listens to stories told by yourself to yourself – only not quite – but I do, and it can be a little odd at times. Often there’s the sensation that it isn’t just me looking out on the world and there’s some sort of internal discussion going that I’m not privy to until a decision’s been reached.

That doesn’t make any sense does it? No, thought not. Still, this rambling nonsense has been prompted by the recent feeling that something isn’t quite right, y’know? Not with me, but a general sense of foreboding and the occasional flicker of memories that I’m not convinced belong in my head. There’s been an irritating monologue too, mumbling along and intermittently and drowning out the usual songs and stories, I think I object to that more.

Obviously, this is the most ridiculous delusional toss, but it does set me wondering about the intricacies of the human psyche and what other’s have to put up with, surely not everyone’s like this?

During the recent England game against Kazakhstan, a portion of the crowd decided that they no longer approved of the efforts of one of the idolised millionaires before them and opted to boo him accordingly. Fair enough, you’d suppose.

NO! Not so, for it seems that the act of booing one of our footballers violates some unwritten rule, they must be praised. Constantly, I presume. It certainly seems to be de rigueur to accord these people more privilege than seems sensible. Personally, I fail to understand the furore.

In terms of sheer volume, the discussion this non-event has created has been inordinate; most people, for reasons unknown, appear to be shocked and outraged that anyone could possibly boo one of the precious little moppets on the pitch. I assume that this is because they’re ‘our boys’ and we should support them unwaveringly at all times; patriotism and all that.

Yet I can’t help but feel that this is bollocks, complete and utter. If you feel like expressing your opinion by booing, then you should go for it. It isn’t big, it isn’t clever, and it certainly isn’t helpful, but then neither is a back-pass that gifts the opposition a goal. Turn and turn about.

Ultimately, when you go to work, you shouldn’t be expecting endless praise, you shouldn’t be surprised if people decide you’re shit for no other reason than they do, and you certainly shouldn’t be fazed by any of it. I know many footballers are detached from reality these days, they’re certainly detached from the majority of fans in the higher leagues, but fuck me, you’d think they were a school’s under-8 team the way they’ve been whining.

One of them was booed for making a mistake, you say? Well shit, is the world ending next?

In other news, Notts County were on Sky Sports tonight, looks like we’re moving up in the world.

I have been in love you know, and I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe, things I can’t even begin to describe. I’ve cried myself to sleep for thoughts I no longer recall and borne a heart of stone for so long I thought I’d forgotten how to feel anything beyond a dull displeasure. I’ve attempted suicide, self-harmed, self-destructed and revelled in the sheer and uninhibited joy of simply existing. The man I am now no more resembles the man who awoke in my bed this morning than he does the one who lay quietly dying in a Leicestershire field one cold October morning. He isn’t the man I’ll be tomorrow, nor is he the man I’ll be next year, but he is me. All these forgotten people, the shadows of who I’ve been, a thousand people – a million – a countless multitude of faces looking out on days beyond recollection, yet here I am, now, the sum of all my experience.

People are complicated you see, infinitely fine and subtle in ways we can neither divine nor appreciate, marvels of our own making, masters of our own destinies, slaves to ourselves. As you sit and read this, wondering over my pompous diatribe, does it not strike you how amazing, how abhorrent we all are? We’re a creature of extremes – love, hate, all that lies between – and in each of us is the power to change the world, to affect every other soul on the planet, yet we wrap ourselves in boredom, devise ever more ingenious ways to sever ourselves from the world, it is astonishing.

I hope you’ll excuse the tone of this post, the nonsense, I was going to write about my holidays – Budapest, the most amazing party, my birthday with glorious friends – but since returning home I’ve felt, unusual, as though this gibberish has been bottled up for too long and travel has finally uncorked it. Or it could just be that I heard a song today that took me back to 1999, a time when I was very much in love with the girl I never told and suddenly, out of the blue, I appreciated how wonderful we are, and how terrible.

Have a good weekend ^_^

People often wonder just why it is that I harbour so much animosity towards my fellow man, why the wellspring of my cynicism never runs dry, and where much of the naive liberalism of my youth went to.

I shall explain.

Once upon a time, I held to the belief that no one is beyond redemption, that deep down we’re all innately good and caring, and that above all we validate our own existence as human beings by being, well, humane. Then, regrettably, I emerged from the quiet confines of my home village and engaged with the wider world, a world where I was horrified to discover that some people are simply a waste of meat and blood and bone.

Initially I was forgiving, I conceded that I’ve been lucky to have parents that love me and, despite their divorce, have had the opportunity to be my own person, to learn, develop, and set my own boundaries within a reasonably comfortable setting. It hasn’t been all roses, but it has been infinitely more bearable than an abusive father and alcoholic mother which, unfortunately, is what some people have to cope with.

However, this forgiveness has, over the last decade, largely evaporated and coalesced into the belief that with the best will in the world, some people have absolutely no value whatsoever.

Now, that sounds somewhat… dangerous, as a means of reasoning, but bear with me, I’m not espousing some horrific genocidal future, simply setting out my thoughts. You see, I’ve worked for everything that I have, everything – I imagine you have too – and I’m sick to the eye-teeth of feckless shits ruining what would otherwise be a blemish free existence for me. As much as it runs contrary to my general belief that everyone’s entitled to life, I genuinely wouldn’t mind it if some had theirs snuffed out by the hand of fate, or maybe just a bus. I’m not picky.

For example, I went out at the weekend; I had sushi with friends, a few beers and a generally lovely time. When I woke up on Sunday morning to find that some arsewit had walked the length of my street kicking the wing mirrors clean off all the cars, mine included, it kind of took the shine off things. The idea that someone’s weekend culminated in destruction for destruction’s sake, something they doubtless found hilarious, infuriates me. The near certainty that, considering the area I’m living in, they don’t have a job, spend their days watching TV, and are to all intents and purposes, a leech, fills me with rage. Not only am I probably supporting their fucking lifestyle already, I now have to shell-out money to fix my car. In effect, I’m paying for this twat twice.

I used to accept that these people were simply different, less fortunate perhaps, but that all they needed was a bit of help to sort their shit out. Now I hope that they die out. It makes me feel wretched to admit it, but I genuinely cannot see any point in their continued existence, I don’t know what they’re for beyond taking up space. They sit on their collective arses, content to be carried like some sportswear clad albatross about our necks, forever taking, helping no one, suckling like some obscene vampire at the nation’s veins, and it enrages me. The very suspicion that they feel not the slightest pang of remorse, that they think we owe it to them, makes me think dreadful things.

What’s worse, what truly grates more than anything else, is that I now believe that there is genuinely nothing redeeming about these people, no glimmer of hope that they might be something more than they are, because that would require effort, and education, and a fucking job. Suggest that maybe they’d like to crawl from their pits and do something useful with their empty lives and you might as well begin talking in riddles for all the enthusiasm you’ll engender. Suggest that maybe they’d like to get shit-faced on cheap booze at someone else’s expense, stab each other, join a gang, and damage property for the sake of it, well, you might as well be feeding pigs cherries.

It is horrible to know that one of your ideals has been destroyed, and I hope you’ll excuse the rant, but fuck me am I angry that these guttersnipe bastards exist only to make the world a little more shit for the rest of us.