nunoncastors

It has been said that I’m a callous bastard but this is far from true, I’m a realist. No, realist isn’t the right word. I’m not a realist, I believe in too many fanciful things to be a realist. Realists aren’t sentimental as a rule. I’m not sure what the apt word would be so I’ll paint you a picture about my approach to death. It’s a little cold and detached.

At the age of six my grandfather died. I’m ashamed to say my memories of him are fleeting and much faded by time. I’d like to say he’s always in my thoughts but he isn’t, life goes on and I go with it. The memories I do have are of a kind man with grey, almost silver, hair and blue eyes. He looked like my father will in a few years and as I will in many more. I remember he used to tell fanciful stories of the sort that children love and delighted in making people smile by whatever means. I’ve never heard anything bad said about him that I can recall. Not even by my mother after my parents divorced and she had precious few kind words for that side of the family at the time.

I remember that he smoked and that it was cancer that killed him. I remember standing outside the house when the ambulance came and I remember people crying. I remember asking naïvely why everyone was so upset and being told, in superficial terms, what was happening. I remember saying that I didn’t understand, if he was in pain but now he wasn’t, what there was to cry about. If he was no longer suffering then people should be happy, not upset.

My approach hasn’t changed. It varies according to circumstance of course, but it hasn’t changed.

My grandmother died a few years back and while I found it upsetting, it wasn’t overly so. I know that makes it sound as though I don’t care, I do, it’s just that I don’t see what purpose it serves crying and wailing and gnashing your teeth. My grandmother died in her sleep, she had the early onset of Alzheimer’s. Yes it’s upsetting that she’s gone but infinitely less so than her being gone without being dead (if you see what I mean.)

And what of a young needless death, those who go before their time? Well, I’ve had experience of that too. Until recent years I’d always been a very private person so this isn’t exactly well known but as a younger man one of my friends killed themselves. Nothing prepares you for that, nothing. But I’m not saying it prompted me to collapse into a blubbering heap either. I was shocked and upset. I was even plagued by doubt for some considerable time, could I have done something to help him? But in the end the answer was no. For all that I disbelieve in fate and predestination, when it’s your time, it’s your time.

By whatever means, in whatever fashion and irrespective of age, wealth, health or status; game over is game over. For those of us yet to face the great leveller, we can either wallow in our grief or be grateful we were ever given cause to grieve.

Me, I’m of the second camp. I’d rather celebrate a life than mourn a death. I may miss them every hour of every day, but the world is as it is, at least I knew them once.

I’m going to return to something I said earlier, about never hearing a bad word about my grandfather. I like to think this is because he was a decent, likeable man but as you age, you learn. I’ve notice a predilection for not speaking ill of the dead. It’s an unwritten rule I’m more than happy to break and this, in conjunction to my odd approach to death in the first place, is what gives the impression that I’m callous. As far as I’m concerned, dying does not make you any better or any worse than you were when you were living. It does not erase past transgressions nor the memory thereof. A prick is a prick, alive or dead.

This brings me neatly onto the death of George Best and the slightly sickening outpouring of grief and tributes from people who have fuck all to do with anything but their own pr (politicians and pop stars, is there anything they won’t praise or condemn to get in the news?) Now, there’s a good chance I’ll get slated for this but I’m going to say it anyway. The man was an utter twat. I will concede that he was an incredibly talented footballer, of that there is no doubt, but he was also a grade-a cunt.

To pay tribute to a man who destroyed his own liver and then the spare one given to him on account of his “celebrity” because he refused to give up drinking is frankly offensive. I don’t think anyone deserves to die but I also don’t think George Best is worthy of anything but scorn. I feel sorry for his family in more ways than one, but most of all I feel angry that he was given a second chance and pissed it up the wall. Literally.

So get upset if you want, join the grief culture, but you’re a fool if you do. You’re letting someone else do your thinking for you and missing the point. He doesn’t deserve it.

As an addendum, you’ll notice in this article old Georgie boy, “finds it most upsetting that someone must first die in order to give him a new lease of life.” Evidently not upsetting enough.

I’ve been ill since the weekend and it’s set me thinking that men have an arse backwards approach to illness. At the moment I have what could be called man flu. Obviously I’m convinced that it’s SARS or bubonic plague but in truth I have a cold, I ache a bit and most of all, I whinge. Whinging is a major part of man flu. Indeed the milder the cold the greater the amount of whinging. This is what set me thinking about the male approach to illness.

Around this time last year I fractured my arm skiing. Despite this I put off having it looked at for a day and then carried on skiing without poles after it had been put in a cast. As I’m not a competent skier I proceeded to fall on this wrist a further dozen times but barely said a word. Sunday morning when I woke up with a snotty nose I immediately broadcast this fact to the whole house and then continued to remind people at regular intervals that, “I’m ill.” This, of course, was accompanied by a weak cough and a sigh.

So, shattered bone isn’t an issue but a mild cold may as well herald the coming of the apocalypse.

And it’s the same for all men. The amount of complaining is inversely proportional to the extent of the problem. A scratch will require sufficient bandage to embalm a mummy but a severed finger barely requires an Elastoplast. Break a man’s ribs and he’ll insist he’s ok to go down the pub to watch the football but stub his toe and he’ll never walk again. I don’t understand it. I do it, but I don’t understand it.

Incidentally, my right eye has developed a slight twitch. I’m hoping this is due to my recent poor diet, too much booze and not enough sleep but it could be that I have some previously unknown malady that will destroy us all.

Oh, and just in case you didn’t know, I’m ill. *cough* *sigh*

I’m a compulsive taker of personality tests, I can’t help myself. I like to see what the answers are, if I expect them and what they mean. I don’t know why I do this to myself because I’m invariably worried by their accuracy. I imagine in the same way that some people worry about the accuracy of horoscopes and probably for the same reasons. If you give a vague enough answer it can mean anything after all.

Here’s one I took recently.

You are an Introverted iNtuitive Feeling Perceiver (INFP) personality commonly referred to as “The Idealistic Philosopher”.

I know, I know. I don’t understand that bit either.

Imagine a deep lush valley, caressed by flowers and trees that eternally blossom, inhabited by animals that serve as gentle companions and by people who spend their days loving, creating and selflessly serving humanity. This is the world of the rare (only about 3 percent of the population) Idealistic Philosopher: the person who is forever striving to live in a perfect world where love and harmony abound.

This I sort of relate to. The headshrinker I was seeing used to tell me that “emotionally you live in the world as you think it should be, rather than as it is” and I used to think she was full of shit. Shows what I know, clearly respected professionals and online questionnaires have a greater insight into my character than I do.

As an idealistic Philosopher, you believe that love requires a profound emotional and spiritual bond. You may also believe that, to attain this desired state, you will have to endure a great deal of pain and sacrifice. Yet all the suffering will be worth it once you find your perfect love. When that blessed day comes, you will be a complete person, as you and your partner will work together to make the world a better place. In the beginning of a relationship, you tend to idealise your mate as the greatest person in the world; you’d easily give up your life for him or her. Later, when reality intrudes, you may find yourself disappointed as you realise that no real human being can match the fantastic images of love and romance you created in your imagination. Fortunately, despite your disillusionment, you somehow recover and begin to accept the flaws of your partner, ever so slowly, while still wishing you could change him or her into the perfect image you had when you first fell in love.

Essentially what this is saying is that I am a sap and will do anything, irrespective of the cost, so long as my heart deems it to be worthwhile. This is the part that bothers me. I don’t see how answering ten questions can give an answer that is, more or less, accurate with regards to my personality or one of its traits. So I’m a sucker for old school chivalric love, big deal. But how does the interweb know that?

Stupid bloody tests.