Monthly Archive for June, 2006

Edifying encounters

Published
by
james
on June 26, 2006
in The everyday
. 0 Comments

Sometimes I worry that I’m not particularly pleasant. I wonder if I am, in any sense, a good person. I can’t say why this should matter to me, it seems a tedious thing to muse over, but I almost always surmise that I am not. Nothing is quite so easy to indulge in as self-deprecation and personal dissatisfaction after all. However, it turns out that this long drawn conclusion is not the axiom I previously thought.

I am actually a reasonably decent chap.

Sounds awfully pompous that doesn’t it? I’ll elaborate.

Sunday, as you may or may not know, was a momentous day. The English football team triumphed over mighty, mighty Ecuador in a display of footballing prowess that would have done any Sunday league side proud. Every football fan worth their salt was either in a pub or ‘round a mate’s house with a few brews, shouting encouragement at a side that mysteriously lacks both flair and style in all but the briefest of glimmers. It was a good day, a stirring day. It was a day spoilt by the fact that football-banning orders seem to work.

That doesn’t sound like a bad thing does it, not when you consider their purpose and scope. But the knife cuts both ways. You see, while morons of every class and kind are unable to cause trouble in picturesque towns and cities the length and longth of Europe, many are able to visit local pubs and act like twunts.

More specifically, they’re able to visit one of my old locals and sing songs with less than pleasant overtones. A prime example would be their stirring rendition of “Ten German Bombers” and the similarly delightful “No Surrender to the IRA”. Even if you ignore the provocative nature of these songs you still have to deal with the facts as they stand. Firstly, we were playing Ecuador and not Germany. Secondly, the IRA no longer exists in any meaningful sense. And thirdly, neither song had anything to do with the match, the world cup or anything other than half-witted xenophobia.

It isn’t big, it isn’t clever and anyone saying otherwise clearly has all the sense of my shoe.

But that’s beside the point. The point is this. It struck me that I went to school with some of the people involved in this apish grunting. I grew up with them in the same village and under similar circumstances. We played in the same football team as children and we went to the same Scout Group. Yet there they were referring to Ashley Cole as “charcoal” on account of his skin colour while I sat ashamed to be in the same building as them. I may not be perfect, I may not even be all that nice to be around sometimes, but I could be a lot worse and comparatively speaking, I’m a paragon of virtue and chivalry.

I wonder when we all changed so much.

Snow Patrol - Set the Fire to the Third Bar

Published
by
james
on June 24, 2006
in Songs
. 9 Comments

I find the map and draw a straight line
Over rivers, farms, and state lines
The distance from here to where you’d be
It’s only finger-lengths that I see
I touch the place where I’d find your face
My finger in creases of distant dark places

I hang my coat up in the first bar
There is no peace that I’ve found so far
The laughter penetrates my silence
As drunken men find flaws in science

Their words mostly noises
Ghosts with just voices
Your words in my memory
Are like music to me

I’m miles from where you are
I lay down on the cold ground
And I, I pray that something picks me up
And sets me down in your warm arms

After I have travelled so far
We’d set the fire to the third bar
We’d share each other like an island
Until exhausted, close our eyelids
And dreaming, pick up from
The last place we left off
Your soft skin is weeping
A joy you can’t keep in

I’m miles from where you are
I lay down on the cold ground
And I, I pray that something picks me up
And sets me down in your warm arms

And miles from where you are
I lay down on the cold ground
And I, I pray that something picks me up
And sets me down in your warm arms

Eyes Open

Every now and again you hear a song that sums up your mood precisely.

Seems like a good idea

Published
by
james
on June 18, 2006
in The everyday
. 0 Comments

I’m back from Spain! Very shortly I’ll be treating you all to a monologue that is the internet equivalent of holiday slides but for now I thought I’d mention this. It seems that the government are going to stop putting paedophiles in buildings near schools.

That’s right; they’re going to stop doing it.

Now I’m not too good when it comes to logical progression but I think that means that previously they’ve been housing paedophiles next to schools.

Oh my.

Regrettable

Published
by
james
on June 8, 2006
in The everyday
. 2 Comments

It has to be said that I am not a violent man. My ambient curmudgeonlyness aside I’m actually quite placid and will meet 99.99% of provocation with nothing more than astringent sarcasm and withering scorn. It is my way. Some things however, that small 0.01%, will provoke me to sudden and unexpected bouts of fury in which regrettable things are done. There was, for example, an incident at college that is best forgotten. Hurting people is neither big nor clever.

Luckily the majority of things guaranteed to garner a violent reaction are inanimate objects. Tangled coat hangers, you may be surprised to find out, will often cause me to shake them about in a clenched fist bellowing obscenities. This is usually because after a brief period of calmly trying to untangle them they refuse to untangle. Why do they do that, why must they frustrate me so? Also, for some reason, doors that refuse to close and stay shut drive me to kick them so hard that either their hinges break or they jam shut. I’m not entirely sure what it is about them that so provokes me but they do, and I hate them for it. I wish I were joking but I genuinely hate coat hangers. I loathe them with a passion.

Sadly there are some scenarios that can only be created by the actions of other people. Falling into this tiny percentile are people who pinch my cheeks and anyone who has ever tried to mug me. Especially the guy in London who initially asked if he could borrow 10p to make a phone call then made a grab for my wallet. I was trying to be nice for fuck’s sake. Anyway, I react badly to being jostled or pushed out of the way and spectacularly badly to being threatened or abused. It is this last point that we’re going to be reviewing.

I’ve had a nice day today. Work wasn’t too busy, it’s been sunny; I went to my dad’s for tea. You see? It’s been nice, pleasant almost. It has also been ruined by something that I did, something eminently regrettable.

Not far from my house there is a road junction replete with traffic lights and, from the direction I approached it, two lanes. One lane is for going left or straight on and the other solely for turning right. I happened to be stopped at the traffic lights ready to go straight on when a Ford Fiesta pulled along side me ostensibly ready to turn right. I had my windows rolled down and was minding my own business, I’d had a nice day after all remember. Not even the mawkish R&B blaring out of the car next to me was going to ruin it.

*offensively loud music* “Oi!”
…
“Oi, you fucking deaf?” *raucous laughter from some guttersnipe harlots*
Wonderful. “Yes?”
“Nice car mate, make it out of shit yourself?” *a few derisory snorts from the three other idiots in the car*
“Thanks. Actually it’s a Volkswagen.” This is just what I need.
“You ever heard of sarcasm? It’s a fucking shit-heap.” *mutters of “wanker” more laughter et cetera*
“Really, you don’t say.” Please let the lights change, please let the lights change.
“Don’t get smart with me you beardy cunt, I’ll fuck you up. You fat prick, you’re a fucking wanker in a piece of shit car.” *the nearest idiot spits at me and misses. several others join in the communal derision*
Don’t rise to it. Don’t rise to it. “You’ll fuck me up the what? Nice boy are you? Bum love your thing is it?” Oh well done James, bravo. Nicely defused there. Count to ten. Calm, calm.

The lights change at this point and I drive straight on more than slightly pissed off with the fact that some people are born to be pricks and fuming at the chap’s proposal to “fuck me up”. Unfortunately the car next to me also drives straight on and attempts to cut in front. I’m too angry to ease off and oblige a car full of fuckwits so I carry on speed up ever so slightly. They now have the choice of speeding up towards a traffic light and a lamppost and then cutting in front of me or backing off. Unfortunately they choose the former, there isn’t enough room to pass me as I’ve sped up and the distance to the lamppost isn’t that far away now. Naturally they start weaving about as though they’re going to hit me in the assumption that I’ll ease off and let them past because I’m terrified of being “fucked up”.

It is at this point that something regrettable happens.

You see, I was happy enough to ignore all the verbal and the spitting. At a push I could have let the shit driving go. But the fact they were weaving about and assuming they were going to intimidate me, threaten me, in to backing off really pissed on my chips. It did so because that’s clearly their outlook on everything, them and their ilk. They figure if there are enough of them or they’re threatening enough then people won’t do anything, they’ll back down. I mean, who would mess with a “gangster” and his “crew”, right?

Unfortunately someone who isn’t thinking rationally would. They weren’t to know that they’d pressed all the right buttons to make me do something incredibly stupid and that’s why they were very surprised when; as they swerved their car towards mine for the third time, I hadn’t backed off and was still in the way.

There was what some people would call “an accident”.

At the time I viewed it like this. My car is worth £50 and I’m in the right lane. Their car is clearly their parent’s and they’re in the wrong lane cutting me up. A damaged wing will cost me £50 to repair and, even if the car is written off, it’s no biggie. Any damage to their car will have to be explained to mummy and daddy. The insurance company will need to be notified, they’ll have to pay for it themselves and they’ll be shouted at and admonished more than I could ever hope for. More importantly I wanted them to see what being a cunt gets you in the grand scheme of things.

I may have overlooked the fact that there were four of them and one of me. This was something that gave me the shakes after I got in. But interestingly enough, numbers never came into it. After I drove past and parked there was a brief exchange. Curiously my new friends were somewhat less “gangster” than they had been and sounded exactly like the terrified middleclass white kids faced with a beardy nutter that they so clearly were.

“Are you fucking mental?” *much the same thing said by the other three one of whom squares up to me, baseball cap all askew*
“You think that’s mental? Try fucking me up and you’ll be shitting your teeth for a week you little scrote. I’ll kick ‘em down your throat before you can blink. You could’ve just fucked off and gone on your way but no, you had to be Mr. Fucking-Tough didn’t you, you and your shit-head friends. Well come on then, now’s your chance.”
*poor chap goes whiter than a sheet* “… I’m calling the police.”
Oh dear. You idiot James, what have you done? “Go on then.” Shit, shit, shit.

I think you’ll agree that this constitutes a spectacularly bad reaction to the situation on my part. It was undoubtedly the wrong thing to do all things considered. It was stupid and dangerous and irresponsible. I am so very glad I did it.

I’m glad because when the police turned up they walked straight over to me and asked me what happened which, I must say, threw me a little bit. I explained about the abuse at the lights, their failed attempt to cut me up and the confrontation afterwards. They nodded and walked over to the other party while I sat on the boot of my car. There was some talking, a bit of shouting and then some breathalysing.

Interesting.

There was some more shouting, a protestation of innocence and a getting into the back of a police car. One of the officers came back over to me and helped me get my car off the road.

“So what’s going on?” I’m going to prison to get bum raped, that’s what.
“The driver is over the limit, looks like he caused the accident to me.”
“Oh right. So where do we go from here?” Please don’t say the cells.
“Well you’re going home after you’ve given a statement.”
“Oh.” What? Is that all? Awesome!
“I wouldn’t worry about it.”

I am now home, its 01:39 and I’m somewhat ambivalent towards the evening’s events. I’m ashamed of myself certainly, but oddly proud too. The overriding feeling is one of a job well done because; more importantly than anything else, four people now know what being a cunt gets you.

The car has minor scratches.

I’m off to bed.