something witty and erudite will appear here eventually
It’s all so cyclical, one year dies and another begins; round and round we go.
So here’s to you and all that lays ahead, and here’s to me and all that lies behind.
Here’s to all we’ve said and done, and all we wished we did.
Here’s to memories and hopes and dreams, here’s to same again.
Happy New Year, guys, all the best.
What the hell am I doing at work? o_O
“You’re always happy, you just pretend not to be.”
That’s a pretty damning statement to come from one of your friends, accurate as it is. Though it is nice to see that not everyone is taken in by the mask of bitterness I shroud myself in, that some people are quite perceptive. God knows why I pretend to be so isolated and alone, or why I persist in viewing the world with such disdain when in truth I am the opposite. I’m a conflicted character I suppose.
Today though, the thought struck me, Christmas is a time for strengthening bonds. I’ve spent the whole period in the company of those whom I value most, doing those things that seem to mean the least. Partaking of drinks, sharing food. They’re basic, primal things but even now they mean more than is easily expressed in words. This time of year is about friendship and family, about spending time with kith and kin. It might seem simple, but it means more than you’d think.
Happy Christmas and all that bollocks.
Just think about what you did.
There’s a girl that wants to start,
Been thinking about having a couple of kids.
Comb a brush around their heads in the morning,
To be needed, simply and be needing.
Her name is Carrie,
Been on the road for so long.
She wants to live in a place that has a number and a name,
Find lovers and cry before the courage is gone.
She really loves him, Prescilla,
She really loves him, Prescilla,
She really loves him, I tell you.
She really loves him, Prescilla,
She really loves him, Prescilla,
She really loves him, I tell you.
To live life outside of the world,
To break the cross that bears her name.
She’s not your queen any more, queen of the highway,
Needs something better than learning away
She really loves him, Prescilla,
She really loves him, Prescilla,
She really loves him, I tell you.
She really loves him, Prescilla,
She really loves him, Prescilla,
She really loves him, I tell you.
Gone away,
Queen of the Highway.
Gone away.
Gone away,
Queen of the Highway.
Gone away.
<3
[EDIT] I’m now second, as Tom pointed out. Cheers perverts!
Regular readers will of course be aware that I peddle, with skill and verve, nothing but the finest arch verbiage and wit. There is, I’m sure they’ll agree, little smutty or coarse about my scribblings.
So why, then, is my top search engine referral for this week “stuff to wank over”?
Seriously, do a quick google for that phrase and I come in fifth. Fortunately that’s just early enough to avoid the soggy biscuit but still; it’s quite impressive when you consider that I only made that post about spam a few days ago.
Seventy-four hits, I wonder if it’s the same chap?
I dislike the term “pc gone mad”, it’s the sort of phrase racists and bigots use to validate their need to hate people. Me, I don’t need validating, if I radiated equal opportunities and inclusiveness any harder I’d be shitting access ramps for black, gay, Jewish orphans with warning signs written in rainbows and sunshine for the whole world to join in and read together as one happy, non-denominational, non-judgemental, inoffensive family.
I’m all about treating people equally, I dislike everyone. It’s nothing personal; I just assume the worst until evidence to the contrary presents itself. I find it’s nicer to assume people are bastards and be pleasantly surprised, than to assume they’re lovely and be upset when they turn out not to be. I’m such a negative nancy like that.
Problems arise however, when this sort of bollocks takes place. I mean, for fuck’s sake, Fairytale of New York is pretty much synonymous with Christmas and yet for years people have managed not to shit their ring in outrage that it uses the word “faggot”. Suddenly however, it’s too offensive, it makes the baby Jesus cry or someone, somewhere writes a letter whining about how much of a fucking tit they are and it’s censored.
I despair, I really do. People’s sensibilities seem to be so delicate these days that it’s a wonder half of them can get out of bed for fear of being offended by the colour of the carpet. Do you know what else the song mentions? Bums, punks and old sluts on junk. That’s hardly fair to tramps, prostitutes or junkies is it? Better censor that too and, while we’re about it, REWRITE EVERYTHING THAT HAS EVER BEEN WRITTEN OR RECORDED JUST IN CASE SOME FUCKING ARSEWIT GETS UPSET BY IT BECAUSE, SUDDENLY, WE LIVE IN A SOCIETY WHERE GETTING UPSET IS A FUCKING LIFESTYLE CHOICE AND NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO TELL YOU TO GROW THE FUCK UP AND GET ON WITH IT IN CASE YOU CRY LIKE A FUCKING BABY.
God, it makes me so angry. Are we really a society of dickheads inventing new ways to get upset? Because it bloody looks like it.
Exhibit A:
Walking through Nottingham train station having listened to a story from Andy about an evening he spent with another young gentleman and a toothbrush they used in an imaginative and, I suspect, illegal way
“Andy, you have to be the gayest thing on the face of the earth. If they gave out badges for that sort of thing, yours would have Elton John’s face on it.”
“Well, I do try. Elton John’s face? You’re so fucking cliché.”
“Piss off, I could have said…”
Tosser: “I’m sorry, but that’s very offensive.”
Me: “What’s very offensive?”
Tosser: “Using the word gay like it’s an insult. I bet you never think about that do you?”
Andy: “Quick, call the police.”
Me: “No, I never do.”
Tosser: “I’ve had to put up with your sort of rubbish for years.”
Me: “Really? That’s lovely mate. Well, off you go then. Keep up the good work. Be brave.”
Tosser: “You think it’s funny?”
Me: “I think it’s fucking hilarious. Pissing myself, side splittingly, hilarious. Do you know why?”
Andy: “Oh! Oh! I know, I know. Is it because I’m gay and he should mind his own fucking business instead of making a twat of himself?”
Me: “Yeah, pretty much mate.”
Tosser: “Oh.”
Andy: “Oh indeed.”
It’s all about context people, get to grips with it.
As a rotund chap myself, I’m sensitive to the plight of people who gorge their lazy arses on food until they’re so full you could roll the fuckers down a corridor and make Indiana Jones shit himself in fright. I tend to think that if some people want to eat themselves to death like Pizza the Hutt then they’re entitled to do so just as long as they never ask for my help in any way. I tend not to mock.
However, there’s a woman in the building in which I work that resembles a small planet. A kinder man would perhaps say a large moon, he’d be an idiot, she’s vast.
For example, the lifts here are supposed to be able to hold eight people. That’s eight. When she gets in though, you can only accommodate three, at a push four, her included. That’s right; she occupies the space of six people. SIX PEOPLE. She has the equivalent mass and volume of my football team.
I know it’s cruel, I know I shouldn’t, but every time I see her I can’t help thinking that somewhere out there a dozen people are starving because she’s had their share.
Being a very angry man can be a dangerous business, what with the ever present danger that someone is going to do something to drive you past the borders of restraint. It isn’t always easy to smile a beatific smile and move along without beating the living shit out of someone. Indeed, now and again you have to have a word with yourself and remind those frothing, rabid parts of your brain that people don’t necessarily do all the things they do specifically to annoy you, it’s just the way the world works.
I’ll tell you what helps with this process of abatement, drinking mulled wine and eating mince pies with your mates; which is what I’m off to do right now. Have a good weekend all.
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