nunoncastors

As our nation rumbles ever onward into a sort of Orwellian milieu of CCTV, knee-jerk legislation and mindless, dribbling enforcement officers, I find myself thinking how sad it is to be living in the declining years of a once great nation. I doubt many people give it much thought, ensconced as they are in ‘reality TV’ and other perennial nonsense, but the society that once gave the world the industrial revolution and changed everything, literally everything, now chiefly exports its own disenchanted population.

We seem to be a people inured to disappointment and societal neglect these days, as though all expectation has been ground out of us like grist to the mill. We are unique in Europe, potentially the world, in that we suffer an incompetent government in silence; watch our liberties as they’re worn away in the name of ‘security’ and huff and sigh as more and more of our lives are bound in red tape and smothered in fines.

Were I French, if you’ll excuse the cliché, I would doubtless have picketed, argued and obstructed my way into a position where my voice could be heard, kicked over a few bins and, while not necessarily achieving anything, at least give the impression that I had, or that I’d tried. Here, nothing. People seem content to care more about animal rights than they do about the erosion of their own, residual as they are, and as a great soporific mass we grumble, we mutter, and then we turn on our television sets and do nothing. A profoundly upsetting situation, I’m sure you’ll agree.

The event that caused me to board this train of thought occurred on Saturday when, for reasons that remain unclear, I was taken to one side and quizzed by a Police officer. They wanted to know why, as a member of the public, I was doing something as utterly mundane as taking photographs. This, apparently, constitutes ’suspicious behaviour’ and warrants the attention of our nation’s finest timewasters. Presumably there’s a quota to fill somewhere.

And so I was asked, politely at least, what was I doing, what is my name, and where do I live, before being told to delete the photographs of the Council House and move along. This, because I’ve never really got along with authority figures, caused me to point out that unless Nottingham city centre had suddenly become communist Russia, unless they were the Stazi in disguise*, or unless they had a Court Order, I’d be doing no such thing.

Ten points for knowing my rights.

I think the comment about communist Russia may have been a step too far to be fair, but they relented and wandered away after discerning that I wasn’t about to change my mind, explode, shoot someone, or threaten the security of the nation. It was a strange experience, more than a little unnerving, and it left me wondering; just when did we give in and allow nebulous institutions to dictate… well, everything. Was it gradual, was it sudden? Did anyone even notice?

So today I checked a few books out of the library that I suspect will result in my name being flagged on a hard drive hidden away in some shady government office building,** and this afternoon I’ve found solace in the realisation that Government, authority, laws; they only function by the consent of the masses. It’s a tiny little straw to grasp a hold of; just an idea really, but, to quote a really rather decent film, “People should not be afraid of their governments. Governments should be afraid of their people.”

Granted, I tend to treat ours with a sort of sneering disdain rather than fear, but you catch my drift. What with the fuel crisis, the constantly increasing cost of living, the sheer volume of shit being pedalled by those at the top, I think something’s going to give. I don’t think it’ll be our glorious institutions either, I think it’ll be our collective patience. Maybe then something’ll change.

*I know, I know. The Stasi were actually the East German secret police, hush.
** Because I’m paranoid.

I live my life by elaborate terms – another conceit I suppose – and find enjoyment in having nemeses and being confounded. I saunter rather than walk and I ponder rather than think because, frankly, there’s more to life that way. Indeed, it’s hard to find yourself embroiled in a battle with The Dark Gods of Laundry or the enigmatic Man Who Lives in the Shower if you don’t live your life like a character from a Penny Dreadful.

And so I duel with cosmic forces daily, thwart villains at every turn and collect myself in quiet repose to contemplate the lessons of the day, not at night, oh no, but ‘of an evening’. Usually they’re saturnine treatises on the ability of Man Who Lives in the Shower to get to work before I do – whatever the circumstance– and spend forty minutes in the shower, thus condemning me to a sweaty morning of discomfort. Now and again it’s an elegy on where my keys are, or the lack of biscuits in the house, it varies. When you’re involved in as many intrigues as I am, life changes every day.

Must dash, the Vile Minions of Cycling Home won’t vanquish themselves you know. Avaunt!

Everybody cries; sometimes.

Well that’s bollocks R.E.M, because I hurt constantly. Both of my ankles are currently a bit dodgy having been either twisted or sprained, I’ve torn a muscle in my thigh, bruised a knee and, worst of all, Duncan has rationed the number of biscuits I’m allowed to eat a day. So what, exactly, do you know about it?

I honestly never thought that taking up exercise again would result in the failure of all my limbs, one by one, but it has and I’m not happy. I’ve been plagued this year with injury after injury, as though some spiteful imp loiters in my wake waiting to rend ligaments and churn flesh when my guard is down. I hate it, the little bastard, because I make for a very poor patient. I know I should wait until I’m hale and well but I don’t, I want to do stuff now, not later, life’s too short.

Unless you leg doesn’t work, then everything drags.

I watch television; I read books, magazines and newspapers, I listen to music and I roam the web. However, I’ve no idea who “The Apprentice” is, what HEAT is for, what the WAGs are or who is currently number one in the charts. It’s not down to elitism; it’s just the case that popular culture is not my thing. Certain aspects of it at least.

For a start, I simply don’t understand the appeal of programs such as Big Brother, in much the same way that I don’t understand all these white kids from middle England calling each other ‘blud’ and doing poor imitations of Jamaicans. You’re a gangster are you? Then why’s your name Kevin? It baffles me, it really does.

I picked up a copy of ‘Nuts’ the other week, and that baffled me too because it seems to be marketed at binge-drinking morons.

What really puzzles me though, what really confuses the arse off me, is the reaction I receive when, part way through a conversation I ask an innocent question such as, “who is Keeley?”

Seriously, you’d think I’d just shouted my love for the work of the Third Reich at the top of my lungs while simultaneously butchering a whore. Remember that scene from Invasion of the Body Snatchers? The one where they all point and shriek at the interloper? It’s not a million miles away.