…about what comes next

July 16, 2012

I would like someone to tell me what I’m good at. I have no idea. I’m 26. I have just completed my degree. My thesis got me a 76. A high 1st. I finished with 2% off an overall 1st Class Honour. Now what? I live at home with my dad. I have very little money to my name, and no practical skill whatsoever. The truth is, I have no confidence in myself.

Sometimes I like philosophy. Camus can keep my attention for a day or two but it soon wears away and all that’s left is the understanding that my fickle nature is unlikely to provide any form of success. Sometimes I like history. Sometimes I like politics. Sometimes I like photography, but I’m no good at it. Sometimes I like art. I drove to Devon a few days ago. On the way home I pulled into a service station on the M5. A kid with floppy hair who looked about 18 years old, got out of his Bentley in his tailor made suit. He must have his own place, and a bright future. He has the ability to support a family. The options are limitless for that guy. At such a young age. When I was 18, I had made the conscious decision that I wanted to fill my mind with as much information as possible on subjects that fascinate me, because school made me believe I was incapable of that. The trouble with that venture was that I am fascinated by vastly different subjects at different times. As a result, eight years later, I can talk you through the life of Thomas Cromwell thanks to Robert Hutchinson’s fantastic biography. I know a Caravaggio painting without being told. I am more than happy to talk about how much of a failure right winged economics has always been. I can point out where the Ten Commandments originated. I can tell you about the French Revolution and November’s fascination with Robbespierre. I can recite Bukowski and Plath, and due to my thesis, I can confidently talk to you about the motives of Lincoln and the early Republicans in their opposition to slavery. How utterly useless. All of it. A waste of time. A rather curious form of self destruction. I am an expert in nothing. I have no long term career goal. I have never known. The World is made for people who have a clear goal, clear aspirations, and a passion. What about the shear mediocrity of the rest of us?

…. ‘it is as if the sun has become disgusted with waiting’.

I do not want to sit in an office filing administrative documents by alphabetical order. Every job I look at is advertised as “Admin work. Be part of a unique and dynamic sales team!!” They are all ‘unique’ and ‘dynamic’… none of them explain why they’re unique and dynamic, or how they are so unique from the other unique company and the unique company before that. Here is a description of one of job vacancies suggested to me:

You will be working within a busy office helping to collate our recruitment documentation. This will include tasks such as requesting references, making calls to candidates and clients, facilitating database records and editing CVs.

– Why would you waste your life with this? No one dreams of collating recruitment documentation. It becomes a means to an end. And that end is, to eat at the end of the day. Life suddenly becomes nothing more than a desperate chase for survival. It goes on…

you must bring an energetic and pro-active

– Energetic? You’re doing nothing but updating an Excel spreadsheet. You leave the World with nothing but a 1mb file. The World doesn’t need you. I no longer wish to feel like a waste of time.

There is nothing that makes me want to dedicate my life to such tedious and patently transparent bullshit. I would be fired pretty quickly. I have sat in an office for four years before going back to university. There is nothing more soul destroying. The outside exists, and your World smells entirely of printer ink and pricks in suits whose arse you must lick to gain any chance at a bit more money…. you know…. so you don’t die. What a putrid existence. Welcome to England and its complete lack of hope.

Conversely, I have had some incredible memories. Once you taste life outside of your four walls, outside the rancid air of an office, you become addicted and you chase more.
I can be too impulsive. I like this about myself. It is a remnant of childhood that I do not wish to lose. But it requires balance apparently. I suppose that is what they call maturity.

I want to find something I am good at. Can make a comfortable living out of. Can support a family with. Can have happy Christmas’s and holidays with. I am 26. I feel time is slowly running out and I am forever on edge, worrying about what comes next.

The light flickers in our hall way.

December 20, 2011

The light flickers in our hall way.
I never noticed it before.
But it flickers every three seconds. I counted.
Counting flickers means that the mind is focused on something that matters little.
Instead of people watching.
People watching has evolved into people loathing.
Nandos menus have about four different fonts. I want to throw them in a fire.
There is one face in a billion that makes me want to learn their story.
Otherwise there is just a field of sullen faces all in a rush to nowhere.
I want to tell them that they’re not welcome.
The pretty faces as cheap and easy drugs, some of them. The crash is inevitable. The high is predictable.
And they seem deformed.
Not physically.
But deformed they seem, nonetheless.
There are just no layers. Or at least if there are, I don’t much care for them.
Like robots. Their tired Friday face looks the same as their Monday faces.
The theme tune to ‘Big Break’ brings back floods of childhood memories. Sundays at the grandparents house. I don’t know why. We pushed the neighbours car the other night. It went eventually. Crap battery and all that.
I want to see a face that makes me want to devour their mind with an unstoppable passion and unearth their brilliance and the uniqueness and discover their creative ingenuity and explore every last cave of their thoughts and say to other people “this is what living is”. When I dream at night I am at my most creative; the Worlds are magnificent and the plots are beautiful and the people, their faces are memorable and my dreams are the World as I want it to be but it isn’t. Or, my dreams are my way of telling myself that I am a bore. I love to sleep because my subconscious is demanding a creative outlet. Dreaming is my creative outlet. Like a big sigh of relief. How arrogant of me to expect the World to be a replica of my dreams. The World turns without my arrogance.
Minimum wage has a funny way of making me give a minimum shit. But it can’t abide that sentiment. It demands 100% of your caring ability, for a big ‘fuck you’ in return.
The upstairs light in the hall way doesn’t flicker. But it’s pretty bright. The downstairs light is the flicker. I always turn the wrong light on when I come in at night. I’ve lived here for for 22 years and I still get it wrong.
Lost. Very very lost. The light flickers. I look at it.
A face that stands out, and demands understanding. As the tornado of faces passes every day, always the same. Just one that stands out. Or maybe I wish my face stood out. It doesn’t.
What the heart holds on to, is a fucking nightmare to pull away from. It haunts me. Throw rocks and boulders at it and it’ll come away unscratched let alone unattached. And what then? “you’ll be fine”. Yeah, thanks.
I walked through St James’ Park the other day.
There were Autumn leaves in a pile. They were orange and red. Like someone had pressed the pause button during a great fire.
It was evening.
I was momentarily stunned by the buildings across the Mall toward Green Park. Humanity has came from the threat of extinction less than 100,000 years ago, to giant buildings and lush gardens. Eyes are drawn to beauty more so in the evening because the lights are prominent and they cast shadows and distorted reflections. Or maybe reality is a distorted reflection. London. Awe inspiring.
I torture myself with bad decisions.
There were very few people. I kicked the leaves like a child. I thought about it for a second or two. I’d look like a maniac of course. 25 years old and kicking leaves. It is surely the first sign of insanity. But I thought fuck it. If sanity means walking by, wishing i’d kicked the leaves, then I don’t want sanity. Sanity has a curious way of seeming inexcusably dull. I will never see these two or three monotonous faces again, I thought. So I kicked the leaves. That is life.

And then there’s life.

University done for 2011. Sleep for the next three weeks. Weep at turning 26. Finish dissertation. Graduate. Be unemployed. Be employed. Rome. Paris. Be happy. Be miserable. Uncertainty. Love lost. Florence. Eat well. Make friends. Write. Complain. House. Marriage. Kids. Say stupid things. Get shouted at. Learn. Be curious. Be suspicious. Be accepting. Abhor ignorance. Be loved. Shop. Wave to people. Buy a French bulldog. Move down south. Swim the sea. Foolish pride. Sit on the cliff top in Devon. Regretfully wish I’d told you how beautiful I thought you always were. Try new foods. Act like I give a fuck about tedious work. Meaningless, soul destroying encounters. Look out of the window of a train. Cry. Remember Montmartre. Miss the bus. Catch the bus. The M1 between Leicester and London is like self harm. Contemplate. Stream of consciousness. Go swimming. Road trip. Watch comedy. Sleep warm. One leg out of the duvet. Sing in the car. Badly. ‘The feeling of absurdity’. Tattoo cooling gel. Judge books by their cover. Tell people not to judge books by their cover. The faint lights of a town across the coastline at night. Walk through fields. Burp. Loudly. Caravan holiday Weymouth, 1990. Play in the sand. Eat ice cream on Weston pier. Make the wrong decisions. Poetry. Tell friends that I really fucking love them. Play piano. Remember your face. Argue. Stick two fingers up. Devour books. BBQs on the beach. Worship beauty instead of the smell of an office. Let it be. Family Christmasses. ‘…burn burn burn like fabulous yellow roman candles’. Smell Spring in the morning. Traffic jams. Over analyse and destroy. Wasteful spending. Be ill. Moan at being ill. Hemmingway. Speak with conviction. Lost at Monopoly. You always took Mayfair. Attempt accents. Fail at accents. Mock. Squeeze into a Tube train. Jubilee line to Southwark. Mind the gap. Punch a wall. Wonder what the Pacific ocean looks like. ‘We are like roses’ said Bukowski. Gym. Romance. Always romance. Watch football. Play football. Political diatribe. Sunbathe. Take photos. Make memories. Push cars in winter. Kick leaves. Babysit. Look at the stars. Skim stones on the ocean. Write. Always write. Drink beer. Not too much. Play pool. Lose at pool. Win at pool. Be spontaneous. Run. Walk. Laugh. A lot. Miss people. Reflect. Love. Fix the flickering light in our hall way.

Like life

April 15, 2011

Sometimes I just want to write.
I don’t know why, but it becomes a sort of irreproachable desire that overwhelms whatever it is I am doing at the particular moment and I want to write. I have hundreds of drafts of random blogs I’ve started when the propensity to sit down at my laptop and arrange thought patterns into words massacres all other modes of thought. And then I get frustrated with the direction the blog takes, knowing it has no real ending, and so I just give up and wallow in languid self pity. I am told this is common for people who enjoy writing. Perfectionism is a fucking bitch. So I thought i’d just write, and see where it leads, and when it ends it ends. And like life It has no overwhelming purpose or meaning, and just imposes itself on those it chooses without aim, quickly forgotten. Bits and pieces imprint themselves on the memory of the back of the darkest reaches of the consciousness, but its essence is always there contributing to what it is (even in the smallest and seemingly insignificant ways) that makes you, you.

I was five when we moved away from Cavendish Road, just off of Saffron Lane. I vividly remember a significant amount of enlightening episodes from before the move. Here are a few:

I remember the fucking horrendous accents – I hate the Leicester accent. I have made a conscious effort over the years to eradicate it from my own speech. If being beaten up badly, and then being spat on as you lay crying in a wrecked ball in a shit filled gutter could be conveyed through an accent, it would be the Leicester accent. It does however provide some beautifully crafted sentences I over hear a lot. Today, in Tesco, a boy on his mobile phone, said “yeah well Josh can suck the fucking piss out of my dirty black nips”. I have never in my life wanted to kill someone for raping the English language, whilst at the same time wanting to worship him as the God of beautiful sentences, so much.

I remember a man being kicked in the face by two other men and then being chased away.

I remember drawing a picture of a boat and my teacher pinning it up on the door of the classroom. I was so proud. But we lived in the social darkness and backwardness of Tory England then, as we do now, and no one told me that pursuing art for art sake is irrelevant in Tory England, we should aim for a life in a call centre instead. Beauty is the destitute office with the distinct smell of printer ink, in Tory England.

I remember adorning myself in Leicester City blue and white and walking down to Filbert Street with my dad, past the rows of cars with Leicester City badges in the windows, and drifting into the wind with the same fans week after week. I was born one year after Gary Lineker moved to Everton from Leicester. The early 90s weren’t the greatest years for Leicester. Though I saw them play in the most exciting Wembley play off final i’ve ever seen, when Swindon Town beat us 4-3 after we went from 3-0 down to 3-3. Steve Thompson was the man on the back of my Leicester shirt that year. The walk to Filbert Street down Saffron Lane was one of the highlights of my childhood. I once saw a man push a grown woman down a flight of stairs of the double decker stand at Filbert Street, she smacked her head and passed out. That wasn’t such a highlight.

I remember my dad and I watching a sunday league football match on Nelson Mandela park, when the ball was manically kicked out of play, and smashed me in the face. The guilty player (who I am adamant even now, should be shot) came over deeply apologetic, and is now one of my dads good mates. My dad befriended my abuser. Thanks dad.

I remember walking downstairs one morning to find our shop had been broken into, the windows smashed, and police talking to my dad. This is pretty normal when you live a few doors in from Saffron Lane. The terraced houses all look the same; the towering army of Edwardian brick chimney tops, street after street. England. But the street is usually full of kids kicking a ball, and old women with nets over their hair for some uninspiring reason. Mrs Spick lived opposite us. I always thought ‘Spick’ was a name that conveyed the feeling of living in cramped streets. She was about 50. I vividly remember the awful smell that emanated from her. She spat when she spoke. Missus Spick spat when she spoke. Oh how the structure of language can disguise the vile essence it is trying to convey. Which leads me onto the next memory.

I remember the day I learnt the word “cunt”. I was 5. I overheard a man on my street call his girlfriend a cunt. We Leicestarians know how to treat our ladies. I didn’t know what it meant, so I thought i’d put this wonderful new addition to my vocabulary to use immediately. My friend who was over with his mum, and I were playing with our wrestling figures. I was Brett Hart, he was Crush. Crush attacked Brett and kicked him across the room. I didn’t hesitate any longer, “you cunt”, I yelled as loud as I could. The helper at our shop overheard me and went insane at me. So I called her a cunt too. I didn’t know what it meant, but the reaction was amazing. One single word could cause an atomic bomb to explode around me? This was like gold dust! Thus began my fascination with the power of language. Word became both exciting, yet largely meaningless and empty. My year 7 English teacher told my parents I would never be a reader and i’d never be a writer. I’ve told this story to a lot of people, because it explains exactly why I struggle at times with my confidence. She used language to convey her stupidity and ignorance and I knew it even back then. Just because I didn’t like Shakespeare, nor her, I was doomed to sit dribbling on myself and getting fat in a dark room with nothing but a TV for entertainment. What a cunt.

I remember cricket. I come from a cricket background. My dad played cricket. He now coaches cricket. He loves cricket. My mum catered for cricket testimonial matches. I could often be found in a hired out old pub, surrounded by people in grey suits talking about who should and shouldn’t make the team. Cricket is an odd game. It is played by kids, coached by the kids grown up, and watched by snobs. The pub rooms and the snobs always smelled of real ale. I can remember the smell so distinctly. Sometimes I miss it. Real ale, and old leather from the seats in the pub rooms. I played cricket for the school for a few years. I was pretty good too. But my god, it’s a boring sport.

I remember being told by our school that we should be careful because there is a man roaming the area trying to take kids by offering them sweets. I have only just learnt that all schools do this every year to teach kids about the risk of paedophiles. But when I was younger, it sounded to me like they were warning us against taking sweets from people. Why would they do that? If someone is offering me sweets, I should say no? Only people who offer kids sweets, want to kill me? All of them? This confusion led me at the age of seven to accuse the shop keeper at the end of the road of trying to take kids, because he sells Snickers. In a shop full of people, me, a kid, accused the shop keeper of being a child molester. Great. Thanks school! Not only did you make me believe I could be Fritzled at any moment, you also ruined the life of the nice corner shop owner. I hope you’re happy with yourselves.

I remember a man a few doors down from us, who was in his 90s and had one leg, the other had been blown off when Saffron Lane was bombed during the war. On the BBC war website, a writer who was eight years old during the war writes:

The worst bomb damage that I saw was in Cavendish Road, on August 21st 1940. I was with my dad in his lorry on the coal wharf at Danvers Road. The air raid siren sounded, it was just after ten o’clock. Dad made me go into an air raid shelter near by, when the all clear sounded, I came out of the shelter and we could see the smoke rising. Dad was worried as it looked to be in the direction of where we lived. He said “come on son we had better go and see if mum is OK”. As we came up the Saffron Lane past the end of Cavendish Road the gas main was blazing and I could see lots of bomb damage, many buildings were in ruins, people were just being rescued with ambulance’s and fire engines all around. This was less than half an hour after the raid. Six people were killed

All I knew from the history of my street, was that it had been destroyed during the war. This one guy in his 90s used to say this his knee in his one remaining leg hurt, and he’s lucky he doesn’t have to deal with pain in the other one. He was fascinating. Here is a picture of the building that got hit. Our place was a few doors up from here:

The houses are pretty much exactly as they were back then. Though, minus that massive gaping hole on the corner.

I remember my primary school teacher had some sort of odd mental breakdown whilst reading a book with me one day, and started to sing “the wheels on the bus” whilst stood on a table. She then collapsed and was taken away by the school nurse and a few teachers. It’s funny because I worried about her. We never saw her at school again. Years later I saw her driving.


On a Metro train in Paris

January 27, 2011

What is a writer? An artist? or just a narcissist. Especially bloggers. We think we have something important to tell the World, or to convince the World that we are right when actually we are the crowd. We are the amplified vanity of our real life selves. We can be creative and we can have spells where our mind is numb and empty. Most of the time we are just attention seeking. We need people to know our thoughts and opinions. If we locked ourselves away in a room and smoked ourselves to death reading the great writers like Hemingway, the World wouldn’t miss us. The World would have missed Hemingway. Perhaps we are interpreters. Perhaps we feel the need to vent or maybe we have no other way to express ourselves. Do we bring something to the World? I think so. I think bloggers are a new field of writers entirely. We are journalists without employment and yet our work is free for the entire World to see. We are commentators. It doesn’t matter our motives or our apparent desire to feel we have your attention. Are we artists? Some of us, yes. Most of us, no.

Sometimes we all just need to scream and punch and kick and fight and laugh crazily and beg to get off the train and lock ourselves away and think, because if we don’t we will be inflicted by a ferocious, endless insanity. But introspection is much like a kettle. It has a boiling point. It needs to be poured out when it reaches that point.

Writing, is my way of doing that.

On a Metro train in Paris, a young French mother was sat next to her little boy. She was sketching fellow passengers. Not all of them. Maybe just an arm of one of them, the hair of another. She sketched beautifully the vacant, lost expression of a middle aged tall man with short grey hair and a tweed jacket. She could have chosen anyone on that carriage to sketch; she chose the man with the most forgettable face. She saw the ordinary and created something extraordinary. And when the man left the train, she switched her eyes to the next person she wished to sketch, and she never scribbled anything out or started again. I was intrigued by her, the entire way. She is an artist. I wish I could do the same. I don’t have it in me. So I write. But there is no difference really. It is an outlet. An artist or not, it is an outlet. We are both channelling our minds to something that is uniquely ‘us’.

I do not write for any artistic sake. I am not an artist. To be an artist, you need to be able to suspend a sense of reality and express the sense of private solitary that is just aching to burst out. You see it in the writings of Silvia Plath and Allen Ginsberg. Theirs is a unique Worldly interpretation that is expressed beautifully. They see a red rose and say it’s green, and you don’t know why they say it, but for some reason it makes sense that they do and I want to be them. But i’m not. I cannot express why I sometimes see a red rose appear green. I guess that is why I, like everyone else in the World, cannot do what these geniuses do.

There are many parts of the World and reality that I live in and don’t understand or find absurd or want to throw in the bin and forget, which other people tend to find normal or at least easy to deal with and I can’t and I don’t know why. I frustrate myself if I try to explain the way I see much of the bullshit I’m supposed to accept as a mere “fact of life” that you “can’t change” so “why worry? just get on with it“….. no, I have no time for that attitude. I mentioned not long ago, being yelled at at work by a colleague for putting a tray of food down on the table that people were sat at, rather than the table that they weren’t sat at, and taking the food too them. It wasn’t inconvenient. The people at the table were laughing and joking with me (which they weren’t with any other staff) and no harm was done. To be shouted at, made me stand for about three minutes, and laugh to myself. You have to laugh at absurdities, because if you don’t, you risk acquiescing to that way of life and you risk trying to legitimate it to yourself, you risk betraying your thoughts and your unique understanding, and I don’t want to be in that World. Fuck that World. I don’t fucking want it.

“At this point of his effort man stands face to face with the irrational. He feels within him his longing for happiness and for reason. The absurd is born of this confrontation between the human need and the unreasonable silence of the world.”

It is a childish rebellious nature. And because it is my nature, I cannot change it, nor do I wish to change it. I don’t want to be like everyone else. And that’s where writers fall down. We assume that we have something unique to say, that we aren’t like everyone else, that we think differently and can’t seem to understand the World like everyone else seems to manage to do perfectly. Realistically, we’re not tortured, or artistic, or even different. We are just far more over analytical and far more self aware and far more neurotic. I am horribly self aware, that I have to be in control of every situation I find myself in. If i’m on the street walking, I have to know who is in front of me, who is behind me, who is walking up the street from me, which way the car in the carpark opposite is likely to come, and if it’s going to rain at any time soon. I’m neurotic as hell. I don’t particularly need control with my friends or relationships. I just need to know that I am fully in control of myself and aware of absolutely everything that is going on around me. I absolutely hate that idea that I am boring someone, or that I am being made out to be stupid. I analyse everything and everyone. I am trying to hold on to my own sense of self all the time and I feel like I am losing. I question everything and everyone. I question my own intelligence and worry that it’s all false and that i’ve managed to somehow manipulate everyone into thinking I have an ounce of intelligence when in fact I have nothing to offer anyone in the way of intelligent conversation. I cannot relax. I am a fucking mountain of anxiety. I try to pander to what is emotionally acceptable in the hope that I am acceptable to you.

Introspection is not necessarily a bad thing. It helps me grow mentally, and places the present in the context of what came before, and what I expect of myself tomorrow. It is my meditation, because it is myself, testing myself. It is a form of creativity in itself for me. I like that. It is however different to a constant feeling of awareness. Awareness is good, but constantly, it just creates anxiety, and anxiety at awareness exhausts itself because it allows for nothing but the negative to take hold. Introspection leads to a natural rebellion. Awareness leads to anxiety.

If rebellion was not natural, and was pointless, we would not have the great works of art of literature that we today admire so greatly. Rebellion is simply dissatisfaction at the workings of the World. It seems to exist more with the younger generations. The older generations claim ‘wisdom’, because they’ve given up, lost hope for a better World, and acquiesced to the whim of those who pay them. The rebellious nature acts as a kind of spark that you need to keep going. I cannot live without that feeling. It would be a waste of my time. It is rebellion, in the sense that it makes no sense to me that 6.5 billion people, can be classed as one of very very few Nationalities or Religions or Races, like little cylinders all fitting nicely into the round hole they have been assigned. We are all, absolutely all of us, rectangles trying to be forced into the round hole. It is not cynical or pessimistic. It is sincerely optimistic that humanity is better than this.

Camus begins his book The Outsider with the line:

“Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday; I can’t be sure.”

It is a beautiful start to a book. An existentialist book about a man who has completely rejected expected human reactions and emotions, and is just a very natural person, unaffected by the emotional norms forced upon us by society.

Trying to define oneself is in essence limiting oneself to the limitations of language, and around a social framework placed in the context of your time and geographical location and it is therefore quite impossible. I would also be limiting myself to collective understanding, and I cannot know experience and definition of myself, outside of my own constructed reality. No one else has had my experiences, or my memories, or knows how I react to situations, to people, to colours, to objects, or to events. I am me and I like me but I cannot define me. There is no absolute. A lack of absolute individually, and logically therefore collectively, leads me to conclude that nothing has to be “just the way it is, you just have to get on with it” if that is not how you interpret the World. Trying to define oneself is like trying to hold sand. We define ourselves and those around us, by our individual perceptions.

You build up a persona for yourself in front of different friends and family. It’s all fucking bullshit, but you start to believe that’s who you are. It isn’t who you are. Who you are is screaming at you to open its cage door. Sometimes you want to go away and start again, like your whole life had been written on a piece of paper you now want to screw up and throw into the fire.

The only truth is that happiness is fleeting, because for happiness to be meaningful, it requires the opposite. The past is gone. The future is irrelevant and living is what actually matters. And so when we aren’t living, when we are just existing, we are more aware than ever that happiness is fleeting, and it has fleeted. Perhaps we think that by writing and gaining recognition for our writing, we are creating our own fleeting happiness that is vacant from our lives elsewhere. Like a drug. A thought needing to be written down, takes the shape of our life until it is written. Until we sit back, and see it written. Then we momentarily feel a fleet of happiness and accomplishment. We are not alienated from our writing, like we are from our day to day work. The writing we have created is as much a part of us as our legs and arms. That is satisfaction on a level that is inexplicable.

We expend a great amount of energy trying to seek meaning to our lives and our World. We fail every time. We fail because natural meaning or purpose is absurd. The universe is indifferent to our existence. It isn’t laid out for humanity. It isn’t hostile to humanity. It is simply indifferent. And so trying to seek a natural meaning, is illogical. I write, to try to define myself and sort of create my own meaning.

I cannot word my arguments very well when I speak. It is my biggest set back and I hate it. I get so frustrated with myself. I see words jumbled up in my mind and I want to say them all but I cant arrange them in a logical order and so it just becomes a mess of words and sentences that mean nothing and I start to panic, which only makes the situation worse. I cannot construct sentences in the way that I want to. I have ideas and arguments and yet they are just feelings that I cannot convert into words and I despise myself for it. I don’t want to come across stupid and useless. I want to come across strong minded and passionate and in absolute control. I want to come across confident and authoritative when I speak. But I can’t.

That is why I write.

On this day…

January 21, 2011

I am 25 today.
It’s rather old.
A quarter of a century.
I dropped Ash off at Gatwick this morning and have just got home.
She has now gone home.
I have to wait five and a half months to have her back.
I don’t like that at all.
Up until about an hour ago my day was particularly dull.
I bought a lovely Redbull at Watford Gap.
That was a little bit of an up point.
Can you imagine the up point of your day being a can of Redbull?
It’s been a pretty average January 21st.
Not the worse ever.
I think King Louis XVI off of France had the worst January 21st given that he had his head cut off.
George Orwell’s January 21st wasn’t too much fun either back in 1950, given that he died.
Emma Bunton, Baby Spice has to live with the fact that she was in the Spice Girls, her entire life.
It’s a cross I wouldn’t like to bear.
She was born on January 21st too.
I have managed to reach 25, in Leicester, without yet having at least three kids by three different women, and without having stabbed anyone or contracted a nasty drug habit.
I am impressed by my record.
But still, the day was starting off very boring indeed.

So imagine my joy when my entirely dull day turned to brightness when I turned on my TV screen to see that Tory Director of Communications and ex-News of the World editor/King of illegal Phone Hacking Andy Coulson has “resigned”. It’s certainly not a surprise. What is a surprise is that he still insists he knew nothing of phone hacking whilst he was editor of the News of the World. Which means one of two things…. 1) He’s lying (I suspect this is the case) or 2) He was an incredibly bad and out of touch editor. He resigned from the N.O.T.W because he claimed he knew nothing about any wrongdoing and insisted he’d done nothing wrong, and now he’s resigned from the Government….. because he claims he knew nothing about any wrongdoing and insisted he’d done no wrong. How odd. He also claimed he was not a despicable bully. He insisted it. And yet, in 2008 he was taken to an Employment Tribunal and the claim of bullying, against him, was upheld. The defendant was awarded £800,000 as a result. Which begs the question, if Coulson was involved in bullying, and was editor of a Paper in the middle of a phone hacking scandal, why would the Prime Minister employ him? Why is tax money (££140,000 a year as of May 2010) going to pay his wages whilst local council care budgets are being slashed?

Coulson’s resignation comes a day after Labour’s massively incompetent and useless leader Ed Miliband announced that Alan Johnson, the shadow Chancellor was to resign for family reasons. It was a little bit of a media blunder for Johnson to have resigned on January 20th, because the papers and the TV news were bound to run with it, rather than the story that was grabbing headlines on January 19th, suggesting that David Cameron’s latest target is set on severely disabled children. The media repainting the Tories as the Nasty Party is exactly the wake up call people need. The harsh and unnecessary cuts to services like those that support the families of severely disabled children, whilst Vodafone have a tax bill written off by the Treasury, of close to £6bn. It could have lingered in the media and put pressure on the Government.

The mainstream media reported that David Cameron, pre-election, promised to protect the rules for Councils providing care for disabled children. He made that promise to the parents of Holly Vincent, whom suffers from quadriplegia, has severe cerebral palsy and epilepsy, and is blind.

They applied for respite care to Gloucestershire County Council. They were denied. This is because the wondrous Big-Society, We’re all in this together brigade of selfish rich economic thugs have not ringfenced spending for respite care. They have provided £800mn over four years to the County Council but it isn’t ringfenced. They have lifted the rules. Councils now are not obliged, legally, to spend funds protecting the most vulnerable. Cameron, pre-election told the parents of Holly Vincent that he “would never do anything that would hurt disabled children”.

As a result of the lack of funds spent on Holly Vincent, her parents have signalled their intention to put her into a care home, because they simply cannot afford to look after her any more. They currently only get five to six hours respite a week.

Riven Vincent, Holly’s mum said:

“…..there’s nothing to stop cash-strapped local authorities from using the money elsewhere. I have no wish to put my daughter into a home. We want to look after her, all I am asking for is a little more support.
Without this, we simply cannot cope and nor can families up and down the country just like ours. We are crumbling

I don’t want her in a residential care home – it would destroy me. But without extra help, I find it hard to see how we can meet her needs at home.”

If a politician had promised to help my struggling family, if we had a child who was so severely disabled and getting worse as she gets older, and then he cut the funding to the local authority and didn’t ring fence the remaining funds…… I’d get all the publicity possible to make that politician out to be the absolute scum bag liar hellbent on destroying hard pressed families up and down the Country for the sake of tax cuts for the wealthiest. The Prime Minister is a disgrace. The Tory Party and all of their heartless supporters, are a disagrace.

Alan Johnson should have let this story linger for a while, so it has a chance to sink into the minds of the British Public that we have elected Thatcher-on-speed. Absolutely every promise they made, they appear to be backing down on. No one voted for backdoor privatisation of the NHS. No one voted for such a massive Tuition fee rise. No one voted for the releasing of rules surrounding respite care ringfencing. I can’t imagine many people would have voted for such a shit Party, had they expressed their desire to be the bringers of Neoliberal hell to Britain.

Although, the Tories were kind enough to give me the birthday present of Coulson’s resignation. Perhaps next year they will try and top it by sacking Cameron, Osborne and Clegg.
That would be amazing.

I got angry

October 14, 2010

To the angry abusive intimidating bell end who shouted at me at my work tonight, for no fucking reason whatsoever; I hope you get AIDs and die. Slowly. I hope it hurts. I hope whilst it hurts, you accidentally get your scrotum caught in the mouth of a rabid rotweiler, and you contract rabies and then get your face raped on your way home by John Leslie, crying because you now have AIDs and Rabies and John Leslie’s unwashed cock in your face. And then I hope you fall and graze your knee, because grazed knees are the worst. I wish the very worst on you. You deserve the very worst.

“DO WHAT I SAY and don’t fucking argue with your fucking clients!!”

Don’t argue with your clients? Who made that rule? What if your clients are clearly trying to intimidate as many members of staff as possible, in the hope they will get free food and drink as some sort of apology for not being up to your level of satisfaction when you make up your own rules for the entire place? I will argue with you; I will absolutely argue with you. I wont be the one to back down to your nasty little games, you real life lump of unflushable, irritatingly relentless shit. Irritating relentlessly unflushable shit, regardless of if you put it in an expensive business suit; is still irritating, and it’s still shit, and you still wish it didn’t exist.

Oh and whilst you’re busy being an utter shit, it might do you pretty good, if you shaved the bit of hair that joins your eyebrows together. When you’re angry, and have only one eyebrow, it’s very difficult not to point at it and laugh when it moves up and down, because it looks like a hamster is fucking your face.

The fact that you exist, stealing oxygen from the rest of us, makes me want to vomit. And poo. Vomit and poo at the same time. That is an affect not many people have on me. You managed to achieve it within seconds of opening your arsehole (I was unable to distinguish your mouth from your arsehole. Seemingly both omit excrement).

Rant over.