Generic Individual #2868

Standard Pubeless Teenager: DC shoes, baggy jeans, hoodie and a bag full of warhammer paraphernalia comes into view and I have the overwhelming urge to laugh at him for being such a ‘Rock Kid’™ until I realise that I was the exact same about 7 years ago. Totally uncool, with my Papa Roach and Linkin Park CD’s thinking I was an individual, only to realise that I was just one member of the bulging angsty pseudo-goth army.

Even now, many years later, when you categorise people by their values, clothes, attitudes, accents, jobs or their hobbies everyone still falls into a pretty small number of pigeonholes. Sounds cruel but I can say that I’ve never met someone who is truly unique - the fact I can’t remember anyone special enough proves it. Even friends (including your best ones – when looked at objectively) can still be tagged under mass-labels.

Maybe it’s a feature of capitalism, because most brands of clothes / glasses / aftershave have certain basic ideas attached to them, people pretend that these things say something about them. Maybe it’s a nature thing and how we all copy each other if we think it’s cool, for personal gain. Maybe it’s all about being part of a crowd, changing to fit in with a larger group of people.

Maybe I've just lost all rationality after spending several hours wrestling among those 3,000 pensioners in my triumphant mission to complete Christmas shopping. Now for the wrapping and hiding bit... Joy.

The Phone Won't Stop Ringing, But Nobody Calls.

Finally finished all the coursework and assignments for this semester’s courses in what has been one of the most brutal fortnights In recent memory. Other than the arse end of this term, the rest has been amazing, with so many parties (from the ‘house’ to ‘hippy’ varieties), so many ace nights in town and managed to befriend so many cool people. Only problem now is that the exams start in under a month. Yowch.

Got the gratuitous Terror Christmas gig out of the way, and it was probably one of the most enjoyable gigs we’ve done. Just had a laugh and the crowd seemed to too. Note to self: Shakin’ Stevens songs always go down easy (like yer ma/sister/grunny min). Sainsbury’s staff night out started on a low, because of a skanky barmaid, but ended on a high on the exodus dancefloor throwing the coolest shapes in town and looking very gay with Scott.

Only the other day did I realise how much I absolutely detest the wind. All other aspects of the weather I can deal with but wind – and especially winter wind – is the single worst thing god has cast upon earth. Spend ages trying to look respectable then WHAM, wind ruins everything. Walking home at night and WHAM, wind in your face all the way. Poop.

Another of this week’s epiphanies was that it’s been far too long since I had a ‘proper’ girlfriend, leaving me wondering if it’s possible that having extra fun and partying twice as hard when you’re out and about compensates for the fact that there’s no real stability in your life. Crazy theory to test but I know that it’s not bullet proof because there’s just some things you can’t talk about or do with your friends.

This weeks quest is to write a power ballad or epic rock / love song because there haven’t been any good ones since Aerosmith wrote ‘I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing’. There’s plenty cheesy music in the world, but just not enough of it is at the Seriously Strong or Extra Matured level. Didn’t manage to find out about toaster timers because I’ve been too busy. With two quests this week, I think I’ll wait until it’s got potential for a trilogy.

Twenty a day?

It’s weird how every generation has a laughable, almost unbelievable, trait when you look back on it; usually a fashion faux pas, like haircuts or what are now uncool clothes. I just realised that my generation will go down in the history books as the ‘camera’ generation: which is going to such Camel balls when I have to describe it to my grandchildren. No matter where you go just now you always see people taking pictures, posing and flashing away completely oblivious to how stupid they look. Even in town, at night you can’t dance without people taking pictures of each other in the dance floor; fools.

This week’s quest is to find out what the timer in a toaster is made from. My hypothesis being that it has to be a very hard metal that doesn’t expand or contract under heat changes, but even then… a completely metal timer in a red-hot toaster sounds pretty crazy.

Being a DJ has now risen to 2^nd place as being my preferred post-university career after a gynaecologist (obviously), if only because it’s so damn enjoyable. Even the shit banter is still banter and people really do buy you drinks if you play well.

Found this article - one of the more interesting things I’ve read recently. According to it we first lie when we are 3 years old, attractive people are the biggest fibbers of all, and even animals do it. I love telling white lies, things like my ‘unborn foetus brother’ that is inside my ribcage and so on, but there’s no way I’m ever trusting a 3 year old, cute animal ever again.

Humbug.

This week I’ve been mostly clocking in some serious overtime for my massive essay on the Latin American drugs tarade but the only thing I can only compare it to the method of shitting at a music festival. You spend much longer than usual taking in and digesting heaps of stuff without letting any go, then (probably in some shady pub toilet) you have to unleash a massive log. I just hope that the mood upon finishing this essay will somehow match the euphoric, godly post-shit feeling.

The library’s a quaint place. So many familiar faces from freshers week, nights out and old lectures that it’s impossible to walk around without giving out several gratuitous nods and smiles. Still, there’s nothing quite like seeing people who were previously blixed and talking crap to you in town, give you ‘that’ look of discomfiture when they remember seeing you. Better hope the wind doesn’t change or I’ll be stuck looking like a fanny for the rest of my life.

Completely unrelated: Pablo Escobar (so famous that his name registers in microsoft word) is one of my new anti-heroes. Talk about a successful entrepreneur! The guy wrote off $40 Million in notes because he had to store them in a basement where they decomposed because he forgot about them. He had enough money to pay Columbia’s national debt, and died in a gunfight. His multi-hectare ‘jail cell’ had a jacuzzi, fax machine and hookers amongst other things. Not bad for a fat guy with a ‘tash.

On the note of money, or lack of, I can’t believe it’s only about five weeks ‘til Christmas. One pay left and I haven’t bought a single thing. I envy those kids in Africa where they only gift they get (and have to buy) is life. I guess that the only thing I actually enjoy about Christmas is playing the annual novelty gig for Fudge. This will be the first ‘terror gig since summer and boy can’t I wait to get back to the stage and do the whole rock n roll thing again.

The Bad Touch

Why is it that humans are infatuated with negative things? Not just ‘playa hating’ like intentionally hurting people and all that jazz but when something bad happens people always have to get a good nosey. Like a murder, an accident, or a fight; if they arise in a public place there’s always a flood of people that have to see what’s going on. Probably boils down to the fact that they’re relieved that it’s someone else going through the ordeal.

Also, why is it that infamous people or rebels are always noticed and remembered more? Case Study: since my decrepit work shirts started falling to pieces, can’t wear a tie. In two weeks more managers and supervisors have spoken to me than in the previous four years of employment. I also have no doubt that on a larger scale, someone like Hitler’s ‘legacy’ will prevail over almost any of the good people in history like Mother Teresa and so on.

Sounds like a pessimistic viewpoint, but it’s true. Like how you can only remember the arseholes from school. It’s just sad that in a few more years down the line we’re all going to remember the people that pissed us off and hurt us more than most of our friends who sat on the sideline and contributed to the good times.

Dog's Dinner.

Vomit’s a funny thing, and until the other night I didn’t realise how much it can be used and abused to your advantage. Strategic vomiting can stop you from getting to the point where you can’t see, or stand. It can also save you from wrekin’ your mattress or hitting an unsuspecting innocent.

However, sporadic vomiting can be the scourge of the earth. When something undoubtedly ace is about to happen and you just have to blow the chunks, subsequently ruining the moment. Or when you’re sampling some popular wine and your stomach just rejects it (along with a butter chicken / rice combo). I guess it’s one of those ‘natural’ things that can be tampered with.

Drunk dreams however seem to be one of the more appealing features of a night in town. For some reason they’re easier to remember and they’re always ultra-realistic and full of decent subject matter. The only bad facet is that they never last as long as they should because – due to the sensitivity of a hungover body – something small always manages to waken you.

Example: upon finishing work I went to the old JJB store, which was now a secret underground cinema. Met a foxy tutor then stole a Ferrari and took it for a spin on our way back to hers for a ‘party’. Upon losing her friend, running over people I hate and arriving it turns out that there’s no party; just neds smashing up her house. So I get in a fight whilst waiting for the police to arrive and just as the coast is clear for some alone time my phone goes off and I awake to a nice, slavery pillow. SEXY!

Paulifly Effect.

The best things are supposed to come in the strangest packages, and I’m starting see where the creator of that phrase came from. Who’d have thought that spending 5 hours in a tiny DJ booth, relatively sober, with one person and a thousand songs for company would have been so much fun? The task of filling the dance floor was much easier than anticipated, and the banter was great. Halloween was pretty much the same as exodus on Saturday, but the feel of crisp bank notes for my 3 hours of ‘work’ made the job ever so satisfying.

Note for anyone who might read this regarding requests.
1) Don’t request songs that get played every week.
2) Don’t request the same song more than once.
3) Getting 30 randoms to request your song is stupid.
4) Flirtation makes you look skanky and lowers the chance of hearing your song.
5) The DJ has the final say, not you.

Who’d have also thought that something as scientific as Chaos Theory could actually be very interesting? The idea being that the flap of a butterfly’s wing can change the course of weather forever. Which is apparently why it’s near impossible to accurately predict the weather for over a week in advance. The best thing is that it can be applied to heaps of things from maths and physics to social interactions, like lies.

Granted, this is probably what makes our everyday lives so interesting, by reducing the predictability of events, but it could possibly be just as fascinating to see how different our lives could be if the ‘chaos’ was removed from our lives. Would we all have different friends, jobs, houses… who knows? Kinda like that shite Ashton Kutcher film, but about me instead. That would – probably – kick ass.

077 - eight more numbers

After writing down every number worth keeping from my old phone I couldn't believe how much 'tards, wanks and fannies I've met and ended up with their numbers. From people asking about the 'Terror (saved under 'name Onion') or just random people up town. Months or years after your memory such people fades, you can keep their 11 digits for as long as you like. Left me thinking about how many people I've known or met that I have just become 11 numbers to, and who the next people will be. Crazy.

It was sad relieving my ol' phone of its duties. So many people loved or hated my 'sandwich' / 'brick' / 'what the fuck is that'; and that's probably the only reason it's been in use for so long. In honour of so many good times a few drinks are on the menu for it tonight. Definitely the end of the non-predictive text era!

I've also noticed that as the years creep on it appears that being a slut is all the rage; even gradually more acceptable. From people doing anything to get a kiss, hummer or 'shag'; to others willing to lower - even forget - their standards just so they have someone to cling on to, if only for one night. The other day a friend even declared to me "I'm such a slut lol", which was probably the blast of realisation that confirmed he though his piers accepted and endorsed such slutty behaviour.

I say this with no ego but I sometimes wish that there were much more guys with more traditional views and values regarding the opposite sex. It fairly pisses myself and Scott off when we talk or hear about people being arses to ladies, but we've came to the joint conclusion that in a dog-eat-dog set up the phrase 'nice guys finish last' is definitely the most fitting. Oh, and don't pat yourself on the back – you might break your spine.

Diet Spite.

Talk about seeing red - and going green - someone not a million miles away from this keyboard feels like his clothes are about to rip and a green giant will smash his house up. In an attempt to save my Hyde I’m going to make a list about all the things that are pissing me off just now.

Buses: if I didn't have to save up for moving out of the house I’d spend every penny I get on driving lessons and a car. Fat people - and I realise as my metabolism grinds to a halt I’m not getting any slimmer - are the pits of the bus network. I saw a massive two-seater jabba demolish 2 cakes, 3 packets of walkers and a bottle of Iron Brew on a 20-minute journey, as if it didn't matter that she was a diabetic time bomb or she didn't care about wasting an extra bus seat for the rest of her life. I was both disgusted and amazed by her carefree attitude, i also felt bad staring without having paid for a ticket.

Town During The Day: another place where people royally piss me off. 3,000 pensioners leisurely trudge around at 3,000th of a Mile Per Day, walking into everyone - and everything - whilst they oaf around with 2 items of shopping. It's like a zombie film, but with 'living' and more ugly zombies. Also, parents who let their little shits run around in amongst 3,000 potential baby snatchers. Twice today I felt like booting a kid through a shop window because it ran in front of me; do everyone a favour mate, keep your kid on a leash.

9 AM Lectures: self-explanatory. After having had early starts for two years you'd think the Uni would cut us junior honours folk some slack and guess what? I’ve made less than 50% of them. Attendance is so shabby and the Lecturer cant' even be arsed teaching anything interesting so it's more fascinating watching everyone else fall back to sleep as the hour progresses.

Alcohol: but only in blinding volumes. This weekend was the cream on the cake with some of the 'best' highlights to remember in town. Spent an obscene amount of cash and managed to completely mongle my back falling down some stairs; punch a cash machine and wreck my right knuckles; acquire two slaps - although that was more someone else being drunk - and probably offend a bakers dozen people whilst flashing my buns. To be fair my drunken state wasn't the only factor for such rough-edged behaviour; but it did help.

Spamming: of all sorts. "I'm a nympho in your local area and my hubby is away all week" Sent to my mobile. WTFM8!?!? Not to mention the 10 e-mails i get a week about getting 'bigger, natural breasts', or natural hair removal and hormone reduction (as if i need it those) and so forth. I'm starting to think some shit-cock is singing me up for all this crap.

Beggars: give you money? HAH! They should be re-named comedians. Who in their right mind gives money / food / anything to a guy who can afford varying luxuries from a guitar to Nike shoes? Such items OBVIOUSLY show that you've not got much money. If they had an ounce of wit about them they'd learn to something like the M&S Juggler guy did. He made a killing every day and people didn't hate him with every bone in their body.

The solution: went in to town and spent heaps of money on shit I don't need - good way to save up for a flat you spazz. Some new shoes (what a girly thing to do), the new Tiger Woods game and a few deesc CDs. I'm off to play Tiger non stop 'til my fingers fall off. Over and out.

Your head in the clouds.

After having just finished the best tin of mushroom soup I’ve ever made I realised it was down to one of my Grandas' many little tricks; all milk, no water. Then it dawned on me how much of 'my' tricks, values and knowledge that I possess were passed on from Jimmy Mitchell. This has been a weird week, between the identically bald-headed man on the bus in front of me a few days ago to the guy I served with the identical wine-red fleece, it's almost as if it's reassurance that he's still with us in one way or another. I bet the rest of my family all see things like this but don't talk about it in fear of upsetting each other.

It's amazing how someone other than a parent can have so much influence on a child, it's also amazing how someone can be missed so much. The picnics, the holidays, the suppertimes, the swimming, the todys, the haircuts and Betsie. Even little things like snoring, vocabulary, hankies and jam mean so much. I'd sell my soul to re-live some of the good times although that's a stupid thing to say when all the memories are good times.

I guess it's hard to let go of any family member, but it's even harder when you see his house every time you step outside, and when so many photos / items are just lying around the house available for a sneaky peak. It's impossible to be sad after so many years when you know he only wants us to be happy. I am happy, I’m going to make him happy, and proud.

Intoxication Station

A tower of shrapnel in front of me shows that I’m 25 hard notes down, without the kindness of Gareth I’d be at least 30. The crab sticks, onion and garlic dip, and spanking new shirt indicate tonight was part of an elaborate losing streak. Not necessarily meant for me but no matter what I do it seems like some nights are just destined to fail.

As these seafood sticks crumble in my hands I wonder what the point in tonight was; getting with the girl who has a long-term boyfriend, good one. Wanting to kill my - drug-induced - manager in the priory again, better one. Still being drunk enough to not be hung over tomorrow, even better one. It seems like every (work) night out I’ve ever been on, someone somewhere is holding a replica voodoo doll. Reluctant to let me go they let the doll have it, and I’m always the one on the receiving end. Mope. Mope Mope.

Alas, I’m having some old skool CCG with my good friend tomorrow night. Watching the Scotland - Bulgaria match will undoubtedly be the highlight of my day and whilst I drown in the bottom of a pint glass, undoubtedly in exodus, I’ll be thinking about the dozens of people who got the balance right. Bastards.

From here on in.

"Shurrup Stoopid"

That's the way to do it; Jack Bauer - obviously the greatest man ever to be shown on television - said it best when he kicked the gun out-with the reach of a junkie and laid the smackdown on bullet wounds, trying to pick up some threads on Ramon Salazar. Sometimes I wish I was as ruthless and to-the-point as Jack is, but then again, if we were all more like the people we admire from the realms of fiction, things would inevitably be just as boring as the present.

In the non-ficticious world it's not every day someone has a genuine epiphany, but it just happened to be one of those days. A massive reality check in the cunning disguise of an essay plan landed in my lap. Galbreath reminded us that not only does this essay count as part of our final Grade for the MA course that we'll have spent four years on by the time it's completed, but it can actually be the foundations for a career in the subject and a chance to put something new into the world of academics.

Sounds a little far-fetched? Probably, but if some attention was paid to the cards we're dealt in this lifetime, there's no reason why anyone shouldn't be able to rock the world, or at least do something good with their hand. It kills me to see good friends from the past wasting their youth because they played their bad cards or folded too early. I guess we'll just put their decisions down to human nature.

Back to the 'Chase', it's pretty obvious what my calling is; organised crime and the drugs trade in Latin America. It was a gut reaction to shout it out. Perhaps it was because I’d just watched season 3 the day before, or because I was fanatical about the drugs essay I wrote in first year, maybe even both, but I’m sure this is what it's going to be for at least the next few years. What could be more interesting than studying gangs like the Salazars?

Exactly.

As for the last entry, it's increasingly obvious that it's impossible to 'have your cake and eat it'. Funny how a saying so passé that it should be banned is as true today as it was when our grandparents were saying it, but as the next one goes, 'the old ones are the best' and it's so true.

Cliché #1: Another fine mess.

Ever done something wrong? One thing that you knew you didn't desperately want or need to do but - sporadically - you did it anyway? For a single moment you think it's great and it'll will be the end of your losing streak, the start of something new, something good, and a chance to change your ways...

... but almost immediately you realise it wasn't the best decision for the near future, distant future and even the present. Neither was it the best thing to do for either person involved. Then you're stuck in limbo with this massive cloud ominously looming over your head, 24/7 wondering why you said it and knowing that the longer you wait to react to the initial reaction, the harder it's going to be.

The worst thing is, we're goofy over each other; and everything feels so right. Ms W-O'D is everything that I dig in a girl, and now that she's a quasi-brunette it's everything if dig and more. We are really close friends and we make an ace (maybe even the best) film-watching, shit-eating, tit-and-bear team, the likes of which cannot be matched on gods green earth.

The key problem is that a full-on relationship will ultimately end in a massive disagreement/ argument/ fight/ murder, thus leaving the Precious without the Master and vice versa. To cut to the chase, the vital question just begging to be answered reads: Are the fruits of a relationship really worth exchanging for a lifelong friendship?