All life is a series of putting forward shite theories, including this one, which lie in various stages of shite development. This one came to fruition, coincidentally, while sitting on the bowl but bear with me. I recommend you take what I’m about to tell you with a pinch of shite, but also to go away reflect pensively on a world of shittiness. A case in point: On the television this morning there were four people on the BBC breakfast programme. Two were the presenters who worked like diligent scientists in politely extracting the shite from their two guests who sat, predictably, on opposite sides of the shite spectrum. One believed that shite was a positive thing and thus was an instrumental part of life that existed in many different forms. Both creamy and turgid. Whereas the other took a negative view, saying that not only was shite non-existent, but was rather a propaganda piece from the government who sought to erect a shite smokescreen to detract from their failed, shitty economic policies. The presenters, at pains to remain objective, inadvertently stirred further the cauldron of shite that was their debate; and as humans inevitably couldn’t refrain from holding back even smidgeons of their own shite opinions. ‘But don’t you think…’ was a common deflective phrase, which ostensibly gave rise to devil’s advocate, but in reality represented what the common man, a person who shites regularly, might think as the viewer. Eventually after their frenzy of shite, where shite was batted back and forth like a tennis rally, the presenters through their skill and experience came to a shitty compromise which left you, the audience, to either accept the shite which was just spewed, or brew your own shite based on a combination of other, eclectic shittiness. ` When I teach my son, I seek to pass on the baton of shite like the Olympic torch so that he can develop out of what is admittedly a simplistic view of shite. Despite my efforts, I imagine as he develops into a teenager he will do an angst-ridden shite while contemplating his shitty, pointless existence. I will direct him towards people like Nietschze and Stephen King who are prolific shitters, but he will still be confused about shite—like we all were at one point as pesky teenagers, right? Right? You know that persistent feeling as though he just fell into a slurry tank and were swiftly approaching a death due to a mixture of the poisonous, shitty gasses and lack of shit-free oxygen? Of course you do. As an adult he will go to his job and live, breath and talk shite to his fellow peers who will thus reciprocate their own peculiar shite in the form of talking about the weather (Which predicts a shitty couple of days), the shite football match which was played at the weekend, and the shitty state of politics. For now though I want him to block out the cacophony of shite until he is better equipped to deal with the shite onslaught; so this weekend I will take him to the cinema to see a film about shite which I will, I expect, decide is shittier than the last shite film that I took my son to see. If you disagree, feel free to impart your own shitty theory which I’m sure will amuse me (By the way my son, who is non-existent, is a convenient purveyor of my ideas)
I hand over my ticket to the bus driver, walking down the claustrophobic aisle that’s lined by old pensioners with shopping bags. As I approach the back, I see someone who I recognise so I wave and he acknowledges me. ‘How’s it goin?’ I ask him. ‘Not too bad’ he says, ‘What’s the craic?’ Sitting down beside him we start talking—the usual jovial rigmarole about our plans for the day, where we were going and why. Normally this wouldn’t cause me a second thought, except that, as I looked closer to this person who I thought I knew, he turned out to be a total stranger. Damn short-sightedness, I’ll be blind by the time I’m 50. The resemblance to this person who I knew was uncanny; from far away I’d have bet my house it was him. He had the same chubby frame, shape of head and hairstyle; only on closer inspection this man was, although fat, taller by quite a bit and he had subtle differences in his teeth in that there were a lot more spaces between them. The first thing that struck me was the voice. I thought, ‘hold on a second’, that doesn’t sound like him. And this guy dribbled his words to the extent that I couldn’t understand a single word he said. A couple of times I just nodded and smiled and pretended to hear him. He might have been semi-retarded, actually. It was after a couple of minutes that I think we both telepathically realised that we didn’t, in fact, know each other. And to minimise the awkwardness I began shuffling for a book in my bag at the earliest possible opportunity so I could stop speaking to him. Although we both knew, we both didn’t mention it. As the bus drives away I’m smirking to myself. And now on the journey in a silly kind of way I’m writing about the experience. A bit pointless, perhaps, but kinda funny all the same.
Things are looking up in my life it seems as I'm going back to University in February to finish my law degree, and I have a gentlemans agreemant (of sorts) with my employer to work up until Christmas. So chuffed In a way it was good to dislodge my arse from the lazy seat and get up and do something. Much of the summer was spent lying around and writing, and thinking about life, and about where I was going, and I suppose that had its benefits as well as its downsides. After all, there's only so much you can philosophise about your social awkwardness/quirkiness before you start getting depressed, and actually compounding the annoying traits you see in yourself. I was going, and still am (sort of) going through a phase of drinking lots of alcohol and taking drugs and just generally being a bit mad for a while, so that it's easy to lose sight of things. But some mornings I'd be lying in my bed thinking about every possible outcome my activities might precipitate, and I always feel as if I'm in control. When I get dragged into a moral debate with my sister's fiancee about drugs and he tells me I'm going to end up like something out of trainspotting, I feel like gripping him and telling him I know what I'm doing. I have this inner confidence that I'll make something of myself, but sometimes I just wish others would feel the sheer force of this self-assurance that lies deep within me, despite the apparent shakiness on the surface.
You're moaning about me moaning and then I moan about you moaning. I’m gossiping about you and you’re gossiping about me. That’s the way the local world works. Let’s go on Facebook and see what others are doing. I wake up every day and say the same things. See the same things. Use the same words. There’s only so much that you and I are capable of. You can’t use words that you don’t know so you stick to what you do know. And what do I know? Nothing out of the ordinary. Like a thief of words, if you know something I don’t, I might just steal from you and call it my own. You can do the same. I can use my own acumen and my own reading of people but that can only get me so far. That can only get YOU so far. So we both steal from each other and the end result is that we’re both clones of each other- we know and do the same things. But you like to think you’re an individual, right? Of course you do. Every person likes to think that they’re one better than the next. So do I. But you can never know you’re ‘better’ until it’s validated by someone who’s in a position to validate. Is it God? Or a critic? Or your family? All peers. Or maybe you don’t question at all. Maybe thoughts don’t enter your head whatsoever, except for what’s in the here and now, the tangible things that affect your day to day life. What did you have for dinner today? Tell people. Don’t think about anything bigger because you’ll end up like me- Talking in loops using the same words and never really coming to any conclusions. What bothers me will probably not bother you. It probably won’t even occupy your attention. Because I think about things that aren’t worth thinking about and what this produces is gibberish. All I write is gibberish. It’s like I’m a misanthropic old man at a young age. I sincerely hope the older I get, things won’t become any more tedious than what they already are. If the routines that I already play out perpetuate themselves for years on end, and become the whole of my life, I’m not sure how long I’ll last. That’s the essence of wasted potential. When it dawns on a person that they could have done this or that but ended up doing nothing- Someone who just drifted and drifted, forever passive, and never caring, about himself or others- Just a vacuous vehicle that’s been gutted but is still somehow able to move. But one day that vehicle might just die out, inexplicably, and it’ll be beyond repair, ready for the scrap yard. And people won’t even know. It’ll be on the back end of a truck silently moving along until it reaches its destination, where it’ll then be crushed, at which point it becomes another piece of metal, and not the model of car that it once was. I don’t know, where does it go then? Underground, making friends with the muck and dust? New cars are made, better ones, and people forget about the old model. It’s buried underground. I’m like that old man on the local news talking about how the country’s gone to shit. But he speaks too gruffly and no one can understand him. Not that he would be listened to anyway. But there’s plenty of old men that have lived who’ve never been listened to, and me and that old man and many like him are not short of company, because all anyone ever wants to do is hear themselves talk. Then it’s ironic that you talk to yourself, endlessly, about how no one ever listens to you, compensating for the lack of voices that never heard you talking. Those people that others do stand up and listen to, they’ve been talking and talking without anyone listening for years, until they say something that resonates, that makes sense, that’s in fitting with certain trends. I’d say something that captures the imagination but I can’t. They’re the lucky ones. I’m just a bitter young person who wants to be listened to because I think that what I’ve got to say is full of wisdom when it’s not. I could say the same about you. You and I are the same person. It doesn’t matter if I use ‘I’ or ‘you’ in the statements that I make because we’re no different. The point is that the majority of us share banal, common traits. We do what is ‘normal’ because this is what the mainstream does and we want to be seen as like others. You can’t help but notice this through Facebook. Almost everything is about ‘Going out’, buying a ticket to some concert, having a wonderful day with all the great friends you have. In general, ‘Here, look, my life is more interesting than yours’. It’s all so FAKE. I go out with my friends, like anyone, but I don’t preach about it and exaggerate it so that it looks so much better than what it is. It’s the same with photos. People put up certain photos as their profile pic because this is the photo that they feel best represents them, or how they would like to see themselves represented. I do it myself without even realising. A photo caught at an angle that hides some flaws you don’t want people to see, but one which accentuates a nice quality that you do have. A close up of the eyes, of your hair, of your smile. You get the point… Sometimes it’s hard to differentiate people from others because they’re so similar. It’s almost like people are sheep. They say things gauged on what they think they should be saying, or say something tempered by the reaction they think it will get. Myself and my friends are similar. I guess people just fall into categories and there’s nothing else to it. There’s social conditioning all over the place. I’m getting exasperated just thinking about it. You can achieve the façade of being ‘different’ quite easily through the Facebook medium. You have ample time to think about your responses to people’s questions, so you’re assured of what sounds humorous and quick-witted even when it’s not. You can be random, sarcastic and simply just look like you’re care-free when, in reality, that’s far from the case. It’s a manufactured image. That’s all it is, and it’s most likely not who you really are. So you might think I’m an enemy of Facebook? I’m not. I go on it all the time. I’m like everybody else.
I’m a bit Kurt Kobain in the brain No you’re not Making bids for squids I like squid Swimming in the consumption of alcohol You big emo, you Always setting the tone in losing my back bone Where did you lose it? Like an invertebrate But not really I need to be doused in Dutch courage Self-esteem issues? Ending the night in a flourish Even though you’re depressed? A flurry of punches in a skirmish? You couldn’t beat snow off a rope Waking up the next day I’m determined not to squirm But you squirm anyway? But my face turns red in a flush of embarrassment That sounds more like you I’m abhorred by my behaviour the night before Well you fucking should be, you muppet But I move on to the next night And it’ll be all right. I love clichés too The key is to learn And not to repeat Your previous disgraceful feats Anymore in the locker? You worry your just destined To repeat the process Keep ‘em comin’ But in a drunken haze you’ve got other priorities Emo, comin’ through I might be oblivious to Seeing the bigger picture You disgust me I’ll never be a bum living in the slums But you’ll be a bum writing on Microsoft word? Am I disparagingly arrogant? Nothin’ to be arrogant about, mate Fuck the melancholy, I’m jolly, check the melody. But there’s no melody. This isn’t a song? Upliftin’, it’s siftin’ through my pores That’s because you don’t wash, you greasy bastard George Doors what’s the scores? I don’t know I never watched Shooting Stars What’s the story Balamory? Don’t bore me Your tedious rhymes are boring me Get wasted and pasted, whore the floor Your mum’s a whore I’m over hungover, red rover give me a clover What about a bulldozer? Let’s wreck this place Let’s not. Would you be so kind, I’m blind, I can’t find my face Look in the mirror Give space for the disgrace, ‘till he finds his face You are a disgrace (And so are your rhymes) Will you take a chance with romance? What’s with all the questions? But will you? I don’t know I’m not a queer. Would you fuck off with your negativity? Would you fuck off with your positivity? Let’s just agree to disagree You’re the nihilist, I’m the optimist Does that make us polar opposites? Aye, but opposites attract? Fuck you, I’m not attracted to you Okay then, you’re the homophobe, I’m the liberal What were we talking about again? I dunno, I forget Well that’s not much good, I’m on a stream of consciousness here, help me out Do your own thinking you lazy bastard If I’m boozin’ am I losing? We’re back on track Society just demands of me Society wants you to kill yourself I go a way that they say No one said anything, it’s all in your head There’s no choice, just one path What the hell are you talking about? I am bleeding, emotionally *Cuts wrists* just follow me To the mental hospital! Live life to the full, you’ll never be dull It’s so dark in here A surplus of stories to impress your mates Just make them up Have success on dates, a sexual C.V that reads like Bill Gates mates You’re still a virgin No I’m not , what about that prostitute? Nevermind…continue with your lyricism… I'm not going to, just because you told me to You really are disturbed No, YOU'RE disturbed Bi-polar Where's my medication, Nurse Ratched? Nurse Ratched's not here to help you, MUHAHAHA Jack! Don't let go jack! Dawson or Nicholson? I don't know Does it matter?
So we’re all gonna die!! Throughout history people have predicted the end of the world and have thus far been made to look foolish. All full of shit. Full of the brown stuff. It begs the question why do people still cling on to the idea? Even if you’re not religious is it idiotic to think it may be a possibility? I’m still on the fence somewhat. And there are a couple of reasons. I can’t deny the signs but when you’re not religious you avoid the apocalyptic mindset like the plague (See what I did there?) But what are the signs? The secularisation of society? It can’t be denied that it’s happening. At an alarming rate actually. Religion has taken a back seat. In my own country there has never been a more sharper decline, for example, in the influence of the Catholic Church. An institution which in the past had such a strong grip over the opinions and actions of the public that it practically ruled their lives. With all the child sex scandals, that is no more. You pick up the paper and you read articles that are quick to vilify and condemn the church, and rightly so for it’s inadequate dealing with abuse, but I’m thinking about the influence of religion in a wider sense. I remember reading in the book of revelation that this was to happen. People would begin to deny God from every angle, to dismiss it as nonsense and this is why I’m a bit wary about it. It’s happening all over Europe, particularly Germany. It’s in vogue to slate religion at the minute. *Waves to Richard Dawkins* So why don’t I just throw away religion and never think about it again? Is there an element of fear dictating my thoughts? Probably. But then what’s happening in current affairs? You have the U.S ‘war on terror’ in Afghanistan that’s been going on for 10 years; you’ve had the war in Iraq since 2002 only recently winding down; you have all the turmoil in the Middle East, not just the prolonged conflict between Israelis and Palestinians, but the uprisings in Egypt, in Syria, in Bahrain, in Morrocco and in Libya. The list could go on. There may be more but I just can’t think of them off the top of my head. Even more recently you have the massive rioting in Greece. Even in Belfast there’s been rioting recently. It’s widespread turmoil (in the West a lot of it out of financial crisis), and obviously for a multitude of other reasons, but I think all the trouble happening at once bears thinking about. What about natural disasters? The earthquake in Haiti, the massive floods in Pakistan, in Australia (There were fires in Australia at one point, too), the earthquake and tsunami in Japan. Worldwide of course there’s always something happening as far as natural disasters, and maybe it’s just me, but it’s all happening within a relatively short space of time. I’m an idiot! It’s weird even speaking about this since I’m not religious, but I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t crossed my mind a couple of times. But what do you do if you accept the apocalyptic arguments? Try and turn to the religious life? Most people, including me, will just continue being passive and go about their daily routine. The devil’s working his magic planting doubt in your mind, ensuring your spot in hell is the safest place of all! Stay apathetic, ‘cos we’re all gonna die and burn in hell for an eternity!
The contrast of the two women sitting in front of me could not be any more marked. It’s like the princess and the toad. I’m wondering what their motivations were that brought them to the very same job and thus to this very same room. I could say destiny but that would be melodramatic and I don’t really believe in it. ‘So I just want you to know that you’re here on a fully voluntary basis, but I don’t want you to feel nervous or anything so just relax and everything should be okay.’ ‘Okay.’ ‘Furthermore it is my duty to record that you have opted not to have any legal representation?’ ‘Well yea, like I said on the phone, I don’t feel as if I have anything to worry about, so I thought coming here and telling the truth will simply work to my favour.’ A week ago I spoke to Constable McGee on the phone where we had a friendly chat about me coming in, voluntarily, to give my personal account of what happened. I expressed my worry about how the situation might affect my future given my chosen career was in the law, and she told me not to worry. She told me that she could relate to my situation as she did the exact same course, at the exact same university as me. We were also, roughly, from the same area. She was likeable and normal, not like some police officers who had that distant way of going about things. ‘So for the record, the time is exactly is 5.46, and this is Constable McGee speaking, along with Constable McCord, and before us is one, Ryan McElhatton, aged 20, date of birth 2/11/1990. This is now an official police caution, you do not have to say anything, however, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ Rely on in court? I’m in proper trouble here? Now I’m thinking I should have brought a lawyer. ‘You are being charged under section 47 of the Offences Against The Person Act 1867 i.e. Assault Occasioning Actual Bodily Harm to one, Anton Tracey, on the night of 29th October 2010 outside the Odyssey arena, in Belfast. So do you want to tell us your side of the story?’ I definitely should have brought a lawyer. I know I’d gotten into a fight that night but I didn’t start it. I’m being screwed here. I’m really nervous and my voice is shaky as I go to speak. “Well..em…I was out in the smoking area at the Odyssey with my friend Tom… when we saw this guy, about 50 yards away, being thrown out by security staff. He was shouting, and resisting, and kicking at the door as they shut it. He seemed really mad, and he kept kicking and then I saw the door opening where the guy was pushed, and he fell to the ground, embarrassing himself. A lot of people around started laughing, but he picked himself up and came storming towards me and Tom in particular. He obviously needed someone to vent out his anger on.” “Uhuh…and then what happened?” Constable McGee is nodding her head at me. “So he came over to me and Tom, and he said to us, ‘What the fuck are you laughing at?’ and he was being all aggressive at this stage, pointing his finger at Tom in particular”. “And did he hit you?” I could say he hit me, but I honestly couldn’t remember. “We pushed him away and I can just remember him walking towards me in a threatening way, and I thought he was going to hit me, but I can’t remember if he actually did. At this point the fight started.” “And then what happened? Did you strike him with your fist?” Constable McGee is glaring at me and her earlier friendliness has evaporated. “Well…yes…and the fight went on for about 30 seconds and I remember him falling to the ground”. “And then what happened? Something happened when he fell to the ground, isn’t that right?” She’s raising her eyebrows at me like she wants me to say it, rather than herself. I shouldn’t have said anything. “And…then…I…kicked him.” “Uhuh, and whereabouts did you kick him?” “I can’t really remember. I had lost my temper at this point.” “You know where you kicked him” she says to me. “I think I kicked him around the chest area” I gesture towards my chest. “He stopped moving and then I just turned and walked away. “You kicked him in the head.” I just look at her. There’s guilt on my face. “So we’ll take a look at the CCTV here, and we can go through it step by step and then you can say what happened.” She puts the CD in the player behind her and as it spins inside, it makes the customary whizzing sound. The grainy scene jumps into view, with a swarm of people standing in the smoking area of the club, beside a taxi rank where taxis amble past hoping to pick up drunken people leaving early. The man controlling the camera is slowly looking left and right. Nothing of note happens until a clear argument ensues in the bottom right corner of the screen, at which point the controller focuses in on it. “So here’s where he’s being aggressive, okay’ The guy is pointing his finger in Tom’s face. “Now is this your friend Tom? Describe to me what he’s dressed in.” I feel really ridiculous at what I’m about to say. It was Halloween and Tom and I were both in fancy dress. “Em, he’s dressed as a Nazi” “A Nazi?” “Yes...an SS officer”. Tom was completely dressed in a black uniform, with a red banner around his arm . I felt so stupid about telling her that. “And is this you? Describe for the record what you’re dressed as.” “I’m dressed as a red crayon.” “A red crayon?” “Yes.” In any other circumstances I would have laughed but it wouldn’t have been appropriate right there and then. I was draped head to toe in a red costume that said ‘Crayola’ on the front of it, and my face was completely red with paint. I think I might even have been wearing a ridiculous pointy hat which may have fell off during the fight. The fight begins but the CCTV failed to capture who threw the first blow. I’m cursing myself for not saying that he hit me first, as it may have been a distinct possibility. Tom is grabbing him and it looks like he may have thrown a punch or two. I couldn’t remember Tom getting involved at all. I thought it was just me and the guy. “So at this point there are two of you on him. He’s by himself. He’s now backing off.” I’ve fought him out on to the street where it’s blocking the Taxis from coming through. He falls to the ground and the crucial moment, probably the moment which has landed me in this room, happens. It looks terrible. Savage and brutal. “You kick him in the face.” The video shows his head swing back and he becomes a lifeless figure, completely limp lying in the middle of the taxi rank. The video shows me immediately turn around and walk away. I remember that night I’d scared myself, thinking he was dead, so walking away my adrenaline was pumping and I still hadn’t calmed down. But it gets worse. People standing in the area walk over to the guy, surrounding him, and they proceed to drag him out of the way of the taxis, him knocked out as his legs trailed behind him. “So why didn’t you help him?” “I never thought to help him. I just walked away without even thinking.” McGee is nodding her head again. “I think your reaction was just ‘Oh shit’ and you realised straight away you shouldn’t have done it.” There’s not really much I can say. I can only agree with her I shouldn’t have done it. “He could have died. You could have seriously injured him.” At this point the toady woman speaks up, her froggy eyes staring at me through thick spectacles. She over-stresses each word as she says it, and I can just picture by the kind of words she’s using she took a lot of it from a Law textbook. I know the kind. “Would you say that what you did, was reasonable and justified in the circumstances?” Hmm, reasonable and justified? Those are lovely law words. Kicking a person in the face, when is it reasonable and justified? So you get in a fight with someone who’s in your face, who instigates the fight, who’s walked over 50 yards to where you’re standing just to take his anger out on you, and I should be thinking about whether my behaviour in the following 20 seconds is reasonable and justified. I feel like telling her it’s not a tickling competition. I’d lost my temper, that was pretty clear. “Well, he started it. I was provoked. I felt at the time what I was doing was justified, but looking now I shouldn’t have done what I did” Her law lingo has made me incriminate myself. I’ve practically just admitted it. I should have brought a lawyer, how could I have been so naïve? “I didn’t mean to seriously hurt him.” “It doesn’t look that way to us” “Look, if I had wanted to seriously hurt him, do you not think I would have kicked him repeatedly?” This was the wrong thing to say. It makes me sound dangerous when all I wanted to do was make a point. They both stare at me. The toad woman speaks up again. “But do you think that kicking someone in the face is reasonable and justified?” There’s that fucking phrase again. “Probably not, no. Look, I regret what I did, it shouldn’t have happened, but I don’t feel it was of my own making.” The interview has reached its conclusion. They’ve got all they needed from me, which probably wasn’t even needed anyway, considering the CCTV evidence that they already had. It was a video that showed me as a thug with my temper completely lost. It was hard to defend when it didn’t show what I saw. It didn’t show him walking all...
Kangaroo moods, do you know what you need in your life? A bit of bloody stability. You ever think about getting yourself a girlfriend? If anything that would probably make me even less stable. Women are utterly mental man , I’m tellin’ ye. What do you mean? On the surface there’s this picture of normality, but if you scratch below that outer hardness more often than not you’ll find a world of shit sleeping underneath. Sweeping generalisations! Not all women are like that. Yea but a lot of them are, that’s the thing. So you see this girl, right, and she’s nicely dressed: stylish clothes, nice make-up, hair straightened. And you start a conversation with her. Just a superficial one about the weather or some shit, nothing serious. All superficial. Do you see anything wrong with her? Of course you don’t. It’s during the day for fuck’s sake. They know how to hide. They’re self-conscious about what others think so they keep this screen up. But they’re more convoluted than men. Find her on a bad night with a bottle of vodka in her hand, hormones raging, and what will you see? An emotional wreck, that’s what you’ll see. If I were a woman I’d probably slap you in the face See what I mean!? Women think they can just go around slapping people in the face because they’re so sensitive about this whole sexism thing. Let’s face it, we’re different. It’s not fair that a woman can just take advantage of her sexuality at every turn but then complain about inequalities of the sexes. You play the game you deal with the repercussions. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Women use their sexuality all the time to manipulate men’s naivety. Picture the scene. There’s that flirty girl sitting in the corner batting her eyelids at every lad who’s stupid enough to give her the attention. Men think with their penises, you know that. All a woman has to do is throw out an ambiguous flirty remark and they have the upper hand. If she’s attractive, the deal is done. Any red-blooded male laps it up. Even if he’s privy to the game and he knows she’s just being a tease, there’s a small part of him that clings to a ridiculous hope that something might materialise at a later stage. Sounds like you might have gotten a bit of rejection in your time, my friend. Any truth in that? I may have fell victim to a few scorpion women but who hasn’t? Here’s what I think: All sexists are sexual failures. Excuse me, I’m not a failure. Their beliefs are driven by fear, whether of rejection or intimidation. It kind of reminds me of the racist scenario. You tar a whole race or group according to the actions of a few who do indulge in the stereotypes. You see a young black man behaving disgracefully on a bus, and you’re stewing near the front while he’s jumping ‘round the back making a scene. And you use that bitterness to base your opinion on his whole race. It’s not really fair is it? At the end of the day you’re condemning a whole group of people who’re not here to defend themselves. It’s broader than that though. Women have a different make-up altogether. They have this extra card that they were born with. You can’t blame them for using it to their advantage. But sometimes it makes me sick to my stomach. There’s a certain crude element to it, because the poor naïve simpleton’s heart quickens at the brush of his thigh, and he acts accordingly to the flutters of his heart and or his penis. That poor naïve simpleton being you? I speak for all the simpletons of the world. So what do you propose then? Ignore all females? I’m not saying that. I’ll still engage in the game. It’s just I’m saying I’m above the pettiness of it. I see that kind of frivolous behaviour a mile away and I’m not fooled by it. I see it as the utter manifestation of vanity and it’s disgusting. Women might think they’re playing me like a fiddle, but in reality, it’s me who’s playing them. Complaining about frivolity while admitting to your own frivolousness. How ironic! But what I won’t do is take it to the next level. That next level being a long-term relationship. Fuck that shit. If you’re one of them unfortunate little souls to have become entangled in one such state of affairs, then I say good luck to you. You’ll be dealing with an unstable schizophrenic who’s main personalities are Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. More often than not, Mr.Hyde will reveal himself to be the dominant one and you’ll be lying in bed at night thinking to yourself, ‘Where was that lovely person called Dr. Jekyll who I first knew and first fell in love with? The bubbly, easy going one with a good sense of humour, where the hell did he go?’ And the answer is, he’s gone sonny jim. He was never there in the first place. She just used that personality to hook you in and gain your favour and love. That’s outrageous. It’s true though! It’ll be a constant battle with insecurity, jealousy, mood-swings, manipulation, emotional blackmail and guilt trips. She has you by the testicles and there’s no getting away… A year into the relationship this is what happens: ‘Honey, I was thinking about heading out for a few beers with the lads tonight. You don’t mind, do you?’ She looks at you for a second, a crazed look in her eye and the thrust of her argument is like, ‘But what about me!?’ she’s saying to you. ‘Why do you never give ME any attention? Why can’t you just stay in tonight with ME and we can watch The Notebook for about the 100th time?’ Haha, that’s absolutely ridiculous! No women are like that. So you persevere and you say to her, ‘Look, I haven’t been out with the lads in ages and I’m going for a few beers no matter what you say’. Your stubbornness has caused her to use her last defence. She’s saying to herself, ‘That’s it. He’s not getting anymore sex from me.’ And she stays true to her word and you don’t get any sex for weeks! You’d nearly be better off just watching porn. And then if she ever catches you watching porn, she feels inadequate! But what the hell do you expect if she isn’t giving you any sex!? I feel sorry for you… Then if she’s not as vocal about it, she could be that other type. The silent treatment type. You say to her, ‘Honey, I’m going out tonight for a few beers with the lads.’ And she’s putting away the washing without saying anything for a few seconds, and then she says, ‘That’s okay’. But she doesn’t say it with any conviction, it’s like, ‘I’m saying this but there’s actually a whole subtext to what I’m saying. What I’m really saying is the opposite to what I’m actually saying, and if you don’t notice this you’ll not be getting any sex for weeks.’ I feel exhausted just listening to you. It’s plainly obvious she doesn’t want you to go as she wants you to stay in with her to watch The Notebook. You don’t want to cause an argument so you go on ahead, but lying there at the back of your mind is your sulking wife who wants you to feel guilty for going out and having a few beers. You come back that night and you get the cold shoulder. In the morning, there’s no breakfast, and she’s acting snappy and cold, and with a hangover that’s just even worse. So the moral of the story is, you don’t want a girlfriend then? No what I'm really saying is, I want a girlfriend. Everything I just said there, I didn't mean. I'm now like a woman, I say things but I mean the opposite of what I say... You're crazy...
(This is such a cheesey topic and there's no way I can word things like this without it sounding melodramatic, so I apologise in advance ) When I turn on the TV or read the newspaper, so much of the space talks about death. And I know that in itself is such a depressing thought, but it got me thinking: You see or read of people dying in tragic circumstances, and then what happens? The TV or newspaper notes what happened, how the person died, and then it moves on. Aside from the immediate family, when time passes, people are forgotten. What kind of legacy does the normal person leave? If he died tragically, the TV might mention he was quiet and well-mannered, liked by the people who knew him. Or he might have been loud and popular. Either or. And of course those are enviable qualities a person can have. When you see it, you feel a temporary sadness that that person is dead. But will he be remembered 100 years down the line? You look at history and read about so many remarkable people who left their imprint. But most people could type their name into Wikipedia and nothing would come back. Or even Google for that matter. If you were to vanish in the morning what easily accessible points info would there be that said, yes, this man lived life, and this is how he lived it. Does that mean that you haven't achieved anything worth noting? Is it even such a big deal that you won't be remembered in the wider sense of the word? I would be curious as to what people thought about this. Would you be happy to live a quiet life, maintaining the status quo, or do you strive for something different? Something bigger? I suppose the crux of the matter is that life soldiers on, inexorably, no matter who you are. And again I apologise for the cheesiness, but this kind of thing makes me curious.
So I’m lying in bed and I’m watching Batman- the Jack Nicholson one, not the Heath ledger one- and the joker is characteristically tormenting his noble foe. It’s at the part when he asks Batman has he ever ‘Danced with the devil in the pale moonlight’, and I just jump up and scream at the TV that the bastard never quits dancing in my f^cking head. I’m screaming, ‘TELL HIM TO GO AWAY! LEAVE ME ALONE!’, but then I settle down again and I’m lying there calm, admiring Tim Burton’s directing capabilities, and then the devil starts to have one of his customary conversations with me. “So what’s your favourite genre of dance music then old buddy?” And then I’m like you already know the answer to this Mr. Lucifer, you devious little cretin, you. Sure didn’t I see you gallivanting between the crowds of the Planet Love festival last summer? The devil then denies this, even though he knows I saw him. ‘Yes you were. Eddie Halliwell was on stage performing, the crowd were going mental, and I saw you creeping around the back of someone with an ugly smirk on your face.’ ‘Why I’ve never been so offended in my life,’ he tells me. ‘I wouldn’t listen to any of that cheap, Techno-infused Trance crap. I’ll have you know that I’m more of a Minimal person. Allows me to take stock of everything. Gives credence to the more intergalactic spaciness of things’. ‘I thought you were a fan of Eddie Halliwell?’ ‘Paaah’ he scoffs at me. This is one of the more deplorable aspects of the devil’s personality- He can be so extremely sarcastic, he just belittles everything you say. Like he thinks he knows everything. I always get the urge to tell him there’s no need to be so arrogant, that it’s only God who knows everything, but then I always chicken out of saying it. ‘Eddie Halliwell is one of the foremost DJ’s of his generation.’ I tell him. He’s looking at me with wiry raised eyebrows. ‘Come on Monsieur Lucifer. You can’t deny the sheer energy he puts into his performances. Have you ever met another DJ who could better build the crowd up into a frenzy?’ His eyebrows rise even higher. I f^cking hate when he’s so sarcastic. ‘A frenzy? A frenzy? You crack me up old buddy’ And now he’s laughing at me like I’m his pet cat who just did something stupid and amusing. ‘The crowd don’t know any different. They’re oblivious to his incessant cut-outs of the bass, the clusterf^ck of tracks he plays all at once, and the endless, boring loops he does. And the scratching. Do you need me to start on the scratching old buddy?’ ‘Fair enough, I take your point on that one. He perhaps does indulge in too much of the ye old scratching at times.’ ‘Ye old scratching? What the hell are you on old buddy? Are you back in the 17th century?’ And he’s laughing at me again, and I sort of chuckle along with him. ‘I’m on all sorts of things, Monsieur Lucifer. Chlorpromazine, Diazepam, Prozac, Lithium, some of my Mum’s strong painkillers…Can’t remember what the f^ck they’re called. None of them seem to be working since I’m lying here talking to you, eh?’ ‘Ah, au contraire, my little Turd Burglar. You seem to be very much on the path to enlightenment.’ ‘And au contraire back to you, Monsieur Lucifer. I’ll have you know I’ve never burgled a Turd in my life. It’s not really my thang’ He’s rolling around on the bed laughing uncontrollably, but then he gathers himself, fixing his eyebrows which were presumably crooked. ‘You really are an enigma old buddy. So what are you then, French or an ode to Lil’ Kim?’ ‘I like saying Monsieur now as it rolls off the tongue more. Better than MISTER Lucifer. Is that okay with you Monsieur Luc-ee-fare? And the whole ‘thang’ comment was spur of the moment. On the whole it’s not really my thang to say thang.’ ‘So you’d be content to stand up in a court of Law and deny that you’ve never burgled a turd?’ ‘Oh absolutely. The case would immediately be thrown out through lack of evidence. I give all my turds to Gillian McKeith who kindly puts them in a lunchbox for me and sets them on her mantelpiece. She’s my idol.’ Furrows of anger form around the Devil’s forehead and his eyes light up with a mixture of fury and perverted sexual deviousness. ‘I’m gonna pay that f^cking bitch a visit later on. She supposedly extracted a turd from a morbidly obese man and I hear it defies biology. Her prized possession. I have reasons to suspect she would mentally crumble if I manage to burgle said turd’. I go down the route of placating him for fear of his unpredictable tendencies. ‘You burgle that turd, my man. You burgle that turd like you’ve never burgled a turd before.’ ‘You shut your sycophantic little mouth up or I’ll rip them lips off and use them for a labia.’ This scares me and I go back to watching my Batman film. The devil is sitting looking pensive, stroking his pubic beard, plotting his next move. But I avoid eye contact with him as I’m really petrified of having no lips. Worse still, having them surgically transplanted as an artificial labia. So the film gets to the part where the Joker reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out this hilariously oversized hand-cannon of a Magnum, like the f^cking gun of a tank, and I burst out laughing and without thinking shout in the room, ‘HAHA DO YOU SEE THE F^CKING SIZE OF THAT GUN?’, but when I turn round, Monsieur Lucifer is gone.
I'm reppin' that nerdboy culture, When I see a book I'm like a vulture, I'm forever scannin' the words, Ever since my teacher taught me the verbs, I'm analytical it's not a miracle it's methodical I'm sporadic. So watch out you better Or I'll write you a strongly-worded letter You'll be so sorry you f^cked with me So confused you forgot your A, B, Cs But I can teach you, 'cos i'm the mastah! And you will cave in, For i'll SMACK you once again for ill-behavin' YEAAHHHH (Gangsta fo life)
So you're excpecting me to write something interesting. I've got about two seconds to hold your attention. You're about to scroll on, DON'T SCROLL, I want the attention, I need the attention. Us writers are so insecure we need constant gratification. Tell me i'm brilliant, tell me i'm the best writer ever, tell me i'm original. But what if I don't have anything interesting to say? What if I've been sitting at my computer all day? I could tell you about the weather, but that's been done before. Okay so there's this guy, right, and he's like really brooding, and there's something mysterious about him, he's like walking and there's this mist, and he's just like, walking with his head down. But i'm not going to tell you what happens yet because that's the way this story goes, I only reveal snippets at a time. I must build some tension, some conflicts! But i'm feeling so indecisive! Will I have him engage in a formal discussion with some other broody character? Is someone about to die? Is there some omnipresent force threatening our way of life? Oh the possibilities! In the end what's going to happen? Not much, really. Just a lot words. I think i'm the first writer who can write a whole book and not really describe anything. That has to be some kind of achievement, right? Oh but I'm as mysterious as my main character! Imagine having a main character who reflects all the things that you are and want to be? I'll be different, then. Right, so i'll write this main character and I swear i'm going to have him drenched in realism. It's going to be like, so realistic. I'll have him sitting at his computer, right? And he's gonna be just like, sitting at his computer all day long, and he's just gonna be writing, and writing, like there's no tomorrow. No wait, I can't use that phrase. Because it's such a CLICHE. I can't use a cliche in my writing, no one will ever read it! So he's like sitting at his computer then, and he's writing, not like there's no tomorrow, but just casually, just relaxed, you know? Like he's got something important to say. But then the writer stops. He realises he's writing in the third person, which is kinda good because then that means that he's not self-obsessed (you don't want to seem self-obsessed, that would be ridiculous) So he stops right? And he looks around himself and in a moment of great honesty, he doesn't write again because he realises he's out of ideas.
Sometimes when i think about myself as a writer i worry about not being able to pull on a wide experience of the world. I mean if i'm sitting here writing about life, should I not be out living it instead? I wonder if other writers ever think about this, like to what extent do they use their imagination to construct their stories, as opposed to their personal experience? I worry that the more I delve into my own imagination the less authentic and real my writing is likely to come across. If i use the internet and watch lots of films of course there can be a wealth of information that i can pull on, but i would in effect be stealing ideas from others and calling it my own. The only thing i can think of that is probably working in my favour, is that i am young and i have lots of time to develop and improve my skills. Maybe sometimes you need to just stop talking and get out there and do it. Maybe a bit of travelling would do me the world of good. I just don't think I can have any claim to legitimacy to be a spectator of the world if i haven't actually went out and looked at it extensively myself.
This post is vitriolic but it's as much about me as it is others. When other people talk about their problems I couldn’t be any less interested. They say you become more misanthropic as you get older but I’ve become this way over night. Sudden and abrupt. At least I have the honesty to come out and say it. There’s so much self-pitying nonsense in this world it makes me feel sick when I hear it. Oh you’re depressed? Fck off you sad twat. If you think others are going to help you you’re going to be sorely disappointed. And if you think I’m being cynical then I’m sorry to say that that’s the way the world is.. Sort your own issues out. You can’t rely on others to do it for you. You might get lucky and find someone who is prepared to subject themselves to your crying monologues, even though he just wants to talk about the football. They go away and you feel a weight off your chest. But tomorrow you will wake up and repeat the process. You don’t know any other way, it’s how you’re programmed to function. See a psychiatrist but he can’t wait to prescribe you medication and get you out the door. He has other patients to see, with real problems and real issues. By the way good luck with being a zombie for the rest of your life. You wonder where your creative spark has gone? Oh you can’t think clearly? Your mind is a minefield? Are you envisioning yourself in some pathetic dark tunnel with no light at the end? The perfect and suitably dramatic metaphor which perfectly embodies the misfortune that you have experienced in your sh!t life thus far. Perhaps you lament the fact that your struggle has not yet made it into the published print, by extension preventing a heart-wrenching transition into cinema where you’re played by a scruffy-looking Robert Pattinson. Get a grip of yourself. You are not some kind of flawed genius, although you would be happier if that were the case. Keep trying to write your fiction, all you can muster is the most generic piece of crap that’s been done a million times and in a much better style than you. You will never be a success. There are literally thousands of people who have received a more comprehensive education than you, people with talent, people with intelligence. Your imagination has no flair; and it is no wonder why, what given your mechanical consumption of sedatives everyday to numb the pain of your incessant, nihilistic and pointless questions about life. Why should I feel sorry for you? I’ve spent too much of my time feeling sorry for myself and look where it’s gotten me. Will someone please change the record because this one is definitely broken. The person who so kindly listened to you earlier is now fidgeting in his seat, looking at the clock. He is becoming exasperated, his patience wearing thin. Their friendly visits become less and less often. Then you wonder why no one wants to talk to you. The endless moaning about how no one loves you and how you’re life is so miserable. Is it really such a surprise that people avoid misery, that they stay away from your infectious negativity? Self-preservation should be your main priority, and if it’s not, you’re only doing yourself damage in the long haul. The world does not fcking revolve around you so stop acting like it does. Keep your problems to yourself, private, solitary. If it makes you feel better, write them down. But don’t poison others with your nonsense, because this way you force others to feign concern and pander to your self-absorbance. Just because you’ve gave leeway to your own problems for so long, doesn’t mean others should as well. You've only succeeded to exacerbate them rather than resolve them. There are concerned people out there, of course there is. i wasn't born in a bubble. On balance however, it’s safe to say people are not good. How much has been written about how human nature is self-destructive? About how people are ultimately selfish? It’s time you realised this and accepted it.
This is me just reminiscing about the couple of times i tried drugs, if anything, just for the experience. I don't recommend them to anybody I'm having the time of my life sitting in this room. I'm riding roller coasters and my companions here are grappling with the mysteries of the universe. All the while I have a stupid-looking look on my face. My pupils are dilated to glassy bowls, paving a giant gateway that allows access directly into my soul- The blackness of the pupils are like a dark abyss that draws you in like a tractor beam. I look like an owl who’s just been subjected to surprise butt sex. I look into the mirror. It looks fluid and I’m tempted to touch it, but I’m sceptical of it pulling me into a parallel universe. I just stare at it for what seems like two hours but it was probably only for about ten seconds. The room is quite dark as I never bothered to turn the light on; it is only illuminated by the light of the adjacent kitchen. I feel like I’m at an amusement park, in the house of reflections. I’m looking at my face but it doesn’t seem like my face. It is elongated and I have a vaudevillian expression that is completely alien to me, but I am intrigued by it. It’s like I’m waiting for him to start a conversation, but then I giggle to myself for I know it’s ridiculous. Walking back to the room it feels like I’m riding on a surfboard, the waves are big enough to work with, pleasant and without difficulty. They are bouncing off the walls and coming back and the change in movements causes me to adjust my balance. I plant both my feet on the floor, just to make sure that it really is solid. For all I know I could have been in Australia. I’m almost floating on air. You could throw me off a ten storey building and instead of worrying about my impending death, I would cherish the last few moments basking in the rush of air around my face and body, and the surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins right before I hit the ground. A beautiful death. I flop down on the bed which feels water-filled Come to think of it, everything seems fluid and malleable. My lips are starting to get a little dry, but there is a pint of water lying beside me which saves the day. Man my mouth is so dry…but I don’t understand…I’ve drank more than my fair share of water. My mind is going in and out of periods of crazy activity. Someone is talking to me and I’m nodding my head but I have absolutely no idea what he is talking about. I can hear the sounds but there is no register. I think I’m looking at the back wall. He could even be talking to himself but I’m not sure. But quick! I come out of being dormant and now my mind is going incredibly racy. It probably looks like a light bulb has went off in my head and there is a sudden realisation which sweeps over my face. It’s as if my head had unilaterally decided to expend some of it’s energy. Thoughts are impulsively running through my mind with no effort. Give me a rubix cube and I’ll solve it in ten seconds. I’m talking fast saying things without thinking twice. To my perception, my uninvited soliloquies had all the sense and logic of any great philosopher; such was the confidence the drug gave you as it worked its’ magic sending your neurotransmitters into overdrive with it’s almost electrical power. I don’t know if my opinions are extreme, all I know is that they are being delivered with melodramatic zest. There could be paradoxes and contradictions in some of my musings but as far as I know, no one else in the room has pointed them out to me. My expressions are ranging from one of permanent astonishment to one that conveys a deeply frightened young child who probably just saw a premonition of his mother being systematically brutalised. Everything is done in a caricature, and I wish I could see it. Anybody sober here might view me as a mentalist, but thank God they aren’t. Perhaps it’s time to call my local mental hospital.