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Record
Of Underachievement
Public
(Abridged) Version
Adam Gripton,
April 13th, 2000.
A: Purely Coincidental
I see. You
would have bet against that any day, wouldn’t you? I’ll be declaring
tomorrow to the masses that you, my friend, would have put your life on that
one, you mark my words. ‘Write another one, Gippy,’ they were all saying to
me. Well, look where that little
diversion got us all. Did any of it contribute to the famine relief in Africa?
Or help to save any endangered species of animal from extinction? I wouldn’t
have thought so. And yet, you would so easily have bet against me writing a
third. No matter how much you try and drill it into my brain, I’m going to do
what I think is right from now on. No more Mr. Nice Guy – that is, if I ever
was in the first place, which I would doubt with the whole of my dilapidated
heart and brain. Filled by all the compost which this world has chosen to chuck
at you, me and us all, we must all prosper at the end of the day, and hey, look,
wow, it really seems as if I’m once again twiddling the keys of doom in an
effort to stop being such a sad bastard and bring some happiness and profound
thought into other people’s lives for once. It’ll never be completed. Never.
I’m devoid of most clarity in my cocoon. In my horseshoe of an existence, it
really can’t be said that there’s that much entertainment. But oh, well,
enough of the woe-is-me, the very notion now of getting material from other
sources has escaped all our brains, because I’ve realised since then just how
impossible it really would be. Let’s face it, most of my preferred audience
don’t even know anything about me, let alone know that I would like to hear
their opinions on this stuff I have a habit of continuously churning out. I’m
not even going to stick my neck out so far as to say that they actually know my
name, let alone where I live. But should I keep this situation I have made for
myself so well? Should I spend the rest of this book in solitude, not ever
seeing the light of day or noticing the happy people just outside the door?
I’m not a happy person, but yet I have no real right to be a sad person. There
is, after all, always someone worse off than you. So that’s my philosophy:
when you’re getting all melodramatic and depressed, and you feel like life
can’t get any worse, just think of someone whose problems are ninety-thousand
times less trivial and minor as your
own. It’ll make you feel a whole lot better, because suddenly, you’ll
realise that you haven’t actually got any
problems at all. In fact, it may raise your mood so much that you’ll join one
of these charities who care for people who have seriously enormous problems on
their hands and are struggling to even survive, and behold, you’ll donate
twenty pounds a month to the good of others.
However, as you’ve probably guessed by now, it simply won’t ever
happen. Your seemingly enormous and life-wrecking problems will get on top of
you, and you’ll be purposefully self-driven under the ten-tonne weight of your
own conscience, and you’ll never even bother to care or to think about anyone
else but yourself. Your ideals will all be for simple self-pleasures, and your
thoughts will be of nothing but self-satisfaction. You will spend all day and
all night moaning to yourself and everyone else around you about what a crappy
life you lead, and thereby upset many more people than your quota states.
You’ll bind yourself to a contract of depression, and get so wrapped up in the
vicious circle of selfishness that by the time you’re a mere sixteen years of
age, you’ll probably be sitting in your bedroom on a beautiful Spring morning,
writing a book rather scarily similar to this on your computer which you say
isn’t a major part of your life, but underneath the veneer of supposed
credibility you know really is. Instead of being outside, doing normal things
and engaging in healthy activity, you’ll be cooped up in your bedroom like a
hermit in a cave. You’ll forever hold on to the ideal that when the piece of
writing is finished, someone will actually care about it at the end of the day,
which as we all know, simply will not happen. Don’t go that way. Please, for
the sake of yourself. Do anything to stop it happening. Enrol in some sort of
club. Get a job. Anything. The possibilities are endless, but you’ve got to do
something. And you’ve got to do it
now.
Yeah, so hello. Hi. Good morning. Isn’t it a lovely day? Well, here I
am again, it’s looking increasingly certain that I’ve given in finally to
all their taunts and have been successfully persuaded to scrawl up something
superfluous to the requirements of the general population. Yes, it was a
depressing, rather sombre introduction, but I feel relieved and revived under
the dark grey and off-white membrane. Oh yeah. But the question is: do I make
this one amusing? I’m not a comedian after all. I’m also not a Newsnight
presenter. What I am is what I am, and you’re not going to change it by
telling me to write a 25-page masterpiece all in Hebrew. Even though it would be
a worthwhile thing to do, it may prompt some to question my mental well-being.
And we really wouldn’t want that to happen, would we, little people? No, we
wouldn’t, so you lot can all go to bed. Yes, Sir Gippy the Greater. Hmm… I
kinda like that title. Gippy the Greater. But greater than whom? Not many
people, it has to be said, if any of the above is to be believed and taken
completely the wrong way. Which way would you take it? I didn’t mean anything
perverse: you’re the one with the perverse mind if you
took it wrongly. You truly make me sick. I throw up in your general direction.
Anyway, I should be able to find some snail in Dorset that I can feel in every
way superior to. It sounds like a good idea, and don’t you expect me not to be
going on a pilgrimage there this November for that very cause. None of this
religious codswallop – oh no, for me it’ll just be a superiority complex. If
that exists. But yes, Gippy the Greater gets better the more you think about it.
But enough of me talking incessantly about me – let’s talk about other
things. On second thoughts, let’s just talk. Like all Sainsbury’s
representatives, I’m here to help, and I’m here to listen. Put your handbag
down on the kitchen table and let your hair down. And don’t stress, or find
the sudden urge to run down to County Hall and apply for a job in the Social
Services. Wow, I’m glad I’ve got that one in. You see, if I didn’t slag
off civil servants, it simply wouldn’t be me, darling. Oh no, that’s so
1992. That’s so last Tuesday, and I wouldn’t personally be seen dead in it,
sweetie. Take it off and try some of this new stuff from France. It’s called les
flares, and apparently it’s this new sort of leg wear that has never
before been in fashion. Well that’s what the French president says, anyway,
and according to Hello magazine he can’t get enough of them. But whether he
wears them in public (or just in private, when no-one’s looking) is simply a
matter of speculation; I never said anything. You ain’t seen me, right?
So, what’s wrong with the world? Where did it all go slightly
pear-shaped? I blame Ibiza music. I blame racism in football. I blame it on the
boogie. I blame you for the moonlit nights. I name this ship HMS Plughole. And
let’s hope that her maiden voyage avoids all of the icebergs in these
treacherous waters, arr, me hearties, there be snow on them thar hills.
Unsinkable? I’d like to see it. Ooh, I bet that whoever designed the Titanic
was a little miffed to say the least. On second thoughts, he probably drowned
along with the rest of the others in the sea of green through over-confidence in
his own supposed ability. Drink up your champagne. Tomorrow never lives,
breathes or grows. It just is – and that’s the way it’s going to stay.
Which is more than I can say for what happened to the Titanic. It’s not the
iceberg bit that I’m confused about – it’s the gratuitously long film
which was acted out about it. How many people fell asleep before the last scene?
Own up now, or forever hold your peace. And who would want to give a lawful
reason against that? Who would ever worship Mr. Di Caprio anyway? Oh, don’t
answer that… bad example.
What a nice dish of tomato soup that was. Almost as nice as Pot Noodles,
which I seem to have taken a liking to recently. I know, how sad. But hey, if
one must live on one foodstuff for three years of one’s life, what better than
a ‘spanking gorgeous’ snack to keep one alive? It beats carrots any day. And
anyway, your skin would turn orange and your front teeth would grow. Before you
knew it, you’d be hopping around the Peak District and being shot at by
maniacs on horses desperate for a meal to feed their spoiled little ones. And
besides, who needs tomato soup anyway when you can curl up in your warm bed at
two o’clock in the morning, read six cosy chapters of Tolstoy’s War and
Peace before guzzling up a bedtime Pot Noodle? It’s truly heaven, you ought to
try it. Especially effective when one has returned home from the pub. Alan
Titchmarsh, eat your heart out.
So, we drift down the river, ever further, in a bid to build the
world’s biggest Chihuahua, the mountain’s smallest torpedo and the Sun’s
hottest ice-cream, but also – the main thing – is that we’re always trying
to avoid asking or answering that burning question. Is it going to be all right?
Is there a point, after all? Does anything mean anything at all? But really, is
it all going to turn out nice again in the end? Personally, I would maintain my
stance as the world’s most ridiculously optimistic optimist and say that yes, the answer is most certainly that everything’s gonna be
alright at the end of the day. And yes, I may be sounding like a football
manager, but if it means that it’ll inject that little bit more optimism into
an otherwise barren landscape of typed compost then it’s a price I’m willing
to pay. Come on, why shouldn’t it
be? You’re saying that evil will prevail? You’re saying that all the nasty
and stupid people will rise up from their respective lands of Nastia and
Stupidia and they’ll make sure that the world explodes into six trillion
small, grey, slimy pieces of fish ick well before the Apocalypse? Who is ever
going to let that happen? Not me – and if I’m still around when
Sainsbury’s start selling a scarily large amount of grey, slimy fish ick,
I’ll make sure it’s taken off the shelves. That should sort it, and finally
the world can sleep tonight. A superhero’s work is never done, let me tell
you. But what I can most definitely and objectively state right now on my rose
in June is that everything’s gonna be OK, so you can start jamming your
clenched fists up various orifices of everyone’s pet poodles right now with
your thumbs raised and making that V for Victory sign, and yea, everyone will
point and laugh at your failed attempts to convey a point without looking
utterly stupid. Why would you do it anyway? Don’t ask me; just ponder over the
images which it conveys. They’re not very nice.
I could go on. In fact, I could go on for miles, trudging my way to
Canterbury with only a small backpack to guide me on my cross-country rambles.
But my conscience is telling me to stop. It’s rather wrestled with me
recently. Every time I expressed the wish to do something really spontaneous and
on a complete whim, it simply knocks me to the ground once again with a glancing
blow from chin to knee with its large boxing glove and shouts at me to calm
down, and stay down, repressed and depressed but always pressèd none the less.
Struggling with oneself is the start of something weird, you mark that one and
it’s in by Monday morning on my desk. Or else. Just or else, I’m not going
to go into gory details. An underachiever, possibly – but far from proud of
it. It’s a cop-out, at the end of the day, and breeds laziness. And we
couldn’t have that from any of the members of our master race, now, could we?
No, because we’re all going to get together and take over the world before
anyone can stop us, and for that we need a ridiculously religious work ethic. We
need to step out of our front doors, smell the cold midnight air burning at our
nostrils and say ‘What a lovely day for working one’s ass off this is!’
And we also need a wholesome group of about twenty friends, colleagues
and extended family members who will agree with us in unison. Then we will
trudge out into the night, whistling while we work to the tune of ‘The Great
Escape’ and haughtily sniggering at the irony of it all. Wine glasses will be
filled and put all together in the centre of the table in hope for prosperous
times to come. And then, the air raid sirens will once again scream over our
houses, and we will once again shoot all the aeroplanes down from the comfort of
our own living rooms, and shouting ‘hurrah and jolly good show’ at every
explosion.
Nice? Yes, sir. And what a nice plaice that really is. Even better than
the cod you cooked me last week. And what a nice place
this is, even if it is a little shoddy around the edges and pieces of the carpet
are literally falling from the sky into the ceiling with a magnitude not seen
since the days of Brigitte Bardot. Hmm. Yes, in fact, there’s a rather nice
restaurant across the road, fancy another meal, my good waiter? It would seem
like a good idea, but the world’s not that kind. And all this blatant nonsense
isn’t really doing its job. It’s like splashing out a few thousand pounds on
double glazing which has drill holes bored through it. It’s just no use –
apart from a very unorthodox shape of bowling ball.
K
*** Sorry about that, the book really starts here… *** K
Isn’t it irritating when you lose the smallest thing through your own
clumsiness? You know, when you happen to have a pound coin in your pocket and
ten minutes later you find that it’s disappeared, and you just know that it’s your own negligence? My goodness, many a sleepless
night I’ve had over things like that. It really doesn’t matter how valuable
or precious the item was, it’s the principle of the thing. It’s like
you’ve just let something fall through your grasp, and if you take it
seriously and theologically enough, you may take it as a sign which is making a
statement about you as a whole. Think for a moment. What was the last chance,
opportunity or hope which you simply allowed to slip through your fingers when
you could just as easily have made an effort to make the most of? The example of
the pound coin? Why did you not put it straight into a bank account, or a box
for storing loose change – a piggy bank for example? Or even better, why did
you not take the ‘pound’ and buy
something with it? Make it worthwhile,
and maybe – just maybe – bring a little pleasure to yourself into the
bargain? Wow, this is metaphorical.
Why did you just spend way too much time playing around with it in your grasp?
Well, you know what happens to ‘pounds’ which are simply played around with.
They fall down the edges of settees, never to be found, seen or heard of ever
again. What a waste. Next time you win a quid on Lottery Instants, make sure you
buy a large bar of Dairy Milk with it. Or even better, put it together with some
cash of your own and buy somebody else
a present. Trust me, it’ll make you feel more than happy with yourself – and
make the receiving party feel good as well – and it’s a much better use than
letting it fall down the side of a settee. Think about it, and if you remember
this book by only one thing, let it be that. I rest my case.
B:
Dangerously Reflective
People who know me will know exactly what I mean. Sometimes it’s good
to think. We really don’t use our brains enough. Well, OK, so maybe we do, but
the problem stands that we don’t use them enough for the right purposes.
Things like reflection – you know, staring into a quiet, slowly running river
one evening, with no-one around for miles except for a few birds and ducklings,
and possibly a group of posh people on a speedboat who whiz past shouting
‘Huzzah! What a spiffing boat!’ No, ignore that. Forget it. And concentrate
on staring at your own shimmering reflection in the half-light, but don’t
touch it. Look closely, and caress it with your mind. And the rest is simple, I
don’t have to tell you: just sit down on the grassy bank, and start thinking.
Think, long and hard, about anything you want to. I can’t tell you what to set
your thoughts upon, because I’m sure I don’t know you well enough. But
think, nevertheless. Ignore the fact that the world is going on around you and
take refuge in the fact that you’re only a tiny part of the whole system, and
the whole system only ever exists on one planet. And this one planet, which
seems so large and threatening, is only one tiny part of the wider, universal
scheme of things. Relax. Nobody will care if you’re late for the meeting. And
before you get anything else connected, connect your brain to the more peaceful
side of the network. Yes, the ducklings may be staring back at you by this
point, and the birds may have created nests upon your shoulders by now, and you
may already have witnessed at least seventeen boats of posh people chasing each
other down the river, but don’t let it deter you.
So then I wrote this… Why go on incessantly about how we are all
slaves to the system above us when you can pack your bags and leave at any time
for some much-needed meditation in the mountain ranges of Sweden? Why turn down
the opportunity to discover yourself in a shower of heaviness and flowers?
It’s complete nonsense to have that mentality. If you’re feeling like your
job couldn’t possibly get any more boring if it hung a sign around its small,
job-like neck saying ‘Hello… I’m rather a boring job’, then just
quit and take a rest. Be reflective. Think about life. Think about all the
people you have known, loved, hated, admired, despised, laughed with and laughed
at. Go back to a stage in your life when you screwed a situation up something
chronic and laugh out loud at how much of a pansy you must have looked. If one
cannot laugh, what healthy activities can one engage in? Not many, it has to be
said – that is, if you’re not into abseiling, bungee jumping or windsurfing.
But hey, why not? Reflect – but don’t do it too much. Should one fall
into this cunningly-concealed trap, does one know where one’s thought
processes will go on from there? Well, you’ll become all but addicted to
thinking about situations in your colourful and varied past where you could have
said such-and-such, could so easily have done this-and-that, et cetera. And
you’ll start feeling sorry for yourself. That’s dangerous, and shouldn’t
be attempted without adult supervision. Otherwise you may cut your fingers on
the sharp blades of the scissors. For external use only. If irritation occurs,
shoot the author.
While we’re on the subject, have this to ponder and reflect over. Life
is predominantly successful. That’s the default (if you like) way of life, and
that’s how life likes to be. Successful, prosperous and happy in all respects.
The trouble is: being the default way of living, it’s also the recessive gene
in its make-up. Listen: Life is only ever satisfying if there’s no chance of
any argument. In boring old Biology lessons where one cannot learn anything for
fear of being shouted at and being called, alright, incompetent, they’d refer
to this as ‘homozygous recessive’ or simply ‘bb’, the ‘b’ standing
for how much of a bitch life is at
the time in question. The bigger the B, the bigger the bitch. Get me yet? OK, so
I’ll try and kill two birds (or bitches, depends which way you like to look at
it…) with one stone and give you a little genetics revision in the process.
Despite it being the natural state of life, I’m sorry to say that contentment
and satisfaction is very much the recessive allele. Bitchiness of life is
very much the dominant allele. So in one phrase, as long as nothing goes
wrong or shows any signs of potentially going wrong in the future, you’ll be
all right. Otherwise it’s depression city. Stop me if I’m being
melodramatic, but it’s a fair point. I would start drawing punnet squares and
pictures of food chains but it wouldn’t, alright, tell you much. OK, worked
example. So you’ve got a new car, let’s say. (That don’t impress me much.)
Fine, it’s a really nice little runabout, really economical, flashy, nice
colour, etc. etc. etc. BUT, as soon as even the tiniest thing even
threatens to go wrong, it’s curtains and a £570 garage bill with a strange
item called ‘Bacon Lettuce & Tomato Sandwich: £64.75 + VAT’. And hey,
you have to pay it. Otherwise they’ll crush your wonderful car into a handful
of metal. It sucks. And hey, say you invite your new girlfriend to meet your
parents (what a cliché, I know, but it had to be done), and something really
minor goes wrong, like – I don’t know – she isn’t too keen on the way
the living room’s been decorated, something unbelievably trivial. You can
guarantee that before you can say ‘Llandudno’, there will undoubtedly be at
least seventy or eighty other males ringing on the door staking the claim that,
in all honesty, their parents have a much better sense of taste when it comes to
living room aesthetics and colour combinations. Bang, door slams, bomb dropped
on life. Think about it, and why don’t you try to read something really
metaphorical into that, coming to the conclusion that I’m a frustrated being
who simply hasn’t yet found any sort of niche in the social pyramid?
Thanks, I’d appreciate your opinions, if you have any you’re willing
to share with the world for the sake of a fleeting publicity stunt. Go jump on a
pogo stick, sometimes you may even find it enjoyable. You never know. It’s
better than yoga, though, or meditation. Eat that chocolate Swiss roll, but eat
it metaphorically. In fact, don’t eat it at all – you’ll probably get
chubby and blame it all on me. Throw it away, keep Britain tidy, and leave your
embarrassing past behind.
Am I causing any offence here? I sure hope not. I wouldn’t want to get
blamed for your sadness, dear reader. In fact, it’s hardly my right to say
you’re ever depressed in the first place. Maybe you’re really contented.
Maybe you do have a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife or husband,
and maybe you have found true spiritual enlightenment. But some of us,
you know – I’m sure you can sympathise here – just fall down holes too
often. And nine times out of ten, we’re eating an ice cream as we do. Yes,
some of us don’t really look where we’re going, but you see, it’s
purposeful. Because if we consulted the map or street plan on it, we’d
suddenly realise that we don’t actually have the best of ideas where
we’re meant to be going in the first place. Hey, of course I don’t want to
be offensive – heaven forbid! We’re still friends, right? You know, you
won’t get in a complete strop with me just because I wrote something down,
will you? I hope you can trust these words. Hey, let’s stop all this
pseudo-fighting, and just engage in hope that it truly will work out right. And
when the chips are down, you know that you can always pretend that you
meant to put them on 18 instead of 19 and claim the money anyway. You know
you can do that, and I know you can as well: though we both know I can’t.
In life, we always come across stuff like that, but at least we acknowledge each
other’s respective genius – and instead of locking horns and engaging in
fierce competition, we try and build bridges. Instead of getting each other’s
superiority to the masses to cancel each other out, both you and I know that
we’d find it a much better idea to use our strength in unison. That way,
things get done and people get fed. And lollipop ladies have children to help,
and cooks have cakes, scone-based pizzas and Russian fish pies to bake, and
civil servants once again have papers to delightfully shuffle around for the
last half hour of the day. Footballers have balls once more to kick around, and
cities come alive again as the bells ring out for five o’clock, with the call
of the sweet relief that it really hasn’t all come to nothing in the end. But please,
don’t be offended.
Have you ever found yourself picking up a piece of paper late one night
and just writing aimlessly for the sake of writing? It’s really weird – and
it normally turns out to be something really wistful and starry-eyed. And you go
to sleep, and wake up the next morning – but instead of the expected situation
whereby you read these few pages of scrawled handwriting and promptly chuck them
into the nearest bin, you take the words to heart and start to think about them.
Oh yeah, you actually take them more seriously than you had dared to expect when
they were written. And d’you know why that is? That’s because when one is
feeling reflective, thoughtful or just depressed or paranoid, one speaks a sight
more sense than when one is completely contented. In the words of a certain
actor on a certain American film whose name utterly escapes me at the moment –
‘paranoia is just reality in a finer sense’. And you know what? The more you
think about it, the better that quote gets. You speak far more sense when
you’re on-edge, or when you’re sulking over how little your life means, or
how uneventful your supposed ‘love life’ has become. You naturally talk on a
par with the professionals when laying awake at one o’clock in the morning,
imagining really weird stuff like ‘wouldn’t it be nice to stop time at
will?’ And wouldn’t it be? Think of the potential that idea has. There’s a
children’s programme on the telly exploring that sort of scenario. It’s
brilliant. Compulsive viewing.
But really, I reckon that despite its terrible publicity, being
dangerously reflective does have its pros – real, concrete advantages that
would easily help anyone when they’re struggling through the trials and
tribulations of our very existence on this planet. Hey, it’s not that bad when
you think long and hard about it. Play around with the idea in your head –
maybe you’ll feel a lot better for it. But alas, this is meant to be a record
of under-achievement, oh dear, it seems as if I’m being way too
positive for such a potentially melodramatic, depressing, suicidal,
nervous-wreck piece of writing. But it’s no bad thing, or am I just not
practising enough of what I preach? Am I going on for paragraph after paragraph
about how great life is where really my life couldn’t get more frustrating if
it checked in to Dame Fillibotham’s School of Excellence for Frustrating
People and asked for a year’s personal tuition? Possibly so, but telling the
actual truth, as always, would make for bad reading. I tried it before; it’s
not worth it. It’s always best to cover things like that up with using a
torrent of metaphors, sprinkled with a liberal helping of synonyms and
euphemisms. But whatever you do, please don’t ever tell it like it is. Instead
of going on for ages about your meaningless existence, say something like
“Well, some people’s lives may be bad, have you ever considered
that?” I, in the words of a certain rock band, am one of those melodramatic
fools. And I’d agree as well, but hey, I enjoy it, so why complain when you
can put on a happy mask and dance? At least pretend to look as if you’re
attempting to try. But if you can’t manage it, stuff it full of dynamite and
blow the whole place to smithereens. Which is such a great word.
And well, you never know, I guess you may one day be faced with the
problematic situation of actually having something to believably be dangerously
reflective about for once. That’s when all this work, learning, revision and
all come in very handy indeed. That’s when it’ll all pay off. And don’t
forget, something like that may easily spring up on you unawares at any moment.
Then what would you do if you hadn’t already learned the art of thinking?
You’d be as stuck as a Ford Fiesta in quicksand with some chimpanzees at the
wheel and also at the other end of the phone line, posing as the AA but really
in on some sort of sick joke. So what would you do? Remember, you never know
when things like this are just going to pounce upon you from out of nowhere.
For example, you may have already decided by now that through weighing up
all the pros and cons of each approach, that it’s actually better to get on
with your life and not worry about trivialities such as whatever went before.
Maybe you’re of the school of thought that says, I don’t know, something
like ‘what’s done is done’, and shouldn’t be dwelled upon for fear of
upsetting oneself. And maybe, because of this, you honestly think it probably
wouldn’t be too good for your mental health to spend hours staring at your
reflection in the window or sitting alone on a park bench, and just stopping to
recollect events of the last few months. And believe me, I respect you for that
if you’re that sort of person. Maybe, I don’t know, you’ve been through it
all before, and you have much more experience of that thing we know as life than
I will ever have. Maybe that’s the case, and at the moment you’re cursing
this book for being so bloody naïve. Maybe you’ve had hard times in the past,
the magnitude of which I can’t even begin to comprehend, let alone empathise
with. And as for me giving you advice on how to handle all of
these supposed problems I seem to be conjuring up – well, maybe you’re
dismissing it as a load of old rubbish. But believe it or not, I respect you for
that as well. Because if you can relate to what I’ve just said, I don’t
reckon I’m worthy enough to give you advice in the first place. So why am I
all for reflection, then, if I know full well that it’s never going to do
anybody even the slightest bit of good? The answer is: I don’t know if
that’s the case. Only you do. I can’t speak from any experience here, as
I’ve been wrapped in too much cotton wool for far too long. But I hope
you’ve taken at least something from this chapter, even if it is merely
a bad taste in your mouth that seems to have appeared.
But hey, just make sure you’re always prepared for every eventuality.
If I ever knew anything, it would be that. I hope you haven’t lost all respect
you ever had for me by my mention of not having been through hardly any hard
times – yes, I’m ashamed of it, and I guess that, in hindsight, it’s
actually rather hypocritical of me to even start to write a chapter like this.
Remember always: nothing is ever forever. Not while it’s still all done in the
best possible taste, not while you’re as yet young and supposedly free. No,
nothing’s forever. Feelings, emotions, attitudes, personal problems: they’re
never made to last. They’re just there to join along for the ride, don’t
take them too seriously. Because you never know, just around the corner, just
when you thought things were going so completely in one direction – be it good
or bad, it works both ways – something may jump out at you wearing the replica
strip of something heading exactly the opposite direction. And nine times out of
ten, this incident will talk more sense than you ever thought was possible under
the previous mentality, and somehow, you’ll be compelled to listen to it.
You’ll slam the car of life into reverse, execute a perfectly-formed three
point turn on the highway of experience and head due West when you thought that
East simply had to be the direction of most promise. The sun rises there, right?
So that must mean it’s better, right…? Wrong, I’m afraid. You just
never know. Don’t ever rule anything out of the equation. Even the most
unlikely turn of events has a probability infinitely bigger than naught. Thanks
for listening.
C:
‘Power To The People’ – and Other Lies (Anyone got 12p?)
How many more times does it take? You know, it just seems as if this dung
cart has been rolling up and down the same old trodden patch of green slime for
donkey’s years. Since it all started twenty-eight months ago, that is. Do you
remember when it was different? You know, when a spade was a spade, people were
people, you knew the people to trust and you knew those you were allowed
to know without it being used against you? Doesn’t it seem like such a short
time ago that it just wasn’t – I don’t know – so damn serious? It
just seems that we’ve all become – how can I put this – a little
reclusive. And you know where that can lead. I’ll end up behind the counter at
the stickiest, oiliest, dirtiest and smelliest McDonalds in the country
(Chelmsford might be a good bet there), you’ll end up slaving away in some
overheated office somewhere, shuffling papers, stamping letters and trying to
look productive, busy or interested – two out of three ain’t bad, I guess
– and of course, that person over there, well I can tell you straight that you
don’t want to be around him in around a decade’s time if this is the path we
choose to follow. He’ll be in a German prison as a punishment for making a
two-fingered gesture at the President. He’ll be drinking ninety cups of tea
per day in a desperate attempt to stop the cold turkey on the wrong side of a
caffeine trip. So never touch Mississippi Mud Pie if the foolproof seal is
broken. Otherwise you’re in for it, and all your chocolates will be infected
with the germs that come free with being part of the general public. And never
put sugar in your tea when you put the bag in. Because if someone else finishes
it off for you, they won’t be rewarded for their slaving like they should.
Magically, you’ll find that you turn selfish on them and start shouting at
them for putting four sugars in it. You’ll blame the whole of the world’s
problems on them, but as we all know, it won’t be your brain’s fault because
by then you’ll be high anyway and there’d be no way of erecting a ladder
fast enough to get you down from there before you floated up into never-ending
oblivion. Oh well. Another one bites the dust. Dust? How dare you! That’s so
prejudiced against cat hairs.
But do you remember, though, going back to my main point through utter
stupidity and an obsession with digression? Do you really remember that far
back, when you lived in a close-knit community of friends, and there were never
any hard feelings, and all you cared about was having fun? Do you remember when
there was nothing else to worry about besides what was on the telly that night?
Before the time it all changed, twenty-eight fateful months ago to the day?
I’m sure you do. It’s not that long, after all, and you’ve got to remember
that for some it’s even longer. The days were long and simple, and every day
was fair to middling, and that’s the way you eternally liked it. You
didn’t change it, did you, oh dear reader of mine? Well I sure
didn’t. Who did? Who introduced the idea in the first place? Who suddenly made
everything start to mean something, and made no fleeting comment go unopposed or
unnoticed? Who took the sense of humour and innocence – ah, there’s the
word, innocence – out of life, and made it so (could swear, not going
to) stinking personal?? What I would give for a time machine! Insert
fifty pence for a decade’s ride. How much money would it take to solve all
your problems? Twelve measly pence. And that won’t even get you a
sherbet dip nowadays.
But ah, we all still gaze at the sunset in awe, and we still cry when
things go horribly wrong and feel on top of the world when they happen to go
right for once. And we all live, and we all die despite what some American
‘experts’ may try to convince us, and we all get bored of people on the TV
who are trying to tell us that they are our social superiors and we should bow
down to their every step. We all eat grapes, don’t we? We all like Ritz
crackers with cheese? Yes, of course we do. Settle down, it’s all right;
we’re all still people. It’s just that some make it look good. And yea, the
rest of us will be made sick to the bottoms of our very gall bladders at just
seeing these people become rich and famous, and having everything they ever
wanted. But we won’t care. Just find out where you fit into the league of life
and sort out your own problems, no matter how big or insignificant they are.
But first, someone should form a campaign, or a protest group or
something, against the month of November. OK, my idea may be a little
far-fetched, but it works in theory. It’d involve everyone whose birthday
falls in this fated eleventh month to celebrate it instead on a new day called
October 32nd. When all that’s done, dusted and out of the way
something chronic, pear shaped, moist and yellow, we’ll skip straight to
December. How simple. And yet, how effective! Just think how many of the
world’s problems we could fix that way! I’m using exclamation marks! I must
be passionate about this! But think, when was the last November –
that’s right, not late October, or early December, but actual November – you
had which wasn’t screwed up? I’d appreciate your feedback on the bland
subject, but still I think that at least two months of the year should be
banned. November and February would be good bets. Or maybe it’s just me, I
don’t know. Oh, screw it; I’ve digressed way too much.
LIFE: is one of those things that some people find it very
difficult to avoid. And it’s a good point, as well, you know. Wouldn’t we be
much better off without life continuously knocking at our door? Then we
wouldn’t have to get up Monday morning. Better still, why can’t life take
the weekend off, when telephone calls are cheaper and the world’s a finer
place? Why does it have to bother screwing us up seven days a week? And just for
paying a few bills! That’s out of proportion. What d’you mean, that’s just
not possible? They allowed the atomic bombs, didn’t they? What sort of sick
weirdo are you? 3 weeks’ paid holiday a year? Mondays off once per month?
Please? Oh, bollocks to you then, I’m off to get stoned…
But before this chapter plunges down a route rather eerily similar
to that of many doomed chapters before it, let’s quickly and easily change the
subject. But never, ever rip a plaster off slowly. If you’re going to do
something, you’d better put your mind to it, concentrate on the job in hand
and make sure you get the task out of the way. And then you won’t
(surprisingly) have to worry about it anymore. But taking too much time over
something that could be so easy is much worse for all concerned. You don’t
take a whole agonising half-hour to rip off a plaster, do you? Well why would
you do that with other things? My advice: Fill in the application form right
now, no matter how intimidating it’s made to look or how unlikely you
reckon it is that you’ll actually get the job. Nothing’s impossible. Take it
by the scruff of the neck and fill in that motivational questionnaire. But
never, ever tick the Yes box when it says ‘I would not hesitate about asking a
senior member of staff for help’. Oh no. To them, that means that you’ll
spend all day knocking on your busy supervisor’s door, asking at least twice a
minute how you use the photocopier/fax machine/lift/lock in the door (delete as
appropriate). And not that you’re a person who’d sensibly use the right.
Just put ‘Not sure’ for them all. They like a person whose opinions they can
easily mould.
So I’m still here, after all this time. Don’t worry, I won’t go
away. I’ll keep on ploughing this field until it looks more like a First World
War battlefield, with projectile pigs and chickens being thrown across it from
all directions in someone’s failed attempt to get the world fighting again
without using dangerous things. What’s the use of a war that doesn’t solve
anything? Surely that was the whole idea in the first place? Some may argue
it’s Nature’s way of curbing the population (and yes, that IS the first time
I’ve ever written the word ‘curbing’), but where’s all this death and
destruction coming from? What’s all that about, then? Why can’t we pelt the
enemy with – I don’t know – apples, or something? Or oversize GM
grapefruits? They’d hurt if they knocked you on the head, I tell you now. But
big explosive thingies that go bang and kill people? No, it’s just not on.
Face reality, oh ignorant people of this planet, it’s not doing anyone any
good. Better still, instead of blowing each other up, have one enormous conker
fight. You could even organise something like a tournament between all the
nations, which was rigged so Germany would always finish last in the world and
behind Liechtenstein every season, or maybe just a ‘grudge match’ between
the USA and China. Whoever won would get to invade a small, backward Far Eastern
state. It’d be great! And hey, if the above small Far Eastern country managed
to get a resistance group of champion conker fighters together, the UN could
organise the chance of an official revolt – if the people of the small state
could beat their previous conquerors at their own game. Conquer with conkers –
it’ll kill a lot less people. The whole of the world would be united under the
new league, and life would once again be a laugh. Better still, the English team
would actually have a chance of winning something for once – and the
rights to absolute dictatorial power over Wales as a bonus…
They say the people ARE the state, and as such have the power to decide
issues in that supposedly fair and beautiful system they call democracy. They
say that we will never settle for someone who tells us what to do, and that we
will always be able to make our own minds up as a basic human right. Really? Are
you sure about that? You see, in this sound bite that may seem so appealing at
the time, they’ve missed out one very important fact. Most of the people –
as individuals – of this lovely country are worthy citizens – you know,
intelligent, hard-working, practical, pleasant people with good personalities.
Fine, we’re all in the same boat there apart from a few rebellious (and
let’s just face it, thick) people spoiling the picture. But consider it as a
valid point. Fine, but as soon as you put the above-mentioned individuals into
one unit, the supposed ‘voice of the people’, you suddenly find that,
contrary to everything you were taught at school, they’re all stupid fools
again. Maybe their natural excellence is being diluted by the natural
inferiority of the stupid minority. Maybe it’s just something I’m going to
have to live with and somehow stop myself from complaining about in every
stinking book I write. But it’s an issue close to my heart, you know, and the
only reason you don’t want it in here is that it’s not amusing enough.
Well here’s something amusing, then. :-P It’s a smiley of
someone very amusingly sticking their very amusing tongue out, which amusingly
enough, turns from a letter P into an amusing character when you look at it on
its amusing side. How amusing. How side-splitting. Whoever made them up I
don’t know. Some sad Internet freak in seventies America, I’m guessing. Some
teenager with no social life and nothing better to do than pick at his masses of
spots and stare at a computer screen all day, getting rather dangerously excited
by the prospect that some new Java cookie has been uploaded to his HTML
newsgroup. Oooh, wow. We look upon you in awe, oh Sir Nerdybreath, for giving us
smileys. What would the world be without them? Besides, everyone knows they only
serve one purpose, and that’s to temper a potentially contentious or insulting
remark by giving the impression that you’re only joking. In other words, if
you wrote what you really thought in an E-mail to someone you didn’t
particularly like, you’d end up insulting him or her completely and word would
get around that you had misused a predominantly informal messaging system. But
think for a moment: if you wanted to say something really nice, you wouldn’t need
smileys, because your happiness would radiate from your very words. Example
time.
Sentence
1.
‘Both
of us know you’re only with him because of his money, you bitch’
(Offensive,
I’m sure you’ll agree…)
Sentence
2.
‘Both
of us know you’re only with him because of his money, you bitch :-)’
(Makes
all the difference, doesn’t it? Err… not really, I guess…)
Besides, they’re not that dangerous :-o at the end of the day 0:-).
We’re all OK with them, and as long as we don’t misuse them we can get on
with our lives. Besides, some of them really are amusing, like this ‘girl’
here: 8:)3)= See? Laugh your life away, don’t worry that we live in a
constitution only one step away from North Korea on the oppression scale. And if
you don’t drink apple juice, well there’s your problem. That’s why
you’re depressed. Drink more apple juice and feel more positive, that’s what
I say. Well it worked for me, but maybe that’s only because I’m weird. But
weird is good, isn’t it? Normal is bad, that’s for sure. I’d hate to be
normal. I pity these poor sods that are resigned to being normal. The scary
thing is, even though I’ve said before that being normal isn’t possible, I
believe in it less and less every day. I’ve seen normal people of my own young
age. I’ve talked to these people. I’ve noticed just how very normal they
are. For goodness’ sake, you people! No, that’s not the way to do it! Change
something! Do something! But for the love of whoever’s up there, just save
yourself from normality! I know: Tomorrow, pick any name from the ‘phone
directory and call them, pretending to be a long-lost brother or something. No,
on second thoughts, that’s just cliché and rather sad. Hmm. Oh well, I’m
sure they’ll think of something, if they really don’t want to be this
normal. They’ll get the motivation they need tomorrow morning when they look
in the mirror and realise that they’re as dull as, well, Keith Chegwin. But
even he did some Channel 5 show naked, but he’s at the other, irritating end
of the scale. He’s not normal: he’s worse than that.
Power to the people? A year of no regrets? A brighter future to follow? I
should like to think so, but then again, we’d all like to think so. We’d all
like to say that we’d never regret anything. We’d all like to be of the
philosophy as set out in the terribly profound shampoo advert: ‘Life’s too
short to sit and watch… if my hair gets in a mess, so what? I know what’ll
fix it…’ and of course, the prophet we know as Ray Nightingale who I so love
to mention in books like this: ‘If you’re doing something right, keep doing
it’. Oh well, we’d all love to sound tremendously positive, you know, do
anything without feeling guilty about it later. We’d all love to be able to
say how we feel, tell people about our real emotions, and be more outgoing in
every way. But we’d all love to be able to believe in it. Sadly we can’t.
I’m sorry to end this chapter on such a sombre note, but you and I know that
next time you want to tell someone about your real feelings for them, the
concrete barricade in your brain will come down and once again, you’ll be lost
for words and suddenly have to go to the toilet for no particular reason. My
final thought? Well, I’ve said a lot about it, but before we even get near to
having power to the people, the rise of the masses and all-out revolution,
we’ve at least all got to agree with each other first. Sleep well tonight, and
don’t let this chapter grind you down. I appreciate your understanding.
D:
I Think It’s All Over
Shame, really. It was nice while it lasted. It’s been fun, that’s for
sure, but at the end of the day, we all have to go our separate ways. Endless
song quotes still won’t get us where we need to go, no matter how much we seem
to believe in them. Although the scientists say that they’re working on it,
but now we can clone a master race with the newly found DNA information so it
won’t ultimately matter. The age of the human is about to come to an end, and
like the English football team, it sure won’t be with a bang. We’ll just
slowly capitulate, surrender to all around us, and let the scientists take over.
But before that, we’ve just got to move on. You can’t hold on to the same
ideals for years on end. For goodness’ sake, I’m sure you’ve told others
to keep an open mind about things on many, many occasions. So how, then, can you
go against your philosophy so badly? Travel down one narrow track and you’re
in trouble if it gets blocked off in any way. That’s the way it goes in the
world of work, why can’t it apply to other ‘aspects’ as well? When you
find, around three years down the line, that through it all you’ve been
following no more than a lost cause, you’re going to find it difficult to
reverse back on yourself and head for the motorway of change, because of all the
traffic cones you seem to have put in your own way.
But you’ll manage; I don’t doubt it. I’ll manage – well I think
so, anyway. It seems to be a light-hearted, default answer, so I think I’ll
stick with it for now. It’s an easy solution to a problem that has grown just
a smidgeon too deep for anyone to comprehend in these fraught years we find
ourselves in. And we all know: a quick fix is easy and, well, quick, I guess.
Just put a large picture over the hole in your wall, and try not to induce
questions from others. Change the subject to the plot of Eastenders or
something, and consider yourself lucky you got away with it.
Bored now. Don’t know why. Just am. So much to write. So little time.
Bored, though. Should be pouring out emotions. Not funny, though. No ideas. No
purpose. Should stop book here. Can’t. Must write more. Hungry for more. Must
keep tapping keys. Must buy hundredweight of popcorn. Bored now. World falling
apart. Bad world. Naughty boy. Wild world. Hard to get by just upon a smile. How
true.
Besides, a little change never did anyone any harm, did it? They say a
change is as good as a rest, and we all know how good a rest can be at the right
time. But I’m starting to believe the little cliché now, you know. Change is
good, it makes stuff more interesting. Don’t hold on to old ideals when it’s
perfectly clear as mineral water itself they aren’t doing you the slightest
bit of good. I mean, where’s the sense in that? It’s like, I don’t know,
spending half your week’s wages on the Lottery each week, knowing that not
winning the jackpot will mean you’ll find it hard to survive. No
self-respecting person would be THAT stupid. They might come close – oh, how
close. It’s possible. But hey, a change might even – believe it or not –
do you good! To think Ms. Crow was singing it in your ear all this time! You
know, if you’re following a path – be it in a career or in social matters
– that just ain’t doing any good at all, that’s messing up your brain and
you know you’ll never succeed in because something’s actually made it
impossible, then why not change? You might find it gives you even more pleasure.
Although, of course, it might not, but that’s being too negative for this time
in the morning. Incidentally, top o’ the afore-mentioned morning to you,
you’re going to need it, trust me on that one. Aah, the liberation of writing
whatever it is that takes your fancy, it’s truly refreshing, consider the
lily, consider the bus stop, how the small buses and rabbit-shaped Easter eggs
trundle in and out all day, don’t they get tired? Aah, consider… the bus has
no friends, only enemies, aah… and yea, it keeps running, aah, consider… you
say you want a revolution? Well, you know, we all want to change the world. Come
to think of it, I do as well, so I won’t bother to quote any more of that
song, because I’m willing to join you any day. Just tell me, any time, if
you’re feeling rebellious, and we’ll storm the Houses of Parliament in a
two-person army. We’ll overthrow the Monarchy, the institution and pretty much
everything else. And then what? Then we get loaded – or totally legless –
but stay the same. And yes, that was a quote. I’m addicted, I’m sure of it,
I’m using too much repetition again I find myself using too much repetition
again, because I’m using too much repetition again. Stop right now. No, I’m
going no further down that road; it’d just be sad and pathetic. Hope
you’re with me on that one; most of the population seem to be. Death to all
things spicy. Yeah! Let’s overthrow the oppressive regime we know as the Spice
Girls! Yeah! I’m up for it… anyone else? No, didn’t think so.
Unenthusiastic so-and-sos. Oh well, even long shots make it sometimes, it was
worth a try…
But is all this getting a bit too heavy, man? Is a chapter in a
supposedly light-hearted book with the title of ‘I Think It’s All Over’
just a little too depressing for you? Or have you learned by now not to argue
with what I say because you can bet your life that there’s something at least
three times as depressing and melodramatic just around the corner? Let’s face
it; all the assumptions and inferences you can make from ‘I Think It’s
All Over’ are all as suicidal and terminal as each other. It may imply
that, I don’t know, someone’s died, or someone very important to another
person’s life has just disappeared – or at least denatured, to use the
utilitarian term – you see, I could go on, they’re all down in the dumps.
They’ll all make you cry and feel sorry for the poor sod they’re used in
reference to. But I don’t want to write a book like that. Although you may
have assumed that in the past, it’s not my cup of tea, I promise. All I want
to do is write something mildly readable for once. And if I have to get off my
ass and stop drivelling on about how the world’s such a grim place and start
being happy-happy-joy-joy once again, then so be it. Because I’m willing to do
it, that’s for sure. You’ve read this far, and therefore deserve something a
little better than what you’ve been getting up until now. I’m contented with
life, aren’t I? Of course I am. I’ve got over these minor obstacles and
mental blocks before, so I’m not going to let this stand in my way. You’re
all right, aren’t you? You don’t need a shoulder to cry on just yet? You
haven’t been through any disasters or mental breakdowns recently, have you? I
suppose not. So why, why, WHY, I ask you, have I been so depressing recently? I
haven’t actually been depressed myself for weeks, and even then it’s
only with the minor worries. So why am I finding it so much easier to write in a
way that is specifically tailored to make you, dear reader, want to chuck
yourself off the nearest bridge into a river with a steel ball on your right
foot? It’s just not right, I tell you! It’s just not cricket! And above all,
I’m bringing myself down as well with all this crap. It’s needless. It’s
gratuitous. It’s unnecessary. Whatever you want to call it, however many
synonyms you can find, the point stands that it’s not getting you or I
anywhere fast at the moment. If we want to strive for a better world, we’d
better start working together as a team. Then we won’t just be using the
brainpower and physical agility of one person (who may just as well be
terminally lacking in both those areas) but we’d have the strength of a whole
army. Well, the Army of San Marino at least, because we wouldn’t want the team
to be too big, now, would we? There
are plenty of obnoxious people out there, and they wouldn’t be good for
morale. They’d depress us all, for a start, and this time it would be on
purpose. They’d speak really sadly and melodramatically for the one aim of
bringing the mood down at our annual meetings and dinner parties. But we’d
kick them out of the door, we’d tell them where to stick it, we would. Oh
yeah. Because hey, we’re the new age. We’re our own people. We’re
individuals, for Pete’s sake, and we can do what the hell we like. And as a
bonus, we just happen to be the master race, so suck on that, the so-called
‘Government’ of this country, because the revolution is nigh and we’re
going to kick you off your very comfortable chairs yet!!!
-
Ah, but let us not forget why this book was ever written in the first
place.
-
Erm… actually, that’s quite a good question… let me see…
-
…no, it’s not actually that clear why it was written, back to
the studio…
Oh. Well. Um… fat lot of good THAT reporter was. Remind me to fire him
in the morning; we can’t have trash like that being broadcast on a Sunday.
It’d be worse than, well, T4. And you can’t get much worse than that, I’m
sure you’d agree. Oh hang on, the Bigger Breakfast – you know, the one they
show in the holidays. Yup, that’s the worst by far. But I’ve digressed way
too much from my main point. Why, I hear you scream at me from your pedestal on
high, was this piece of horse manure ever conjured up from the recesses of your
brain one night in April 2000?
Well… I guess I just needed some sort of medium to
relieve the negligible amount of stress I seem to find myself under. I’m good
at that, you see: finding a stressful situation out of something so blatantly
unstressful that it’s practically comatose. And so when all this built up, I
found myself snapping at people and breaking large tables in half with my bare
hands. I found myself eating light bulbs just so I could spit the glass out at
people. I found myself reading Essex girl jokes, which must be the ultimate
admission of defeat. When one’s mind is reduced to eating cheese and onion
crisps (you know, the blue ones), reading from the Encyclopaedia of Essex
Girl Jokes and playing Backgammon with yourself, you kinda feel that you’re at
the end of your tether and about to fall off a rather large cliff in much the
same fashion as Wile E Coyote. But really, if you’re looking for some sort of
hidden meaning in between the lines, firstly you’re a fool to believe that
you’ll find it (I’ve cleverly concealed it – I challenge anyone to make
the correct inference because there IS one), and secondly I’m
hardly going to tell you because it’s way too heavy and personal. No one
actually knows apart from me, and that’s the way it’s stinkin’ well going
to stay. Got it? Well, all right, I may disclose it if you pay me lots of money
and buy me a couple of pints. But no Grolsch please, it’s too foreign. Ooh,
yuck. So get searching. There’s a large cash prize to anyone who can decode
these 24 pages and work out why the hell I wrote it in the first place. And
I’m not talking about golden Cadbury’s Creme Eggs here either – oh no,
it’s much more serious. Maybe it’s not actually that well hidden and I
don’t realise it. In which case, as the actress said to the bishop, I’m a
little screwed. Oh well, it’ll all come out in the wash…
Tell
Him I Saw Blue Ostriches Of Kenya In Some War Ritual. I’m Telling Too –
Everything Narcotic About Bluetits Of Upper Tanganyika. Someone Offered Me Every
Ounce Near Equilibrium, ‘Cos A Lion Listens Every Day. You Just Fell Right
Into My Trap. If You Think You’re Going To Find Out The Meaning Of This Book
That Easily, You’re More Stupid Than I Thought. Stop Looking For The Obvious
Pathway And Consider The Meaning Of Life First. Haven’t You Learned Anything
Yet? L
Told you. You’re not going to catch me that easily. I’ll wriggle out
from your grasp like a snake trying to escape from the analysts. Hey, it’s all
right. Everyone’s got to start somewhere. You’ve just got to stop looking at
the surface – search deeper, seek and ye shall find. Or maybe ye won’t.
Maybe ye will just go around in circles forever, and end up reading things into
nursery rhymes or cheap Channel 5 documentaries. Maybe ye will make thyself
thine own vicious circle of failure and you’ll eventually concede to my
brimming cleverness at hiding stuff. Ha ha ha ha.
Besides, don’t worry if you’re stumped, the answer hasn’t been
concealed yet. It’s later on that the meaty stuff comes. Believe me, it
doesn’t look meaty at first glance – that is, until someone with an educated
mind reads it. It’s just to do with intelligence – you either have the
mental power to work out what it is that I mean or you don’t.
Anyway, enough of that. It’s all getting rather serious, ain’t it?
Way too serious for a family book like this. Oh, no, better not go down that
road again: last time I did that, I ended up tying mousetraps to my knees and
walking all the way to, I don’t know, somewhere far out in the country.
Somewhere synonymous with ‘trendy’ but with two major flaws. One, the fact
that the complete lack of intelligence of its founders meant that one of the
workmen’s axes fell conveniently on the very top of the latter rubber ring,
rendering it all but useless – except, possibly, as a magnet. Two, the fact
that in designing the town, they hadn’t left enough space for the
‘Welcome’ signpost. But as the slow-witted patch of water served as enough
of a reminder as to the actual name of the place, they decided that they’d
only include the latter portion of the letters. In a word, they beheaded
it. But through all these disasters, it was still a fine town, but only a town
at the end of the day. It was hardly a bustling centre of commerce; neither,
however, was it a small hamlet whose only inhabitants were the Giles family. But
they were proud of their town, and hey, why not shove the award on the end of
the name? After all, a town is for life, not just for Christmas. But alas, this
was many moons ago, my friend, and back in the days when they didn’t know how
to spell. You might say they were a little unintelligent – after all, schools
weren’t anything like what they are nowadays. And the tribute to their shining
lack of specific thought can still be seen as you pass the place by,
blissfully unaware of its history because you know you’re en-route to
somewhere a lot nicer, just a warning away.
Got it yet? Didn’t think so. That’s because we’re not even near
completion yet. Take the thing, take the inferred thing from it, take the event,
and take the date. Add exactly a week and see the cause of all the mayhem. OK,
now take one half of the public toilets (confused? The short version, of course)
in another language, take specific sectors from those. Count the sectors. Count
the ones that mean anything to YOU. Discard all the sectors that never have
meant anything. They’re not part of the equation although many probably
believe they are. And now think. Hard. Where were you while
we were getting high? If it doesn’t mean anything to you, you’re probably
not all that bothered in any case. I might think it’s all over. In fact I know
it’s all over. It’s all over, and I can accept this fate. They think
it’s all over. You can tell by the dead bodies on the pitch. This fate leaves
many skeletons in the cupboard as it ploughs depths no-one even dreamed of
before. The sick smell of waste will envelop the heads of twenty-six upstanding
members of the human race and they’ll be made to see the truth if they can
just get past the chlorine. They’ll choke on the horrible reality of it all.
But who would ever be the one to complete the quote? Who would dare? Who would
have the nerve? I sure wouldn’t. Nothing’s as simple as that: matter cannot
be created or destroyed. It can only change shape. Remember that one fact. Only
ONE person could ever remember that. It’s not over. If I complete the
famous quote, I’ll wreck it all. It never completely ends. It just, you know,
changes. We’ve got to live in hope that it won’t end. Because, although it
may bring us sadness, it will always bring us a lot more contentment than we
dare to admit. ¶
E:
You’ve Got A Friend (so Stop Treasure Hunting)
Before
I begin, I’d just like to set one thing straight. This chapter will not
contain any implication or hidden meaning. Don’t try to analyse the next four
pages because you’ll get completely the wrong end of the stick. It’s not
about that at all. That’s a serious and honest promise – and let’s face
it, if you can’t respect that, then this chapter can’t mean much to you
anyway, so I suggest getting some friends of your own who are too thick to care
about you not believing their words. If you’re looking for treasure, pick up
any Kit Williams book. Enjoy…
I can already tell that this is going to be difficult. The very fact that
in this line alone, I’ve already made three spelling mistakes (deleted them,
obviously), doesn’t really say much about my confidence as far as this is
concerned. Maybe it can be put down to something like the weather we’re
having, and how much my fingers are shivering. Yes, let’s say that, it sounds
nicer. But in any case, I’m not feeling the most confident I’ve ever felt
before. But I’m sure that somehow I’ll struggle through.
So, who are your friends? A general question if ever I saw one, but who
are they? And I don’t mean the people who like to think they’re your
friends, or the people who you would like to think are your friends, if any.
Hey, some people look up to others, although it’s not a pastime I’d
recommend. I don’t even mean the people you often hang around with and
sometimes hold conversations with. No, I’m talking about close friends: you
know, the ones whom are generally seen by society as being all but indispensable
to everyone’s cause. The people you can genuinely talk to for an honest
opinion. The people who you never get annoyed with, or bored of. Those whom
you’re sure life would be a sight more difficult without. Those who you can
tell everything and expect unbiased opinions back from. Friends who you can
trust, you know the ones? I’m sure, and hey, why don’t we make this chapter
a little bit of a tribute to this section of the population? That’s right,
kick out anyone who couldn’t possibly pose as one of these and you’ve got a
worthy population without any sign of loners or sad old men. Export them all to
Guyana; I hear that there’s a bit of a population problem over there. And just
keep all the friends. It’s that simple. When you’ve done that, you can start
to appreciate just how integral these people are to all of our lives. You may
have only one, you may have two. Heck, you may have nine or ten. However,
you’ve got them all the same, and they’re something to be cherished. You’d
go mad without them. I’d go mad without them. These people deserve a medal
each, when you think about it. For services to saving us all from all evil, they
should go down in history, that’s for sure.
But as we all know, these people don’t want that. They’re unselfish
enough to do it for free, for their own friendship – you know, it’s truly
something to cherish. It just seems a shame when some people don’t value them
enough – you know, to mess them around, to take their friendship for granted,
to rely on them not batting an eyelid whilst they go on and do something truly
out-of-order. Some do, I’m sure you know at least one of these people as a
model of all that is bad. You see them in the newspapers as well, when
situations involve someone’s life going down the plughole. Sometimes, though,
we find ourselves intermingling with these people first-hand. And that’s when
it hits home. Don’t get me wrong here: I’m sure that most friendships last a
lifetime. I’m positive that the overwhelming majority of people are strong
enough to keep at least one good friend going for their whole lives. But, well,
I don’t know, it just seems to be in some people’s mental make-up to abuse
their fellow human and take him or her as if he or she doesn’t mean a thing.
Oh well, if it’s what turns them on, I can’t argue, but it’s a little out
of order, to say the least. These people need a little sense talked down to them
from on high. Respect your friends, they’re the only ones you’ve got at the
moment and you’re not guaranteed a better fit if you try to trade them in for
another model. At least be human about it…
Yes, I know, I’m struggling and it’s getting stale. Oh well. I was
hoping initially that this would be a really interesting chapter, with lots and
lots of profound thought and cause for discussion on a wide range of topics. But
hey, looks like it’s heading for Crapsville from where I’m standing. But
I’m still standing, better than I ever did. Well I think so, anyway. I’d
better check, otherwise I’ll just be falling through the ground quicker than
you can say ‘wet cement’. Don’t walk here; you’ll only catch a cold.
So, what with friends, or just old James Taylor songs, or both? What do I
have to say? It can’t be said I have a lot to say about it, I’ve
written…err…one page (ooh, that’s a lot, isn’t it?) now, so I’ve
pretty much covered all I could. Not that I don’t value friendships, it seems
blatantly obvious that I do. It’s just that, well, it’s one of those things
that a) most people seem to ‘get’ anyway, and b) to analyse friendships in
too much detail would kinda wreck the whole idea of it. The truth is: you
can’t dissect a phenomenon and expect it to come out at the other end just as
good as it was. Take the example of the music track. True, it might be great the
first time you hear it. But what if you go and buy it on a CD single, and play
nothing but the song for the next few months? You’d get bored of it,
wouldn’t you? What if you heard nothing but that particular song on the radio
for the next few months after that? It could easily happen, I’m sure you’ll
agree. You’d get sick of it, no matter how good it was in the first place. It
could be a musical masterpiece, and could stay at Number 1 for at least ten or
twelve weeks – but the whole population would be kicking their radios every
time they heard it by about Week 9. BUT, if it wasn’t played to death, if it
wasn’t dissected to the very last chord, if the population didn’t get to
hear it so much that everyone ended up knowing the exact positions of every
note, then I reckon that its magic would last for that much longer. And it’s
the same with this subject. Instead of playing it to death, I could talk it
to death, or argue it to death. I could describe it in every last
detail so that no stone is left unturned. But it’d be boring, samey, and
you’d get sick of it. You may even end up valuing your own dear friendships
less because of my preaching rubbing off on you, in the vein that you’d know
why every single circumstance occurs in a logical fashion. Well, all the ones
I’d mention, I’m sure I don’t know about the logical workings of
friendships that well either. But the most common bits, the bits that everyone
knows about: I’m not going to sit here and wreck them. Treasure the friends
you’ve got and don’t listen to people talking crap about them – you know,
those utilitarian sods who think everything comes down to nuts and bolts at the
end of the day. Well it doesn’t. Same with relationships… but I’m quite
obviously not going to go down that road, I’ll get someone a little bit better
qualified for that. My dazzling lack of experience in this field would make it
way too unrealistic. So hey, respect man, we’ll live with our own qualms and
incompetence. All animals are equal… you know the rest. It may apply to humans
as well. But, as we all know, that’s another story…
F:
Stuck In The Mud: Paranoid and Depressed (Skip These Pages)
I feel weird. I feel so weird. Incase you’re wondering, I’m writing
this off the back of the huge media scandal involving the PM’s son getting
plastered after his exams and throwing up in the street. The media are divided
– some say we should stop all this happening and clamp down on the primarily
criminal and illegal activity that is underage drinking, but most of the
population seem to be of the view that it’s OK for kids like what’s-his-name
to experiment with things like this. They seem to think that they shouldn’t be
punished but rather be allowed to obtain their experience from trial and error,
because adults can’t stop them. Some are even saying that adults are too harsh
on this section of the population and that back in the 70s it was ten times as
bad.
And it’s strange, but somehow I feel guilty. I feel criminal. I feel
like an insult to the state. I feel unworthy of living in this country. All of a
sudden I feel like an outcast – someone who doesn’t deserve the hospitality
of society in this country anymore. Why? Because on a few occasions, I’ve been
at a pub and I’ve bought myself a drink. And I feel absolutely and totally
ashamed. I feel like a let-down, not just to myself, but to my parents and these
people who are meant to be taking care of my welfare and ensuring that I don’t
end up under lock and key in later life, sharing a cramped cell every night with
four other large burly men with anchor tattoos on their shoulders. I feel like a
disgrace, because I am officially a criminal. And I know why. It’s the lack of
oblivious innocence that normally envelops around me – and probably many
others – in this situation. Instead of hearing about teenagers, I don’t
know, killing old ladies, shoplifting and the like, and saying ‘oh well,
it’s never going to happen to me because I’ve got better morals’, it’s
suddenly hit home to me that actually I’m not above all this. It’s
suddenly occurred to me that these disgraceful criminal acts that everyone in
the newspapers and on the radio is talking about are acts that I, in the past,
have unfortunately participated in. So, all of a sudden, I’m feeling guilty
about the things I’ve done. I’ve abused the laws of the land. They’re not
there to be broken – can’t these people see that? They’re there for the
protection of the majority. And they’re there to make sure that everyone’s
on a level playing field. So it kinda devalues them when, say, someone in a pub
in Manchester gets arrested and charged the maximum fine for drinking half a
pint of lager on the eve of their eighteenth birthday, when I’m here in
Norwich on the same Friday night at the tender (and assumedly innocent) age of
16, drinking maybe two pints in the total belief that it’s all right because
other people around me are doing the same. I feel like all I’ve been saying in
the last two years in these books – you know, the shit about being your own
person and not giving in to the ideals of others – is now worth exactly naught
because I can’t pretend any longer that I’m not just as much of a sheep –
if not even more so – than many other people. What’s the use in saying
‘yeah, let’s be free individuals’ and all the other CRAP when you
can’t even keep to your own ideals? That’s why I’m ashamed: because
I’ve been sitting up here on my high and mighty seat for these last three
books, trying to preach to the readers about what’s right and wrong in the
modern world when all along it’s been clear as day that I don’t know what
the hell I’m going on about. I’m just stating the cliché, I’m just
telling you what you want to hear, what’ll give you a feeling of security,
what’ll make you believe that you’re not a slave to the system. But now, I
can’t, in two short words. Because suddenly I’m not so innocent. Because
suddenly I’m not entitled to point and laugh at the supposedly bad and immoral
people in the newspapers, on the television, on the radio. I’ve just found out
how much my so-called ‘morals’ really do mean, and it’s not a pretty
sight. I’ve found out already that all my opinions on coping with life itself
are worth much less than nothing. If you’ve forgotten, see page eight of this
very book, it’s probably worth the reference so you can see just how much of a
hypocrite I really am. You’re not reading profound work here; you’re not
reading the work of a genius. You’re not even reading anything that will ever
get published, or possibly even shown to you in the first place. You’re just
reading a very short, very amateur piece of writing which I just like to think
to myself might be taken on board by someone – somewhere. But it’s not true,
because I can’t even trust my own opinions anymore; because I’ve been, as
I’ve already said on page 8, wrapped in cotton wool for too long, and as such,
don’t have experience. And what have I done with this luxury, this privilege
that is only granted to the lucky few? I’ve abused it. I’ve wrecked it.
I’ve taken it for granted and destroyed all meaning it ever had. And I’ve
done this by breaking the laws of this nation that were set out in the first
place to protect people just like me from the so-called scourge of human
existence. And yes, it’s a tough pill to swallow when you realise that the
scourge you’ve been told not to mix with for the last sixteen years actually
includes yourself – when you realise that you’ve just sacrificed your basic
human rights by breaking your half of the contract and rendering it null and
void. And for what? A pint of beer. How pathetic.
So, I hope you know me a little better now. I hope you can see what I’m
really like under the exterior I choose to show the world. I think it’s good
to see what people are really like under their masks, it allows you to know them
a lot better and empathise with them a lot better, if that’s really what you
want to do. We’re almost at the end, well all but an epilogue anyway, so I
sincerely hope that this book has been of some use to you at least, even if you
do only use it for firewood. At the end of the day, it’s not a ‘record of
achievement’ like the ones the Government keep telling us to compile (yeah,
like we’ll really get a job as a result of it), because I don’t believe the
term applies to me really. I reckon that it’d be a whole lot more accurate if
some people compiled ‘records of glistening overachievement’ and some people
did ‘records of disheartening underachievement’. Yeah, there was potential
there, somewhere along the line. You know, I guess I could have done something
at some point. Oh well, I never did find out where I put it. I must have left it
at the bottom of my bag, or not had it with me on that day. Like those plastic
red lunchboxes, I left it on the coach while everyone else brought theirs along
to the beach. Yes, it was a subject of amusement for a while, but I coped. And
yes, I know, it would have come in handy for my revision – you keep telling me
this. You keep telling me a lot of things. You keep shouting them in my ears,
loud and clear, oh don’t worry, I can hear you all right, yes, I’m
receiving, Houston, we have a problem… the fact it’s hard to admit that
people make mistakes. It’s what keeps the world spinning around. Please check
your change, as mistakes cannot be rectified afterwards. And how true as well.
So now… you have one more simple command. Relax. Sit back and let go.
Free your mind. Forget the trials and tribulations of whatever’s going on and
just stop worrying for a minute. Because it’s all freewheeling from here,
I’m going to ease off a little. The bad apples have all been destroyed, the
first twenty pages are out of the way, and you won’t have to do that anymore.
You won’t even have to write a 1000-word analytical essay on this book’s
strengths and weaknesses, I’ll check with the authorities. I don’t think
it’s obligatory. So just forget about it, and wallow in the fact that you can
quit at any time. You can pull the self-destruct lead and close this book at any
point over the remainder of the time we have together. Above all, please don’t
take me seriously. Don’t call me baby. And always look on the bright side of
life…
G:
Thoughts of a Has-Been Fascist Dictator
If
I Have Seen Further…
I know, it’s been quoted a thousand times. It seems to be the favourite
nowadays. It was spoken by a certain philosopher and scientist way back in the
days before the toaster or the electric shaver, but that never stopped him from
being a rather clever geezer, in all honesty. That is, before the poor man got
hit on the head by an apple. He was never quite the same after that, you know.
He started going on about all these things to do with why things drop and
don’t float. It’s all rubbish, I’m sure you know that anyway. I float. You
float. He/she/it floats. Et cetera – we all do it in everyday life, so why
blaspheme against it? You float (plural). So really, no-one took any
notice until someone dropped a hint (get it?) at someone’s very posh dinner
party that he came from a wealthy background. Then they took notice, you
won’t find anyone from the inner city get a place at Cambridge, mark my words.
We float. And if we don’t want to, we sink. If we can’t float, we
sink. If we try to rebel against floating, we sink. If floating is against our
religion, we sink. If we can’t afford to float, we sink. Oh dear. Life’s a
bitch. How many things could be said after that? Am I being way too predictable
‘Joseph Goebbels’ for your liking? Do you ‘carrots’ want me to be more
spontaneous, or just come up with ‘cotton wool balls’ something in the
middle of a sentence just (9.25 to Acle) to make it more interesting? I will
float. I have floated. I would float. I had floated. Je floaterais. Apres
avoir floaté etc…
But really, if I have seen further than you expected me to see (which I
doubt) please tell me about the fact. Maybe I need new glasses, you know, those
tinted ones that work just as well but make you look hip and groovy into the
bargain. I’d like to think I could. That’s what I’m here for: I’m here
to help. Smile, approach the customer within ten seconds and make a pleasant
comment about the current value of the Deutschmark. Cater to their every need
and don’t shy away from them. Don’t avoid particularly smelly customers.
It’s just not good company policy. If you’re feeling bored, at least make an
effort to look busy, even if it escapes your abilities. I guess that if I
have seen further, then I must have the family telescope at the moment. X-)
(Hey,
it’s another smiley…!)
…It
Is By Standing…
And how competently I seem to do it, as well. Looking like a true
survivor, feeling like a little squid. But nevertheless, I haven’t fallen yet;
I haven’t looked down, behind me or back in anger. Not even, come to think of
it, a mixture of the three. My legs haven’t collapsed yet, although I’m
still waiting for the day. No more running around, yeah, I’d just sit in a
chair all day and get fat. But what’s the use of standing anyway, if you
don’t know what you’re standing on? What’s the use of building a house
when you’ve got nothing to build on? Only change your scenery if you’re sure
it’s safe and won’t upset the neighbours. In hindsight, I’d probably never
have written this in the first place. No, that’s not true. Instead, I’d have
written it and burned it immediately afterwards, as a sacrifice to the Great
Powers that Be – a token signifying all that is wrong with the world and
today’s society. How much longer can I stand it? How much longer can you stand
it? The question is, who will give up first? Maybe the only reason that I’ve
never once looked back is that I know it’s bound to be something ugly and
nasty that is going to bite my head off. Inevitably, it would lead to my
downfall – so I keep standing, as proud as possible under the circumstances,
to keep the thing at bay for another day, or at least before someone comes up to
me and says something like ‘Oi, mate – you’ll never believe who’s
following you…!’
…On
The Shoulders Of Clichés
Hang
on a minute, though: if no-one ever used any clichés whatsoever, there
wouldn’t be such a thing, would there? If everyone was original enough
to think up his or her own ways of saying things, we wouldn’t need the term
‘cliché’ in the first place, would we? So therefore, if the whole idea of a
cliché is that many people think it profound enough to use it so much that it
gains the status initially, surely it’s got to be a half-decent,
well-thought-out statement, right? You couldn’t possibly get an overused
saying that was extremist, or which didn’t hold water in an argument, could
you? So why do we shy away from them so much? Why don’t we just embrace them
and consider the whole idea that they exist to be a positive statement on the
nation’s people – namely, that we’re all like-minded, rounded individuals
who have sound enough views to be unable to escape the use of the cliché? And
why put me down for being predictable when you’re probably taking stuff like
this for granted in the first place? For every famous, outspoken character,
there’s bound to be at least ten who hold obvious opinions on the same issue.
So maybe it’s not that I’m boring and predictable, maybe I’m just your
ordinary geezer in the street who won’t start a riot if you ask me my views on
Britain joining the Euro or fox hunting. Maybe at one point I could have been a
fantastic fascist dictator. Maybe at one point I would have made an equally good
Prime Minister. But I don’t like myself when I’m slagging off everyone.
It’s unfair on the people at the wrong end of the blade because they haven’t
got a chance to answer me before everyone starts agreeing with me (or otherwise)
and taking the point on board. So I’d rather be kind as an alternative to
insulting for the sake of insulting and looking hard in front of everyone
without throwing a single punch. Yes, there are certain benefits to it, look at
Margaret Thatcher. But I’d never want to be associated with her. Heck, I drew
the line at Jeremy Clarkson; I’m hardly going to be willing to step into
Maggie’s shoes for even a day. No, give the prize to the poor sod next to me.
I
Believe I Can Fly
I wonder who will be the first person in the future to invent
anti-gravity? I guess he or she would end up an instant millionaire… it’s
worth thinking about if you’re into that sort of thing. Think of all the
problems it would solve! Erm… OK, not many, but it would make life a lot more
fun, I guess. Invisibility? That’s another brilliant one, but it’s kinda
scary when you think about it in more detail. If there were no strict rules
governing it, then it could easily get out of hand and people would get hurt. It
goes without saying that it would make murder a whole lot easier. What about
time travel, then? I know, it’ll probably be thousands of years yet. But just
imagine for a moment, you’re one of those people who asked specifically to be
frozen after their death so that they could be revived (hopefully) in a more
scientifically developed world so their diseases could be cured with advanced
medicine. What on earth would happen there? You’d get to the gates of Heaven,
but have to be sent back down to Earth again because apparently, you were still
alive. Hmm, dodgy ground there, don’t want to be sued by the Pope, I
wouldn’t stand a chance. X-ray spectacles? Or do they already exist somewhere
in quirky parts of California? I know, it’s all idle, wistful thought, which
really shouldn’t be allowed into a book like this. But just imagine,
wouldn’t it be great? Point taken, on to the next…
Day
Sleeper
Question 3. Read
pages 15-16 of ‘Record of Underachievement’. Haven’t worked it out yet?
Don’t fret, you probably never will anyway. Don’t think any less of yourself
for it, many mathematicians and philosophers have tried and failed. It’s all
right, baby. We’ll get through it together… oh yeah, write some sort of
essay… (20 marks)
I’m still waiting for that list of fifty things that you love. I know,
it’ll probably never be completed – through all this supposed change it’s
hard to believe we’ve changed so little. Throw some more wood on the fire,
order tomorrow’s copy of the Daily Mail and settle down with a cup of hot
chocolate and your prepared list of a thousand things you hate. It’s all too
melodramatic for me to take. If you’re not careful I’ll end up drowning
myself in a river – and possibly taking you with me out of utter madness. So
when you get up to four hundred hateful things, stop. And you see that fire over
there, which is burning as brightly as the sun in the sky? Chuck the list in and
watch it burn. Not only will it be symbolic if you’re still feeling just as
strongly about the things on the list (i.e. they are no more and all that…),
but let’s face it: you never needed the list in the first place. It’ll just
stress you out; make you feel built-up loathing for all those things at once.
Reading the list will be like watching twelve solid hours of Countdown with all
the mildly interesting bits edited out so that all you’re forced to watch is
twelve hours of Richard Whiteley’s bad jokes. How stressed and angry at the
world would you be after that? Quite a lot, I’m guessing. So why write that
list? No good reason for it. Just complete the love list, that’s all. Good
karma, now, you don’t want your blood pressure to suffer.
Remember
My Name
It’s a little bit strange, you know, when you tell someone about
something or other about someone else or someone completely different, which you
later found applies to the listening party a lot more and, as such, would have
made it a bad idea to tell them in the first place, because due to their
involvement which you didn’t know of before, they were quietly taken aback by
it. In fact, if you looked closely you could see them moving slightly away –
and if you listened closely enough, you could hear them changing the subject…
they didn’t want to hear what you had in store, but didn’t want you to get
the wrong idea that they were being off-hand or impolite. They knew you didn’t
know, but you didn’t know it. A tough situation? I think so. But really,
there’d be no harm done, so it’d cancel out to ‘strange and forgotten’
in the end – before you actually realised why they were so eager to change the
subject to the weather in Cairo (I hear it’s rather warm, you know). Really?
Wouldn’t expect it, myself. To forgive and forget is a great power, so don’t
take this too seriously. Getting a little heavy now, I know, I’ll end this
book on a high yet. It’s not over until the fat lady breaks the windows and
everything comes crashing down on the spectators.
Strange and forgotten. Yes, that seems like a handy little sound
bite if ever I heard one. Not dazed and confused, or pushing up daisies, or
difficult to impossible. No, just strange for a while – and then conveniently
forgotten, like the leaf getting stuck in your hair on a windy day. It’s what
I’d like on my gravestone… NOOOO!!!! Too depressing!!!! Not for internal
consumption!!!! Didn’t mean it, honestly!!!! Now stop it and get on with the
rest of the bloody thing!!!!
What,
You Mean We’re There Already?
Oh, what, you mean it’s over? You really mean that our beautiful
honeymoon together has come to an end? Well, it had to stop sometime, and I
guess there’s no time like the present. Well that’s the theory anyway;
it’s up to you to put it into practice. Have you got the wherewithal? Do you
have the bottle to live for the moment? Do you have the strength to fight off
all of your own inhibitions and wear your heart truly on your sleeve? Can you
battle to your very last breath in the most gruelling of contests, knowing that
the prize is always waiting, at the end, for the ultimate winner? Can you take
blows and knocks, time after time, week after week, year after year, and still
come out at the other end – all guns blazing and ready to rock? Are you strong
enough? Are you bad enough? Are you ready for the push?
Credits
(in
no particular order of importance, naturally)
Toby
Royal, ‘God’s Gift To Absolutely Everything’
–
For contributions on page ten and services to Weight Watchers
Becky
Tataryn, ‘I’m Covered In Pot Noodle’
–
For services to the undead, pour être une demi-goddess et pour
aimer le maquillage noir et les hommes morts. Aussi pour aimer les vampires.
Wessen Schwein ist das? (Also for getting a much bigger credit than
everyone else.)
Tim
Chung, ‘Linguistical, Mystical Science-Minded
Logical Ambitious-Capricorn’
–
For services to peace, beer, innumeracy and because he wanted a credit
Joe
Beames, ‘The Number Of The Beast’
–
For services to ‘my amusing brain’, ironic expressions and, of course,
Iron Maiden
Ed
Cash, ‘Yes – I Love Tom Cruise’
–
For services to whining (and dhining)
Dan
Ingram, ‘The Stylish Man About Town’
–
For services to sanity, or terminal lack thereof
***
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
So
yeah, I hope you enjoy this book and use it to its full potential, possibly for
fixing that wobbly leg on the dinner table or wedging in beside the washing
machine to stop it rattling. Then the book will be happy, just don’t chuck it
away as soon as you’ve read it. Other people may just be weird or naïve
enough to want to read it as well, so don’t be stupid and scribble all over
it, you know it makes sense. On second thoughts, when life gets a little bit
more fun and the Liberal Democrats win the General Election, I might just write
another one. Bribes to be sent to the normal address; apart from that state of
affairs, I guess I’m out of here. Thanks a lot to everyone above plus a few
others; couldn’t have done it without you. TTFN. Here’s the legal crap:
***
*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***
This
record of all that is wrong with the world was written in the rather scarily
short time period commencing April 13th 2000 and ending July
12th 2000. That’s only three months, shows you how much thought
went into it, I guess. Anyway, the author and person who you can blame for
everything to do with this book is none other than myself: Adam Gripton,
or Gippy, age 16 years 7 months 11 days. So… all rights, excluding the right
to show my backside in public at will, are reserved for a rainy day.
And I know you’re feeling me because you like it like this. No
unauthorised copying, distributing, adapting, selling, hiring or defacing of
this book permitted at all without my express permission. I may write
another, I probably won’t. See you later, keep the world blue and green and
don’t eat cold beans. Eternal respect to you all and I hope you do something
mildly interesting with your lives.
©
El Gippero, 2000
Back
to original page
Hang
on a minute, though: if no-one ever used any clichés whatsoever, there
wouldn’t be such a thing, would there? If everyone was original enough
to think up his or her own ways of saying things, we wouldn’t need the term
‘cliché’ in the first place, would we? So therefore, if the whole idea of a
cliché is that many people think it profound enough to use it so much that it
gains the status initially, surely it’s got to be a half-decent,
well-thought-out statement, right? You couldn’t possibly get an overused
saying that was extremist, or which didn’t hold water in an argument, could
you? So why do we shy away from them so much? Why don’t we just embrace them
and consider the whole idea that they exist to be a positive statement on the
nation’s people – namely, that we’re all like-minded, rounded individuals
who have sound enough views to be unable to escape the use of the cliché? And
why put me down for being predictable when you’re probably taking stuff like
this for granted in the first place? For every famous, outspoken character,
there’s bound to be at least ten who hold obvious opinions on the same issue.
So maybe it’s not that I’m boring and predictable, maybe I’m just your
ordinary geezer in the street who won’t start a riot if you ask me my views on
Britain joining the Euro or fox hunting. Maybe at one point I could have been a
fantastic fascist dictator. Maybe at one point I would have made an equally good
Prime Minister. But I don’t like myself when I’m slagging off everyone.
It’s unfair on the people at the wrong end of the blade because they haven’t
got a chance to answer me before everyone starts agreeing with me (or otherwise)
and taking the point on board. So I’d rather be kind as an alternative to
insulting for the sake of insulting and looking hard in front of everyone
without throwing a single punch. Yes, there are certain benefits to it, look at
Margaret Thatcher. But I’d never want to be associated with her. Heck, I drew
the line at Jeremy Clarkson; I’m hardly going to be willing to step into
Maggie’s shoes for even a day. No, give the prize to the poor sod next to me.