Christmas Post Drinking Fear

This Christmas season, like all that have preceded it, has been boozy. It wouldn’t be a huge exaggeration to say that on more than one occasion over the past week I’ve felt an awful lot like a flattened grape. Somewhat pulverized, excessively stirred and gradually, not helped by the freakish December heat wave, stewed just like the festively, sickly mulled wine I’ve been consuming by the barrel load.

Just like when I was twenty something, Sundays have once again become the designated hangover day.  However, unlike in my twenties, there’s never been a better time to be a temporary drunkard. Netflix has revolutionized the world of hangovers, with online movies and box sets streaming just a few clicks away. Many a December day, afternoon and evening this year has been spent led in front of the TV watching episode after episode of the new, next best thing. In case you’re wondering, right now it’s Californication, a story about a drunken writer, who isn’t really writing. I’ve no idea why this series “speaks to me” at this precise moment in time!

Another thing which has changed since my twenties is the degree to which I regret drinking,  which has astronomically increased. People often document the extent to which age brings increasingly harsh hangovers and let me state for the record, my hangovers do tend to make me feel like death on a bad acid trip. However, on this occasion I’m not actually referring to the physical pain brought on by excessive glugging. What gets the better of me after a heavy night out is actually the physiological impact of my pissedness. Regret, sorrow and a strange anxious feeling that can’t quite be explained are all common couplings of the throbbing head and nausea.  It is what is commonly referred to as “Post Drinking Fear” and this fear is never quite as rife as it is around the holiday period. It was this fear that led me to start running around three years ago, following on from a Christmas drinkathon.  This may seem an extreme re-navigation of one's life style based on a toxic cocktail of wine and beer, but nothing seemed more sensible following a month long bender than to sign up for a 26.4 miles run.

As I write this it’s raining outside. The wind is battering the windows and the rain is beating its drum against the glass. The sound of rain on windows reminds me of being a child. Growing up I lived in an old Victorian house, and my room was situated in a converted loft that happened to have a skyline panel just above my bed. As I child I loved the rain. The dramatic hammering of each water droplet, against that skyline, reinforced just how safe and warm I was and made the outside world seem somehow distant and unimportant. As an adult I don’t think that luxurious viewpoint is practical, and as such as the rain pounds my London dwelling I sit here inexplicably contemplating my Christmas fear.

Christmas, for most, means more chances to have a tipple or two. Often this leads to more like like a tipple or four. For many this is a cause for frivolity and cheer. Horary, for those people. More drinks, generally equates to more drunks, which in turn and depending on the character of said drunks leads to an increased level of happiness. Yes, yes we all know alcohol is a depressant but let’s gloss over that fact for now. Afterall, since when has the truth ever gotten in the way of me telling a story? For those of us that are prone to “The Fear”, Christmas poses a significant hurdle. With the inflated number of drinking related events, with both work based colleagues and friends, December represents a true opportunity to scuffer friendships, promotion hopes and new job opportunities. This all within the space of a few weeks!

Take one truly fear ridden example, the office party. Normally an event attended by colleagues, all of whom are encouraged to drink as much as they can, as quickly as possible, having eaten little or no food. This food, if indeed it is consumed at all, normally takes the physical form of pringles or slightly dodgy sausage rolls. Not exactly substantial!  It’s also worth bearing in mind that these same people come from an array of different background and all have completely unique personality types. So much so that under normal circumstances it’s unlikely you’d get such a mixture of people in the same room together socially. On top of that  you have a lot of suppressed emotion and feeling, from each group member, which he or she has probably tried desperately to hide for the duration of the year in the interest of work based cooperation. There’s absolutely no question that this is a solid breeding ground for Post Drinking Fear.

We’ve witnessed those cringe worthy situations where your manager starts to get a little loose with their tongue. They’ve had a few cheeky sherbets and all of a sudden they forget where they are and, more importantly, who they’re talking too. They’re with the workers and they start talking like they’re “one of the people”. Management aren’t people, we know that, they’re management so let us not pretend. I’m also certain that when they wake up they replay their ‘I’m one of you speeches’ through their head they’re completely mortified. They at least should be. Another favorite cameo at the Christmas party is the employee who decides to tell their boss exactly what they think of them. This has never ended pleasantly. Calling your boss a tosser, because he’s just proclaimed himself one of you, is not okay, and never will be. It also won’t help you with your ladder climbing ambitions.

Sadly it’s not just the tongue that loosens up after a few bevies. Many find drinking a great opportunity to abandon even the most basic of toilet etiquette. Christmas parties tend to prompt a raft of regrettable dribbling, peeing and puking escapades regardless of the social setting.  Now the above examples have been told from the perspective of a work party, but the same applies to friend based events as well. The catch up drinks start in late November and then come thick and fast. By the end of December, you’re so tired, who really knows what’s exiting your mouth, or who they’re offending in some way? I also find that that as the I also find that I end up meeting more friends together than at any other time of the year, giving proceedings a hint of unpredictability.

Perhaps that’s why Christmas drinking, for me at least, can feel more like work than pleasure. Too much drink and too many uncontrollable variables makes for a fear ridden time of the year. It’s little wonder that I wake up in a cold sweat, with an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach more frequently around December. My anxiousness is born from the overwhelming feeling that somehow, in a way I probably can’t remember very clearly, i’m sabotaging my own personal and professional life one drink at a time.  Did I say too much? Did I say too little? What did so and so think about this? What did so and so think about that? Even at the most opportune times I’m a pretty terrified person. I don’t just get post drinking fear but I also get pre drinking fear, which basically means that the only time I’m not afraid is when I’m drinking. Please don’t confuse this with alcoholism because I’m not saying I need to drink. All I saying is that I’m just terrified when I don’t!

Should I be worried about that? Maybe, possibly, probably. Oh bugger it, I'll have a drink to help me decide.

The Day of the Cockroach

A few Saturdays ago I was prompted to reflect upon a very ‘special’ portion of my life in London. This trip down memory lane was inspired by an afternoon visit to my old stomping ground, Portobello Road market.

Now before I continue, I want to put to bed any assumptions you may have about people who live in West London and, specifically, those who live in the Notting Hill area. They are not all rich. In fact, their liquid state is probably so hampered by their geographical residence that they’re more likely to be skint than you. That was certainly my story, and is the backdrop for this blog post.

My recent visit was very pleasant. Portobello Road market seems to have quietened down a little since I lived there, and I must say that browsing the selection of dubious antiques with my girlfriend was enjoyable. This was in sharp contrast to around eight years ago. Saturday mornings were a nightmare, because I’d spend the best past of half an hour dodging tourists to get to Notting Hill Gate - the exit point for the market.

However, things have changed and as we wandered through the thicket of stalls, I came across a familiar building. About three quarters of the way down Portobello Road, there’s a Thai restaurant. It's stood on the first floor of an old Victorian foundation, overlooking the market. The restaurant is made up of a small inside area and a makeshift balcony, which is particularly popular as it affords eaters a good opportunity to people and market watch. I know this popular spot well. My old flat was located next door to it. Turning off the main drag by a few houses, I took my girlfriend to my old residence. She didn’t seem impressed, and unsurprisingly so. The appearance from the outside is of a house that doesn’t belong to the rest of the street. A small Victorian period property with the white paint peeling from the exterior and the front garden overgrown with weeds and bushes. If I were to give it an adjective, “shabby” would be too kind. The other houses on the street are tidy, quirky and rather extravagant. My old flat was the runt, but still it had been my runt.

For a small fortune each month, I had rented a box room in this building. It had an en-suite bathroom, with no bath.  There was a tiny shower unit and toilet. This room was so narrow, you had to climb over the toilet to get to the shower. When you sat down on it, your knees touched the wall. It didn’t have a sink. The only sink was located in the main room and was next to a solitary kitchen unit, on which a plugin hob stood. There was an old wooden chair in the corner of the room, and a double bed that was raised, on stilts, about six feet above ground level. The kindest thing anyone said about my tiny abode was that it was a good utilisation of space.  

It was an interesting time for me personally and the place where I first made up my mind that I wanted to be a writer. I used to smoke roll ups sitting on my window ledge watching the world go by and pondering life. I didn’t own a TV, but I read more than at any other time before or since. Sometimes a stray tabby cat would peek in through a large bay window into my den, surveying the cluttered, unorganised mess. I’d always give it a saucer of milk but, despite my best efforts, it never stayed very long.The first part of my only summer in this flat was relatively happy. I worked hard for a law firm during the day and in the evening I wrote and read. Lancaster Road, the street I lived on,  was very quiet during the week. It was only Saturdays that the area erupted into a frenzy of shoppers and tourists. As such it proved easy to concentrate. Then August came, and with it a suppressive, moist, humid heat.

I had moved into the property in March and one of the things that I quickly discovered was was that the building had been divided up, in its entirety, into studio flats. Over the course of my tenancy, I caught the odd glimpse into the other rooms/flats. The were woefully tiny spaces. Smaller without exception than my own, and jammed to the gills with belongings. In the heat of the summer this made for a horrifically unhygienic environment and, coupled with its geographical proximity to the market, meant vermin.

Frequently, as I drew deeply on my terribly made rollups and gazed out the window, I would hear the pitter patter of tiny feet. Four of them. It’s hard to look artistic and cool, smoking a cigarette, when mice are scuttling in and out of your living room-come-bedroom-come-kitchen. I’m not even convinced they were mice. If they were, they were bloody big ones. I'd go so far as to venture rat-sized ones. Maybe this was why the cat never stayed for long? These were, after all, very big rodents and I'd suggest an intimidating, if not scary, prospect for even the most sturdy feline. In short, it was quite grim, but, I could cope. After all, a few rats/mice never hurt anyone... unless of course you count the plague. In which case they did, a lot.

Sadly the mice/rat hybrids weren't the only unwanted lodgers. The hot August days, bought a wave of insects and bugs. One of these was: the cockroach. I must confess that up until that point, my knowledge of the cockroach was limited. In fact, I don’t think I’d ever seen one in the flesh until then. But let me tell you, in case you are as uneducated as I was in the cockroach department, baby cockroaches don’t look like adult ones. In fact, I’d seen quite a few baby insects crawling around and although I had found them somewhat annoying, I hadn’t been overly concerned. I’d used some fly spray on these pests and then not really given it much thought. They were small and greenish in colour, and I honestly thought they were some sort of plant-eating nuisance that had made their way into my living area; maybe from a shoe after walking in the park. Oh, how naive.

The first time I realised what they were was when I found one that had been afforded the time to grow fully. It had planted itself underneath a shirt I’d been drying on my solitary chair. I recall, vividly and with terror, removing the shirt to unearth a black mass around the size of a penny looking back at me. Okay, okay, maybe it wasn’t specifically looking at me, but it was definitely aware of my presence. I know this because when I gave out a horrified and wholey unmanly shriek, the little blighter ran off to some other region of the room hiding out of the light. A game of cat and mouse then proceeded. I chased it around the room desperately trying to whack it with a flip-flop, but it successfully evaded my attempts. The second thing you should know about cockroaches is they’re really rather quick. I, however, am nothing if not persistent and although it took a while, I was eventually triumphant. Once the extermination was complete, I cleaned the entire flat from top to bottom. It was during this cleansing session that the extent of my infestation became evident. I found a further two, fully grown, and many more greenish brown tinted smaller relatives, in various nooks and crannies. After disposing of them, I called my landlord. Embarrassed as I was that they were there, this certainly needed to be dealt with quickly and to his credit he organised an exterminator for the next day. He also informed me that the building had issues with cockroaches, which predated my inhabitation of the premises. This was something of a relief because until this point I had been more than just a little concerned that this situation had been brought on by my own poor general hygiene. As it turns its out it was someone else poor personal hygiene. Bastards!

Following the visit from the exterminators, life just sorted itself out; rolled on, if you like. Sure, I was a little more pensive when removing laundry from my chair, but in general nothing changed. The traps the exterminator put down seemed to do their job and as time went on I noticed fewer and fewer victims. I assumed this was because there were fewer victims left.

Then came the day of the cockroach. It was a Wednesday afternoon and the end of the summer. I was working at an office near Tower Bridge. The sun was out and I was finishing the last email of the day. At this point, a coworker and friend of mine, sauntered over to my desk cubicle and suggested a beer or two after work. Happy not to waste a seldom experienced meteorological event, the English sunshine, I agreed to join him in one of the local beer gardens. Having powered down my old-school desktop PC, I began to pack up my belonging into a snazzy leather brown satchel that I donned in those days. Yes, I had (and still do have ) a man bag, and no I’m not embarrassed about that fact. I’m a man, I have a bag, and, occasionally I have feelings and my own thoughts as well. Some of them don’t even involve football or boobies, although admittedly, a fair share of them do.  After all we’ve moved past the the ‘90’s and society firmly agrees that man bags, just like sensitivity and individualism, are perfectly normal, masculine things. Moreover, man bags, unlike sensitivity and individualism, also have the added benefit of being practical. But I digress. So, where was I? Ah yes, the daily, ritual of shutting up shop. Quickly, I performed a sweep for my personal effects: my book, sandwich box, notepad and wallet. All items hurriedly chucked into the neatly partitioned, velvet-lined, interior of my practical, portable personification of manliness. Now off to the pub. However, just as we were about to leave I realised I hadn’t packed my house keys. But they also weren't on my desk. I had a good rummage, firstly in my suit trousers, then in my jacket pockets, but both came up empty. Finally, I had one last proper fish around in the various compartments of my bag. Eventually, in one of the smaller, buttoned-up inner pockets! I located them. Oh joy, officially it was “Beer O’clock”!

Sadly, my delight from hearing the jingle-jangle of keys was short-lived because simultaneously, I felt a creepy, tingling sensation attach itself to my hand. This odd feeling swiftly began to move upwards towards my lower arm. Before I could say, “Bloody hell, there’s a cockroach on my arm!”, a cockroach had crawled along the sleeve of my suit jacket and onto my elbow. From there, it parachuted (very dramatic I know) onto my desk and then scurried away. It settled somewhere behind my monitor, a section of desk space used as a partition between my boss’s desk and my own. Joy.

Fortunity, this whole episode occurred very quickly. Even more fortunately my colleague, who incidentally was stood only about three feet away, was oblivious to everything. Somewhat stunned, I turned to him and said to go on without me. When asked why, I told him I’d forgotten to send an email.  After a brief but candid exchange where I was deemed to be, and I quote, “a pillock”, my friend and esteemed colleague left me to it. Once he was out of sight, I checked that no-one else was in the vicinity. Thankfully the coast was clear and as such I began to move my monitor and keyboard out of the way to search for the stowaway. 

I’m not ashamed to admit at this juncture that I was a little flustered. After all, I worked at a high end legal practice, and they did their business in a very swanky building. It was into this building that I had brought a cockroach. A cockroach that was now nestled somewhere amongst my belongings. My fear was elevated because I’d mentioned to my boss my infestation problem. After all, I’d needed to take a day off work to let the exterminator in, and I’d come clean about the reason. If I couldn’t catch it, and it made a reappearance the next day, there would be little doubt in his mind where it had came from. Can you imagine the shame? I certainly could.

For the next half hour, I shook cabling, I rustled papers and generally moved every movable object on my desk trying to find my unwanted guest. Eventually, I disturbed something that made it give away its position. I picked up a nearby ruler and made a few gamely swipes at it, but to no avail. It was too quick, and truth be told I a little slow. Despite being a worthy adversary, it soon made a mistake. After a few attempts to escape, it crawled to the end of the cubical, ran down one of the table legs and settled on a patch of floor under my desk. Thank god, it had nothing to hide behind. Thinking on my feet, I dived once again into my trusty man bag and retrieved my sandwich box. Carefully I open the lid and, using a technique I’d learnt trapping spiders in pint glasses as a child, I entombed it in my sandwich caked tupperware. Success! After a moment or two I managed to compose myself and even a ventured a cheeky inspection of my hostage. Then I made my way to the pub, but not before the box and its resident were disposed of in a nearby, outside litter bin.

Back to the here and now, I really did enjoy my day trip through the market in Notting Hill. But any visit will always be slightly marred by my jaded residential experience, the peak of which being the day I took a cockroach to work.

Socks

I'm going to keep this month's blog short. Primarily, because I'm starting work on a new book, and that's where I should be focusing, but also because I don't want to over egg this particular topic. After all, a long article about socks is a lot like a drunken Santa. Entertaining to begin with, but after the novelty wears off, it’s just a bit boring and slightly depressing. Effectively, you’re just watching a fat bearded man scratch and giggle to himself. 

Let me say, right from the off, that I have absolutely no qualms with wearing odd socks. None at all! And let me ask you this, why the devil should I? They’re effectively undergarments for my shoes. And, like all undergarment protectors, such as trousers, if I’m ever in a situation where I am taking them off, I’m normally pretty comfortable. This seems to really irritate people. I’m often asked how is it that I can’t organise a matching pair each day. If I was to provide a one word answer to this question, it would be laziness. I mean seriously, why extend the effort? After all I must have at least twenty pairs of socks. Yes, twenty. That’s forty socks. Each sock in its own unique stage of usage and cleaning. If I waited for one socks counterpart to arrive at the same stage of the wash-dry-wear-laundry basket-leave for two days-wash,  cycle, it could be weeks before it turned up. I’d probably have to have separate drawers to organise the whole affair. One draw for socks which were awaiting their companions, and another for those socks who’d already been re-united with their partner and were now waiting to snuggle with my feet. 

I can hear some of my dear readers tutting at my apparent stupidity. “Why”, they ask, “don’t you just wash your socks together? Then they’ll be ready to pair straight afterwards”. In order to address this question, I need to double back to the section above where I said I was lazy. Because in saying that I’m lazy, I’m only really telling half of the story. After all, if washing socks was so easy, laziness wouldn't be a problem. I’d put socks into the washer, I’d get them out, I’d wear them in their correct pairs. The problem however start with the idea, that this concept is possible. You do not put socks into a washing machine, and then get all of them out again. If you think this can be done, you are wrong. You are an idiot. The idea that socks go into a washing machine, and the same amount of socks come out again is a fallacy, dreamt up by idealists. Idealists who've clearly never done their own sock laundry. It slap-bam fails to take into account for the mini Bermuda triangle, swirly vortex that is my washing machine. A tiny wormhole to somewhere else in time and space. Twenty pairs go in, but, inexplicably, despite all the odds, only eighteen come out. That, for the mathematicians out there, is four fewer socks! Which, may I add, are never from the same pairs.  What’s equally mystifying is their reappearance in an entirely different un-sock-related wash two days later! I’m not sure how it happens but it does. I check the barrel of the washing machine each time I empty and fill a load. There’s nothing there, just the a glistening steel empty ring, smiling, smirking, plotting back at me. Then, when I’m washing my whites, right out of the blue, two pairs of coloured socks just re-appear. Zapped back into the troubled, soapy underbelly of my clothes purification device, fresh from some parallel dimension they were holidaying in for a few days. Obviously, there aren’t enough of them to spoil my whites outright. However, over time, it happens just enough to turn my whites, a slightly manky gray colour. 

I have another hypothesis. Something less from the realms of science fiction. Instead, spawned from a mind riddled with paranoia and boredom! It involves my house mate. Or if you did prefer my science fiction plot line, we can call him “The Washing Machine Goblin”. Either or is fine by me. Having lived with the Goblin for a year now, he knows the complex relationship I share with socks. He knows that as a man of thirty one, I have never bought a pair of sock (excluding football socks), in my life. If you’re asking, I receive bulk packs from my Mum on a twice annual basis. Once in the summer, again in the winter. This system, thus far, has never let me down, and by let me down I mean I’ve never been sock-less. Anyway, back to the main point. Knowing how rationed my socks sometimes become (particularly towards the end of a six month cycle), maybe, just maybe my housemate, a.k.a “The Washing Machine Goblin”, has started a deeply disturbing, cruel, psychological, frankly legendary practical joke. Every Saturday morning he casually mopes around the flat, posing as the most lackadaisical man who ever graced the planet, when in reality he’s a prankster mastermind. When I start my sock laundry, he’s casually sitting on the sofa, eating sardines from a can and watching Storage Hunters. Apart from the odor emitted by the sardines there’s nothing nefarious about this situation. Certainly nothing to cause suspicion. And so, I leave the kitchen. I tidy my room maybe? Or take a shower, more plausibly.  This is just the window he needs! His laziness was just a guise to lure me into leaving him alone with my washing. Whilst I’m gone, he creeps into the kitchen and stops the washing machine mid-cycle. To you or I stopping a wash mid-cycle would provide enough of a barrier to stop this prank dead in its tracks. But not for the Goblin. He’s a madman, a renegade, an anarchist! He roll’s with his six shooter off safety! So yes, he stops the washer mid-cycle.  Then he carefully selects four completely different socks and removes them from the machine. Why four, no one ever really knows, but always four! He hides them and returns to Storage Hunters and his canned fish. Then a few days later the process is reversed, soiling my whites, one tiny shade at a time.

I must admit this second hypothesis is unlikely. The only other possible reason my socks go missing is one that involves me being at fault. But given that this is the most likely, but least interesting, I’m going to ignore it. Instead, tonight, I’ll be setting traps for the Goblin.

Corporate Training

Over the last few weeks, at work, I’ve been nefariously observed by a “Be here now” plaque which has somehow managed to infiltrate my desk space. The small sign was part of the handout material given to me at the end of a corporate two day course. It called itself a Cultural Workshop course but really this was just a veil for its corporate cult-like ideology.  At one stage I found myself sat in a circle, with other newly indoctrinated employees, counting backwards from ten with my eyes closed trying to inhale and then exhale on cue. This was all done to the sound of piano music and a voice over from one of the instructors, who, well, instructed us.  When the music stopped and we were told to open our eyes, the instructor looked round the room, and with a smugness I’ve never witnessed in an actual human being before said “Yes, I know. Some people find that experience very powerful.” Maybe they do, maybe they do. I found it quite comical, if not just a little bit creepy. It was like a fledgling sexual partner who comes on too strong by telling you they love you after three weeks. In this case, one minute we were eating croissants, drinking coffee and talking about the state of the EU, the next we’re closing our eyes and sharing the inner workings of our soul - Too much, too soon.

Alongside the group mediation there was also a thing I liked to call “The Ball of Destiny”. The instructors didn’t give it this name, but I think I may put it in the course suggestion box as it seemed to fit the general dynamic pretty well. The course had us, the attendees and instructors, sit in a fully formed circle all looking inwards at one another. One person would hold a bouncy red ball and tell the rest of the group about themselves. When they were done they’d throw it at the next victim who had to do likewise. A cringy take on the “Introduce and say something interesting about yourself”  intros which most course have you do. However, It gets worse. Not content with throwing a ball at the other members of the group and introducing ourselves, we were also made to tell the group a personality trait we felt we had and how it was developed or obtained. This saw the analysts in the circle say things like “Hi I’m Joe and I’m an Analyst. I’m analytical and I developed this trait from my Dad as he’s an Analyst as well” . Thanks Joe, that was insightful and pretty kiss assy. Next up Sandra.  “Hi I’m Sandra and I’m a project manager. A character trait of mine is that I’m organized and I get this from my Mother who loves to host parties”. Really Sandra? That’s amazing. And so it went on. Everyone’s characteristics seemed to magically align to his or her job. It was almost like everyone in the room had somehow managed to find their ideal job, doing something which stunningly fit their own personality traits. Either that or they were bullshitting, which frankly I find more likely. When it came to me, I lied, although you’ll be pleased to know I didn’t say I was analytical or organized, but instead that I liked to learn. Still sickeningly corporate I know, but when “The Ball of Destiny” found its way into my hands I panicked! I think next time I want to share with a group of strangers I’ll attend an AA meeting. It may be tragic, heartbreaking and full of pain and struggle, but at least there’s a chance people will be genuine.

We were also given a ‘commitment book’. In it we were told to note down pledges which centred around promises about how we were going to go on to become better employees, and people. These promises were formulated from the concepts we’d learnt over the two days. The instructors would ask us to sit in silence and reflect on what we’d soaked up and write it down. This would happen at various intervals. As a general rule, I have no objection to writing notes down. In fact with my failing memory, it’s an imperative. I’ve always recorded things on paper and this has helped me to reinforce ideas I’ve heard, or read. I know I’m not alone in feeling like this. Take a look around a University lecture theatre, and you’ll see many scribblers. I’m willing to guess that half of them will never read a word they’ve written again. But I don’t think that’s the point. After we’d made our pledges, the instructors asked people to read them out to the rest of the group. This is where I took issue again. Why do we need to share? After all, each pledge or commitment was meant to be personal, so other than mutual back slapping, what purpose could there possibly be in reading them out? It really irked. There also seemed to be a slightly obsessive drive towards phrasing things the way the instructors told us to phrase things. For example we were told to put the words “ I promise that I will” at the beginning of each commitment, and this prefix was sternly enforced. At one point,  it became my turn to share the pledges i had written down and as such I grudgingly obliged. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of starting the sentence “ I will...” instead of “I promise that I will” and was interrupted mid flow by the instructor, who said, “If you could please start each commitment with the statement “I promise I will” next time please. All very finicky if you ask me, after all isn’t it the promise that’s important rather than the two words which precede it? Apparently not, without the “I promise I will” at the beginning of each pledge, the exercise clearly just isn’t worthwhile.     

Other than overly sharey exercises, the course was also was packed to the brim with creatively patronising phrases like “unfreeze yourself” and “Be here now”. In reality what they meant was “Change yourself into what we want you to be, without questioning us” and “focus on work you damn slacker”. The later one was such a focal point that the course organiser got it printed on pieces of plastic. The fruits of their labour that now surveys me like a CCTV camera from 1984 whilst I beaver away creating spreadsheets. So ominous is its presence that I swear that I can hear it radio transmitting information to the “Thought Police” whenever I have an independent idea that contradicts the corporate line or, less dramatically, take a cheeky peek at Facebook.  

When the course finally finished I must confess to being somewhat confused. After all it’s hard to listen to a message for two days straight without considering it. Following the final session other people seemed upbeat and happy in general. Whether this was because the course was over, or because they’d simply enjoyed it, I’m not sure. Generally I found the aftermath, odd. In terms of work practices, I haven’t seen much change. People are still late for meetings, they’re not really “Here Now”, and thankfully no one is massively keen on sharing their personal feelings. However, whenever anyone mentions the course in front of management, the vibe is gushing. This really pisses me off, and that’s probably why I’m writing this article.  I sat in one meeting, where we were asked to provide honest feedback on the course. The meeting had around twenty people in it and not one person said a single negative thing. I’m also sad and disappointed to include myself in that number. Now I know there were others in that room who thought it was crap, so why did no one speak up? I can only speculate as to the others silence but for me it was simple, I’ve done it before, with other similar courses, and i’ve been burned for being honest. You see, the courses build in anti-criticism messages into their own material, as self defense mechanism, protecting against negativity. Clever you say, damn right.  Previously, when I’ve expressed my actual views I’ve been challenged with a very pro-course rhetoric thrown back at me by other attendees, some of whom I know didn’t like the course either! Bastards. I get retorts like” you clearly missed the point”, or “Stop with your inertia to change”. In terms of the latest course the tag line “unfreeze yourself” seemed to lend itself to course defending comments. Therefore, on this latest of ‘honest feedback sessions’ I did what anyone in my situation would do and bit my tongue. 

Now that the dust has settled and I’ve caught up on the two days work I missed in the office, I’ve had time to reflect a little. After all’s said and done my overarching feeling at the towards this type of course is annoyance. I’m not annoyed that the corporation I work for has tried to make me better at my job. In fact I encourage it, I want to be! I’m not even that annoyed at the fact I spent two days analysing the deepest darkest corners of myself with a group of colleagues, some of whom I barely know. Although I don’t like the sharing part I think self analysis is something we all need to do and not just for work, but to be functional members of society. What does however annoy me immensely is that the corporation doesn’t feel me capable of doing either of these things without the aid of dodgy piano music and effectively a cult-like leader telling me how to breathe, think and feel. I know that one size doesn’t fit all, and some people I’m sure will have enjoyed our two day foray into spiritual enrichment, but for me, if enlightenment does come it won’t happen during corporate training.

A Small Ode to the Daily Mail

The Mail is the embodiment of evil. That’s probably what the headline of this article would be if it were written by a Daily Mail journalist. The article would almost certainly go on to criticise itself by explaining how it couldn’t be trusted for one, or all, of the following reasons: It was an immigrant. It was black. It was a Muslim (or maybe a Jew). It was homosexual. It was a woman. It was a sex addict, or pervert. It ‘was a drug addict. It was too short. It was too tall. It was too smart or too stupid. It was upper class. It was middle class. It was working class. It was an immigrant. It would cite immigration twice intentionally – it really hates immigration.  

The article would then go on to tell you that it’s NOT sexist, racist, stereotypical or xenophobic to be nervous, angry or hateful towards anyone who belongs to the aforementioned categories. In fact, the article would actually be actively encouraging you to take on these traits. It would encourage its reader to discuss topics by starting off the conversation with this well known gambit: “I’m not racist [replace with sexist, homophobic etc here as required] but…”

The article would then probably dig up a highly controversial fringe case, which it would palm off as “the norm”. It would rely on its readers’ trusting nature or their inability to apply even the smallest amount of critical thinking to a ‘newspaper’, which they probably understand to be factually based and unbiased.

Once the seed of prejudice had been planted, the article would start to push the readers’ panic button. After all, if the Daily Mail article wanted to sabotage the Daily Mail, there would need to be more than one Daily Mail. For example, there couldn’t just be one Daily Mail immigrant, drug user, homosexual, sex pervert, Muslim stealing a UK job. Because just one wouldn’t do. One could be a fluke. In order to grab people’s attention sufficiently it would need to be a much larger number. To scaremonger people into hatred there would definitely need to be more.  But what if there’s no proof?  Proof smoof!  Speculation is as good as proof, and miles more interesting. Something like “Thousands of Daily Mail immigrants could be criminal Muslims”. Yes excellent - classic Daily Mail; generalised, vague and divisionary. However, in case that wasn’t quite enough, the article would also make use of words like “epidemic” and “plague”, just to really play on people’s basest fears.

Every good slanderous, un-factual, gossip headline needs a follow-up and the piece for the Daily Mail about the threat of the Daily Mail would probably be no different.

But for a change of pace,  the new piece would almost certainly include a good old fashioned sex scandal about the Daily Mail. After all punters love a good sex scandal. Sure it ruins lives, but hey the Daily Mail surely deserves it, doesn’t it? Maybe the piece could dish the dirt on a senior editor. Something like “Senior Mail Editor has sex orgy while wife was pregnant”. That’s got a nice kick, especially when you consider the family element.  Why not combine this with a little drug use, maybe even  add a prostitute or two. Remember the golden rule, it doesn’t matter if it’s not true; you can always retract it later on.

The Daily Mail would probably file a complaint about the article the Daily Mail had published. And rightfully so. It was after all utter crap.

The Daily Mail would probably respond by saying that it’s all about supply and demand and the simple fact of the matter is, there’s a market for the Mail’s particular brand of hate. They would continue by saying that when people stopped wanting biased, unfactual, bigoted propaganda which makes you appalled to belong to the same species as those involved in it, they’d stop printing it. The victimised Daily Mail  would no doubt respond to this rubbish by informing the Daily Mail that this is the same statement sex traffickers, slave traders and arms dealers all use to make themselves feel better. For the first time in this article the Daily Mail would be correct.  

The Daily Mail would then finish their article about the Daily Mail with a few sentence of fact. Those lines of fact would be placed at the end of the article to minimise its readership. Those lines would probably contradict the entire argument contained in the article and ensure no lawsuits preceded.

...And all the while, all over the world, actual news went unreported. Hey hum, at least some hate got peddled.

  

Letting Go...

A couple of weeks ago I wrote a very depressing article on self destruction. Fortunately, I didn’t post it. Combined with the recent election campaigns and the results that followed it would have probably had you running for the kitchen knife with a ‘Harry Carry’ glint in your eye.

Instead of destruction I’ve gone a bit of a different way.  I’ve toned things down a little and mixed it up, instead choosing the less ominous topic of ‘letting go’. Now let me clarify right out of the starting gate, I’m referring to the good kind of ‘letting’ go and not the bad kind. Oh, yes dear reader there are two type of ‘letting go’. Probably even more, but definitely two. Firstly, there’s the bad kind of ‘letting go’. This was demonstrated superbly circa 1997 by the lovely Kate Winslet in Titanic. The unfortunate victim of this nefarious first category was the slightly frozen Leonardo Dicapario. I’ll always maintain to this day that when you say the words “I’ll never let go Jack”, you should at least hang on longer than the remainder of the thirty second scene.  Or am I just a sentimental, old romantic?  Anyway moving away from the un-continuously crap film Titanic and onto the other kind of ‘letting go’.  The good kind. The kind that’s prompted this article.

After a busy start to the year working, running and generally being social, things came to a sort of head. When I say a head, I mean a sort of exhausted head. Put less confusingly I hit a brick wall. When I was writing my self destruction article I had a sort of out-of-body moment. You know what I’m talking about. It’s that moment where you see yourself as someone else does, only whilst you’re still you. At that instant I was sat, well slumped, on my sofa trying desperately to write. However, it wasn’t going very well. I was un-glamorously sweating profusely with unbearable shakes because of a fairly over indulgent evening on the sauce and about three hours sleep. I also had a raging fever because of a cold I’d contracted during the week.  However, it wasn’t all bad. I had a sympathetic audience to watch my sorry-self gradually unravel - a mug of cold tea, a slightly smelly blanket and Lou Reed who drably invaded my consciousness. Not a great Saturday evening. Nor, may I add, was it particularly reflective of my current way of life pre-hangover. Anyway undeterred by my out of body experience and the horrific shadow of a man I encountered, I pressed on. I finished a little piece of writing, I drank my cold tea and then I fell asleep.

It was only during the week that I started to think about the slightly tragic Saturday. I reflected on that Friday nights fun, the Saturday day time come down, and to be honest the last six months in general which had led to that point. Hangovers don’t tend to stick with me for very long but the enormity of fun I’d had during the evening and gravity of the downer pushed me to ponder things in more detail. For the last few months I’ve been training for a half marathon working at a pretty elevated pace. Now add a bit of writing, reading, museum attending, gallery visiting and general lover of sports and alcohol into that mix and you’ve got all the basic ingredients to burnout. And that’s before you even include potential romantic engagements!

Unsurprisingly, I came to conclusion I was overdoing it a bit. This brings me nicely back on track to the second type of ‘letting go’, the good kind. The ‘letting go’ of the little things. The things you don’t really need, or even truly care about. After all you can’t do everything all the time, no matter how hard you try. As a competitive person I strive to do as much as possible, as do the people around me, and I also try to be the best version of myself. Therefore, the idea of not doing all the things I want to do was one that I didn’t like an awful lot. However, as an aspiring realist what choice do you really have? Spend your days exhausted, constantly trying to do everything, always on the move and continually worried what other people might think of you. Or do what you want to do and enjoy the things you can and want to do? When put in those sterling terms there’s really only one option. Enjoy yourself. 

My younger self, the handsome devil that he was, would have disagreed. Youthful and fresh faced he would have probably suggested that the older me, which incidentally is the me, me, was un-ambitious. He would have probably criticised me for giving up, giving up on my dreams. I’m not unambiguous and I’m certainly not giving up on any dreams. However, as I’ve already said I need to add a smidgen of realism to my metaphorical dreamy eyed sandwich. I think that pragmatism is important. It stops you chasing after the things that don’t really matter and are not even vaguely possible. How do you decide what matters? That’s the hardest question and invariable it’s going to differ from person to person. When I really think about what makes me happy it’s not really the things I spend the most time, or effort, on. For instance, for far too long I’ve sweated and worried about the outcome of pre-chosen corporate trajectory. Or in simpler terms, I’ve threat and toiled over my job.  In the grand scale of things it’s really not that important. I like my job and am happy to do it to the best of my ability, but you have to query whether the late stays and the extra hours are really worth it? If I’m honest they’re probably not. Especially not when you consider, the birthdays, the family events and the dates I’ve missed or been late to because of it. I’m not suggesting you sack off your job and live off the land, but when you consider the effort you divert into something you profit so little from it’s a little perverse. Simultaneously, if you then also consider what would actually happen if you did leave your job then maybe sacking it off and living off the land isn’t such a ridiculous idea? Anyway tangent, aside perspective is essential and if the younger me doesn’t like it, well, he can do one!

Another example of knowing when to let go is when your aspirations and talent don’t quite align. I talk about this particular subject with great experience. As an avid dreamer and let’s face it a hopeless romantic, I’m constantly afloat with grand ideas and shockingly low levels of actual aptitude. Believe me, as endearing as enthusiasm is it will only get you so far. For example, I know that despite my desire, it’s pretty obvious that I’ll never win Wimbledon or be given a professional football contract. Is it un-ambitious to write those objectives off my hit list? Of course not, it’s just a fact of life. Even if I was mesmerizingly good at either football or tennis, which for the record I’m not, no one over the age of thirty has ever won Wimbledon and although there is a first time for everything it’s unlikely to come from this direction.

So what then? Once you’ve discarded the shackles of work and the unrealistic pipedreams? Well, then you’re left with the good stuff. Well at least in my case you are. You’re left with your friends and family. You’re left with your passions and your hobbies. You’re still left with your dreams as well, but the ones you may actually achieve. Like getting married, gaining a PHD, traveling the world, owning a London town house (this one’s a borderline pipedream) or writing a successful blog.

The key to making all these things work is 'letting go’ of the utter bollocks. It’s not just about re-prioritising; it’s also about not giving yourself such a hard time, all the time. As I’ve already explained, you can’t do everything so why not loosen up a little and do what you love. 

Now then, isn’t that a tad more uplifting than self destruction!

Crazy or Cool?

Last month, as the inactivity in my love life stretched out for yet another month I contemplated the various misinterpreted romantic gestures that I've both received and given over the years. My mindset was swayed in this general direction by a number of failed forays into the romantic world since the turn of year. When recalling some of these seemingly wonderful ideas and activities one thing struck me as patently obvious. The line between keen, enthusiastic, sweet and romantic and utterly and completely bonkers is often hazy. Put more elegantly - Said lines are often hazed by the nefarious mists of perspective.

As fate would have it around the same time, which was last week in case you’re interested, I watched the film ‘Say Anything. As a fan of John Cusack, primarily because of his awesomeness in one of my favourite novels turned films High Fidelity, it struck a cord.  The staggeringly young Mr Cusack plays a hopeless romantic that is after the most popular girl at school. As a hopeless romantic myself I instantly empathized with John’s character. In the film he becomes increasingly out of his depth trying to win the female leads affections and as a result makes a series of sweet but inappropriate comments and actions. As this is a Hollywood film everything ends up working out okay, and the girl he’s after finds it all rather charming and endearing, rather than goofy and alarming. However, mid way through the film John get’s dumped and obviously he’s a little bit peeved about the whole thing. Not to be deterred, and not one for sulking he takes matter into his own hands and tries to get the dumper to take him back. In fact, so resolute is he, that he drives to her house with a ghetto blaster and stands outside it playing ‘their song’ at full volume. What a guy eh, and to give him extra credit it's worth remembering that this was the 1980’s and those ghetto blasters were huge! Talk about putting it out there. As I mention, the lady whose house it is finds it all very lovely, and eventually they fall in love. Great stuff. 

My first thoughts about this scene were tragically practical. To begin with I couldn't help but wonder what would happen if someone did this in real life. For example I became concerned about the the size of the sound system. Given my own personal experience of similar sized ghetto blasters or tape players I couldn't help but think about the battery power it took to operate. My opening guess was at least six AAA batteries, but who knows. It may have been more. If John was anything like me at that age he probably had a draw for batteries, which as a concept was pretty stupid. Only almost empty batteries got relegated to my draw and by definition probably shouldn't have ended up in there at all. What a different story it would have been if mid way through the song, the sound had conked out! Game over John my boy.

Secondly, I began to feel a little sorry for the female characters neighbour, and her family who for the record (pun intended) were inside the house at the time. The type of behaviour on display could inadvertently really end up pissing you off. Try and look at it from the outside looking in, and without the context of a romantic comedy. John's basically a hapless, scruffy looking youth inconsiderately playing his music at full volume. I know, I know that's unfair. Especially when we all know he’s really a 1980's romantic comedy legend plugging on the heartstrings of his young love.

Finally, and probably most importantly I realised how different things would have been if John’s young lady friend had not quite felt the same way about him. Picture it - boy holds ghetto blaster up to the girl who has just dumped him. She doesn't like him any more, she never really did, and now, now he just won’t go away. He writes letters, he calls her and finally, after she’s ignored all his advances, all of those things, he turns up and plays that damn song she secretly hates! It’s something of a different story isn't it. John has all of a sudden become the lonely weirdo who won’t take a hint. In his own eye’s nothings changed. He’s still in love. He’s still trying to win the girl over. However, the reality is no matter how good intentioned a gesture is, if the other persons not that interested you’ll likely come out looking needy, desperate or a bit strange.

I have a number of real life examples from my own dating life. I used to made mix tapes and CD’s for girls I liked as ways of expressing myself. Somehow saying something corny through the medium of song never seemed quite so bad. At University I did this a lot. It's probably because the soulful artist with hidden depths thing was pretty big back then. These gifts had varying results. I made the last one when I was about 24 and it aided me to get back with an ex. It was a compilation of songs we both loved. She enjoyed it and appreciated the effort which went into making it. If I was John Cusack it was my Ghetto blaster. Conversely, I once made a mix tape in my first year of University for a girl I quite liked. It was jammed packed full of plinky plonky guitar based love songs. We hadn't known each other for very long and retrospectively looking back the song choices were poor. Unsurprisingly, this didn't have a positive effect. She rapidly withdrew from my friendship group and never really talked with me again. I'm sure she told her friends I came on a bit strong, which I probably did. The truth is though, if she'd liked me it wouldn't have mattered. I've also draw pictures, written and received letters, planned picnics and purchased more scented candles than I’d care to admit to all in the interest of ‘winning’ someone’s affection. My personal favourite gift to receive is a inscribed book. Nothing could be better as far as I’m concerned. It’s something you will, or at least could keep forever, and every time you open it, see it or read it, you’ll see that personalised message and it'll make you smile. On the flip side, if you’re not too fond of that person that book will be ruined forever.  

My advice, and you’d be wise to make your own judgement, is to air on the side of caution. Better to be aloof and cool even if it’s misinterpreted as distant rather than crazy and too full on.