Where now?

Hello again. It’s been a few months since my last entry (three to be exact) and I must apologise for the little pause I’ve taken. It oozes of lackadaisicalness, but hopefully you won’t judge me too harshly. There have been many reasons for the absent musings. The main one, however, is that following the completion of my book I felt bloody exhausted. As such, I fancied doing a few other things with my free time before picking up the pen once again. Now sufficiently refreshed and brimming with ideas, I’m back to (hopefully), fill a few of those dull moments when you feel compelled or indeed obliged to stray to this blog.

It’s been an interesting month or so for me; there’s been the distinct smell of change in the air. It’s been coming for a while, and it’s been terrifying me. I’m not sure why, but presumably it’s been because I haven’t really known how that change will come nor what it will bring. It is this unknown that has been bothering me and it is this unknown that has stymied me from really moving forward. Bob Dylan once sang, “You’d better start swimming or you’ll sink like a stone, for the times they are a-changing”. Well honestly, in the last few months I haven’t been swimming and, although I think it would be unfair to say I’ve been sinking, I have at best been treading water.

Until, that is, the last few weeks. Those of you who read this blog regularly will probably know I broke up with someone at the turn of the year, someone who I cared about immensely. It wasn’t a horrible, bitter break up (and I’m friends with said person now) but it became a catalyst for a lot of soul-searching, and a well overdue re-evaluation of my priorities in life.


This particular article is not about women or indeed a specific woman. I hear you breathe a collective sigh of relief. Nevertheless I felt it appropriate to mention the trigger for my reflection. Of course I’ve had break ups before and they have not caused reflective periods of this nature. So, what made this different?

To begin with there were a number of other events that have rattled my currently bumbling existence. Singularly, these have not been too dramatic. Collectively, they have been more noticeable. In the same way that planets sometimes align themselves in such a way so as to affect gravitational cycles here on earth, causing things to go a little ‘wonky’, I’ve been subjected to an equally 'wonky' period because of a collection of small (not that planets are small) things coming together.

Firstly, over the past twelve months I’ve been lucky enough to attend six weddings, which without exception have been incredibly enjoyable occasions. However, they have bought into focus just how many of my peers have moved beyond any commitment issues experienced during their early twenties. To date, my own bag of 'commitmentphobe' issues have hindered most of my fledgling relationships.

Secondly, many of my friends are now leaving London for quieter English plains, or are choosing to the leave the UK altogether. Now, London is my home and let me say unreservedly that I love it here. But when close friends start to move away for a more ‘comfortable’ quality of life, it prompts you (or more precisely, me) to examine their motivations.

Finally, there’s the completion of my book, the writing of which has been a painstaking evacuation of feeling and thought that has left me feeling somewhat hollow. It’s still only in draft form and will need some serious revision before its ready for a wider audience. But, the bulk is complete. This is something I’ve been working towards in one manner or another for around five years. I still have other writing-based projects on the go, but this has been my Everest. Or, it at least felt that way between its inception right up until its final full stop.  This book has been my nucleus, my centre for so long that upon its competition I have to admit to being a little on the lost side. This, together with the mass-coupling and exodus of close friends, has left me without focus and without direction.

It’s probably at this point you’re beginning to wonder where I am going with this article. There may even be an expectation that I’ll impart some ‘world life’ lesson I’ve learnt, some guidance for those who may be struggling with a similar crisis of being. If that is the case, then I’m going to disappoint you I’m afraid; I have very little to offer you.  I have a few things figured out after much inward contemplation, but not everything.

I’ve learnt that, even after the horrid and frankly draining process of producing a very, very short book, I still want to write, probably more than I’ve wanted to do anything else as a vocation. I’ve learnt that friends and family are more important than anything else, even (sorry London) geography. And I’ve learnt that I’ll probably never have everything figured out.

The nicest part of this period, however, has been quite surprising. The beauty of having no direction, of not having any immediate goals, is that you get to make new ones. Most of the things I have been tidying up and finishing off over the last twelve months - in the context of both my personal and work life- have been things that have a far longer history. They have been the result of ideas formulated almost half a decade ago, and I’ve changed a lot since then. I now have a clean slate, a fresh start.

When I started this period of self-reflection, I thought that being by myself was a bad thing. I now know that if singledom becomes a perpetual state, then I am perhaps correct about this. However, one of the nicer parts of being a singleton is that you don’t have to compromise.

I have also been guilty in previous relationships of bending my ambitions and talents to impress my partner. At this point in my life, I don’t have this problem anymore; any new direction I take will be my own, and only my own. Okay, so I don’t actually have much of a new direction yet, but I know myself better than I did last year and much better than I did five years ago, and that’s a start surely? I know what I love, what I hate, and I know that I don’t have to walk the route that other people tell me I should.

Even as I write this I’m aware of how cringe worthy this article is; it almost sounds like the preface of a self-help book. I’d like to think most of my articles are here for your entertainment (whoever you may be), but this one’s for me. I just need to write and this just happens to be what’s on my mind.

So, where now? The simple answer is, just like a few months ago, I still don’t know. The main difference is that I am no longer terrified, but excited by that. One thing’s for certain, I’m going to have fun working out exactly where to go from here.

Be Kind, Rewind

We, as a family, have always had a stereo system in our household. In the mid-eighties, my step-father gave my mum a combined CD, vinyl and dual cassette player as a wedding present. I know what you’re thinking, “A CD player in the mid-eighties; wow that must have state of the art.” Well, it was, but as a wedding gift (or maybe it was an anniversary, I can’t remember exactly which it was now), my fancy-pants step-dad had little choice but to pull out the big guns. However, it wasn’t mine, it was my mother’s and that meant that very little other than Phil Collins and Gloria Estefan ever graced its beautifully crafted Sony-engineered speakers. Consequently, despite being repeatedly informed that the ‘the rhythm was going to get me’, I remained massively sceptical regarding both rhythm and, unsurprising given my early influences, music in general.

This changed around about the time of my eighth Christmas. Together with a football shirt, I received an Alba Walkman and, thanks largely to my brother’s efforts, a Queen’s Greatest Hits tape.  My brother has since tried to impose a fairly large selection of pretty dodgy recording artists on me, but in the very beginning I must confess he did well. The decision to get a Walkman must have been something my entire family vigorously regretted for the next six months. The decision not to get me more than one tape was a mistake of such magnitude that I don’t believe anyone in my family can listen to Queen without thinking of me. I suspect that visions of a rather gangly eight-year-old boy, belting out Bohemian Rhapsody at full volume are just too strong to forget. After all, I was completely oblivious to the fact that the outside world could neither hear Queen singing nor, more importantly, could hear me singing and as such I really went for it. I apologise unreservedly for putting you through those awful renditions, although in my defence I wasn’t aware I was quite as tone deaf as I am!

In the interest of preserving the sanity of the family, for my following birthday I was gifted a small, ‘cheap as chips’, dual cassette player. The dual cassette functionality allowed me to record my own tapes, as well as from the radio. I’m fairly sure the latter wasn’t strictly legal, but I was ten and considered myself well and truly rock ‘n’ roll by then. As such I didn’t give a damn.  Sadly, the recorder also had a small microphone located somewhere near the top of the unit. What this meant was that if you started to speak, or the phone rang, or your old dear decided to call you downstairs for dinner, then your recording would forever be sullied with this snippet of noise. It made for some interesting playbacks when I dug out some of these tapes a few weeks ago. Anyway, after Christmas and for the next few years I spent a large proportion of the evening hours locked in my bedroom making mix tapes. I created in the night, and listened in the morning, on my Walkman en route to school. The days I would spend constructing tapes would always be followed by hours more pleading, along with my brother, for our parents to play it when we took family trips in the car.  We named our tapes and coloured the covers with newspaper clippings and pictures. We cherished them, used them and re-used them.  As I got older my tape deck was replaced with a CD player, then a mini disk player (yes, I had one of those) and finally, during university, a PC.

As I got older the tapes became more elaborate. I started to understand the concept of genre and as such dedicated whole tapes to certain moods. This was a practice that followed me right the way through to my adult life and across a variety of mediums. It is also a practice that resulted in a very embarrassing incident. A young, fresh-faced, undergraduate version of myself was publicly humiliated during a house party we were hosting, when a gobby former flatmate discovered a playlist called the ‘Sex Album’ on my laptop. This was a discovery he vocalised to the entire party. Needless to say, the ‘Sex Album’ didn’t get any plays that evening. I have since chosen the names of albums and playlists a little more carefully. Although, for the record, I still maintain that Marvin Gaye, Otis Redding, Al Green et al are still the men to get things going, if the situation requires it.

A little over a week ago I found a couple of CDs I’d been given by a friend of mine, probably whilst I was still a fresher at university. He’d been trying to convince me of the merits of reggae and as such had made me a very nice mix CD of ‘classics’. It hadn’t persuaded me, but having it in my hand made me appreciate the effort that had gone into compiling and burning it, and as such how passionately he must have felt about reggae. Of course, today you’re still able to compile a playlist for someone. However, the lack of physical presence will always be a downfall. I can think of a case recently where I created a playlist of vetted tracks for a (now) ex-girlfriend. It had songs we both liked, and we’d occasionally listen to it together. However, the playlist title contained my name and, given that it only exists on her computer, it would be easy to remove in a moment of flippancy (or if my successor takes offense to it). This is just not the case with a tape or disc. When’s the last time you threw away a CD? I know I hardly ever throw them away, which is probably the reason I have so many awful compilations in my CD collection. But in many respects, the music is not why I held onto them. They are effectively time capsules, reminding you of things that have happened. The songs tell a story and, although you may not always want to remember, every now and again it can be quite fun.

I’m well aware I’m coming off a little sentimental here. As an IT ‘specialist’ I should try and embrace change. Only recently I bought a Kindle, but after almost a month and a half it’s sill sat in its packaging. In time I am sure I will use it, but it will be an adoption born of convenience rather than love. It is this convenience that has seen iPods and MP3 players quickly dispatch of the analogue formats. After all, having over a hundred albums on a device is something that a tape could never really compete with. Moreover, tapes are clunky, easy to break and, well let’s face it, impractical. The technology was limited even its hay-day and this made not only tapes but also tape players infuriating. For example, my first tape deck didn’t have a rewind button. The upshot of this was that you had to take the tape out, change sides, fast forward, and roughly guess how long you thought the track on the other side would last. You never got it quite right. Another drawback that is often forgotten during starry-eyed-reminiscences is just how many tapes were lost to a crappy player. They simply chewed up albums whenever they felt like it, the blooming things! CDs are easily scratched and snappable, and as for Mini Disks, well, they have been confined to the commercial failures list alongside the likes of Sony’s Betamax.

That said, vinyl records are making a comeback and have been for a number of years now (according the Evening Standard). I also read an article just this week on a company that has started to once again selling cassettes tapes, whilst CDs are still hanging on despite the digital age. Apparently, the superior sound quality combined with the deliberate nature of having to change music manually (versus simply allowing a computer to select a track for you) results in a better ‘user experience’. For sure, the physical format has it flaws, with portability being near the top of that list. But in some respects it is these imperfections that help make the physical format so endearing. In many ways it is comparable to Shakespeare’s mistress in Sonnet 130; oddly alluring despite being littered with faults.

On that note, and before I really start to prattle on, let me leave you with one final story. Years ago, I wanted to say sorry to some I cared about very much. I wasn’t a teen anymore and the woman of whom I speak was, well, a woman. I remember turning up at her house one evening with a mix CD. I had spent hours thinking about the songs to put on this album. Songs I knew she’d like, not just songs I liked. I can remember being fully aware of just how mushy this gesture was, even as I was doing it, but I didn’t care. At the time I didn’t really write and I’ve never been able to play a musical instrument. Selecting songs was a way of showing how I felt. In hurtful situations words sometimes just aren’t enough, they can get drowned out in a river of craziness and feeling. That CD, on the other hand, said pretty much exactly what I wanted to say, and I reckon she understood it. Things didn’t really work out in the long run, but there’s a small part of me that likes to think that she held onto that CD. Maybe it still makes her smile. I can’t imagine the same situation ever existing without the existence of a physical ‘something’ you can hold and play, and therefore it will always have its place.

Thatcher

How to begin an article such as this one? With difficulty I must say. At least in recent times, I don’t believe any British Prime Minister has divided opinion quite so much as the recently departed Baroness Margaret Thatcher. As I write this article verbal war rages, angrily and venomously on Twitter, Facebook, social-media blogs and news sites all over the world. Messages of sympathy pour in from heads of state, colleagues and the public, whilst simultaneous stories of others holding parties of celebration have emerged.

When Maggie was elected I was five years away from birth. However, by the end of her premiership I was around eight, albeit completely politically unaware. In the past few days I have scoured the outer reaches of my memory for images and feelings I could pass off as my own. Something genuine I could contribute, possibly a diplomatic, wise or even a witty statement or comment which would be reflective and un-offensive to haters and supporters akin.  Alas, I came away with nothing. My fading memories of the Eighties are full of Parker coats, scary shoulder pads on women, trousers that were perpetually too short and BMX  bike rides with ‘packs’ of friends (if you’re wondering, yes, I am welling up whilst staring out of the window at this point).

In order to educate myself on this subject, this person, this figurehead, I resorted to the internet, then newspapers and finally word of mouth. The latter I’m afraid was worthless, although interesting, as everyone’s opinion seems to be shrouded in emotion. The first two however proved very useful and such is my political ignorance of this time, enlightening. I have done my best below to provide a very quick synopsis of her life, particularly political milestones, below:

She graduated from Oxford University, with a drinker’s degree (a second class honours) in 1947 but a little over ten years later was elected as the MP for Finchley (1959). In 1970 she became the Education Secretary before becoming the Conservative Party leader in 1975. However, it was in 1979 things started to get really interesting, when she became the first female Prime Minister. Over the next three years (1979 - 1982) she increased base interest rates, introduced the ‘right to buy’ manifesto for council tenants, increased taxes and reduced spending (despite there being a recession)  as well as overseeing a three day riot in Brixton, although probably not personally. Then came the Falklands war in 1982, two years before she locked horns with miners in a dispute over pit closures. That same year (1984) she survived an attempt on her life by the IRA in Brighton before signing the Anglo-Irish agreement (1985). In 1986 she de-regulated the City. The next five years saw her take a famous third term in office, privatise parts of British Gas and denounce ‘society’ as a concept in favour of personal responsibility. She resigned in 1990 as Prime Minister and entered the House of Lords in 1992. I’ll stop at this point as most of her civic duties ended here and, as such, much of the public interest. Now the above account is a very, very brief outline of some of her major milestones and by no means inclusive. 

I think regardless of where you stand politically, it is indisputable just how dramatic her terms in power were.  There have been some ‘harsh’ comments and actions (I don’t think rejoicing in anyone’s death a particularly pleasant thing to do), over the past four or so days regarding the deceased and many from people who were not alive during the period in which the late Baroness resided. I have heard and read articles about how Maggie altered Britain, many of which document these changes negatively. I heard people on the news this morning say how the current recession is partly her fault, that she planted the seeds. Some of the points put across do seem to have elements of validity.  However, before jumping on this band wagon and I’ll finish with this, let me point out a few final counter arguments. Firstly it has been over twenty three years since Margaret stood down as PM. We live in a democracy and so, if, in the intervening period things have not changed then surely that’s because a majority hasn’t wanted them? I heard, on the radio, that in the aftermath of her death only one in three posts (on Facebook) about Maggie were positive? I find this staggering. Why would I find this staggering you may well ask? Well think about it. She was elected on three separate occasions. Someone must have voted for her, they must have done! In fact I know they did because I took the time to find out the numbers. On each occasion she received more than 42% of votes. That doesn’t sound a lot, but let me contextualise that figure for a moment. The last labour government got in power in the 2005 elections with just a tad over 35%. The current coalition came in with a joint percentage of 36% (http://www.politicsresources.net/area/uk/uktable.htm).  

I discussed this with a friend this week and she offered the suggestion that these figures suggesting that voting patterns have changed and also that the negative Facebook press could be down to the political orientation,  involvement and awareness of users, particularly the young. An upturn in the availability of information coupled with political activism has spurred Facebook users to comment. Maybe, although I’m not so sure, the riots in the 80’s show there was discontent then and that people acted upon it. The same friend forwarded the following article, written by Russell Brand and despite not being a big fan, I found this very interesting and thought I’d include.

Perhaps, if Margaret Thatcher was as ‘evil’ or ‘witch like’ as certain demographics are currently branding her, then it could be seen more a reflection on the society which elected her, rather than the delegated official herself. Who knows, either way let me leave you with the two quotes. Firstly from the Greek sage Chilon of Sparta whose words, given some of the shameless commentary, are as appropriate today as 2,600 years ago, “do not speak ill of the dead”.  Secondly, from Tony Blair - “Very few leaders get to change not only the political landscape of the country but of the world. Margaret was such a leader. Her global impact was vast”.

The Easter Bunny –Rabbit Exposé

So it’s almost Easter, the Christian Religious festival that celebrates the resurrection of Christ. In the interest of avoiding the topic of religion (primarily because it’s a potential minefield), I thought I’d instead do an exposé on the Easter Bunny, the rabbit behind the legend if you like. 

Now I would have thought it would be fairly easy to track down the roots of this fuzzy, semi-cute, sometimes chocolate, egg delivering, child friendly, rabbit effigy. I’m sad to report it’s not, in fact I’d go as far as saying it was a bit of headache. I tried my normal research method, Google followed by Wikipedia, and then broaden your sources once a bit of background information has been acquired. Wikipedia in this instance let me down, and other sources of information proved both unreliable and at best vague.  I was going to try and club together, some half facts, and general hearsay to produce a semi-historical version of events which would give the briefest of backgrounds to the Easter Bunny. However, I have found the lack of real evidence and valid sources so overwhelming I have instead, with the help of one my colleagues, created an entirely fictitious story and version of events of which I have catalogued below (by the way if you are genuinely interested in the Easter Bunny, I found this interesting).

So where to begin? The start always seems an appropriate place, and that in this case is 1920. America, Chicago to be exact. Prohibition is in full flow (unlike the booze) and Al Capone is head of the criminal underworld. The Easter Bunny at this time was not known as the Easter bunny but instead the less glamorous John Taylor. John started working for Al Capone as a runner. His Hare like speediness helped him to rise quickly through the criminal ranks. On Easter Day in 1924, he helped pull off a train robbery near Illinois. Four brothers from Texas were credited with the robbery; however, John had a hand in the planning and execution, although the exact details of his involvement are sketchy at best.  Sadly it wasn’t quite as big as the British Great Train Robbery which happened significantly later in 1963, but the upshot being that retrospectively speaking John’s achievement was overshadowed. Anyway, since then John has been known as John ‘The Easter Bunny’ Taylor. After the capture and incarceration of Al Capone, for tax evasion in 1931, the Easter Bunny moved to Europe, choosing a fresh start and a University course in creative dance instead of the mob. This was where he met the tooth fairy and quickly the two became friends. Following graduation both fairy and bunny found it difficult to gain employment, partly because of the political storm brewing over Europe and partly because neither was very good at creative dance. In desperation and out of financial necessity the tooth fairy hatched a highly lucrative, but highly illegal plan. The Bunny would supply irresistible chocolate eggs (no one really knows why eggs, after all, neither of them were chickens) to children and the fairy would collect the decayed and superfluous teeth which would shortly follow consumption.  The teeth would then be sent to black market traders and used for decorating gothic ornaments.  The plan worked like a dream and since the late 30’s the fairy and bunny have been rotting and collecting teeth in unison. And that is that. 

When is it time to give up on a dream?

Hello again, and slightly surprisingly for the second time this month! Having gone through a period of writer’s block at the beginning of the year, it would now appear that the flood gates are well and truly open. “Goodie”, I hear you say, albeit with an undercurrent of sarcasm.

This time I want to touch on something I may well have done before (and no, not a stranger’s knee): dreams. Not the lucid, vivid ones that involve fluffy clouds and sheep, but instead the aspirations of the soul. Now, I’ve written previously on the dreamer, and in summary I generally support them, but as I was walking home this evening, in the rain, wind and dark (just trying to set the mood) I positioned my thoughts on my own aspirations in life. In an act of shameless self-promotion I must say that the idea of dreams struck me as a good topic and one on which to end the final chapter of my impending book. Yes that’s right, there is a book on its way and unlike my previous ventures into the world of literature this one will be available, at least in some capacity, to the outside world. However, more on that over the summer once I’ve actually finished writing it. The events of today made me question myself and my own dreams. I’ve often contemplated whether this whole writing malarkey will really lead anywhere, but today I’ve really questioned it. Which makes me ask the obvious question: when is it time to give up on a dream?

During the course of my day job, I have good moments and I have bad moments. I don’t suppose I am unique in that. Sometimes I actually convince myself I’m rather good at what I do, and then other days it is unequivocally transparent that I’m not. I say this with complete honesty and I think it stems from the fact that, although I can do my job, most of the time I don’t really want to be doing it. I doubt I’m unique in that either. The point is, that sadly this type of attitude is not very productive, neither for myself or for those I work with or for. The negativity stops progression in my role and realistically I have no-one but myself to blame for that. So why then am I negative, why am I resistant, why don’t I commit to my work? It’s hard to say, but most likely it’s because I don’t believe this is what I’ll end up doing. It’s probably worth pointing out at this juncture that, although my heart’s not really in my job, I do work hard. I just don’t work longer or harder than I have to. Not any more anyway.

When I was student, particularly during my Masters degree, I wanted to succeed. I woke up in the morning early, I’d roll a cigarette, get a cup of coffee and, hangover or no hangover, I’d trudge to the library to read. Real books and everything! I’d force myself to stay there until the evening, writing up notes, reading the core and peripheral course material. But why? I know exactly why now: I wanted to learn. And I think that thirst for knowledge will be with me for the rest of my life. Following my Masters I came to London and started working for a legal firm. I worked long days for little money, and the prospect of success and progress was dangled over me like a carrot over a donkey. After a while I came to realise two very important things. Firstly, that no matter how hard I worked at that job, or others like it, I’d never achieve what I had striven for all those years. I didn’t enjoy the lifestyle or the job, but loved the pressure and the illusion (because that’s all it was) of success. I thought that because I worked in an expensive suit in a tall glass building that I became a better person. I didn’t. Secondly, and probably more importantly I realised that even if I did finally make the money and climb to the heights I desired, some things would have to be sacrificed, most notably my time and values. These are two things I would never give up and in the end I realised this and left the organisation. In this case I knew the dream no longer existed; the fire and passion were both well and truly extinguished.

When I was a child I dreamed of being a footballer (among many other things). Now, anyone who has played football with me will know how hilarious that is. Hand on my heart I am a disastrously bad sportsman, about as gamely looking as Peter Crouch but sadly without the talent. That was however a harder dream to put down. I knew I would never be good enough, but it was something I wanted so much.

Looking back on both experiences I can say without hesitation that had I carried on working with the same mental conviction I had started with for the law firm, I would have made a ‘success’ of myself. However when I left, that dream had lost its veneer. It no longer appealed. On the contrary if you ask me if I’d like to play football for a living I would snap your hand off for the chance. I am course speaking metaphorically. I’m not an aggressive man.

My point is this (and apologies for taking almost one thousand words to make it): sometimes you really do have to give up on your dream(s). If I had continued to play football in the hope of making that my profession, I would have simply ended up wasting my time. Perhaps I would have gotten fit, which would have been nice, but other than that nothing would have happened. It’s a little like those contestants from the X-Factor, who are so deluded they believe they can sing. No amount of trying will ever make up for their hopeless lack of talent.

So am I saying I’m giving up writing? Of course not. The very fact I am writing my second article of the month should shoot any such whisperings from your lips. However, what my March evening stroll has helped me to come to terms with is that sooner or later I am going to have to commit to this dream or forget it. Being at work all day wishing to be somewhere else is not healthy, definitely if you don’t have the courage to act upon it. It makes you a worse employee and more importantly an unhappy person. Sooner or later you have to get up off your arse and do something, or stop talking about it and get on with living a life of corporate servitude. A life like that is not so bad, and if done happily, or at least more willingly, is a lot more fulfilling than one of hopeless dreaming and unrealistic ambition. I guess the important thing is dive into whatever you do, whether it’s filing, banking, stacking shelves, cleaning windows, whatever, with as much energy and enthusiasm as you can muster. The output is bound to be better. Sooner or later, if nothing comes of it, I’m sure I’ll hang up my pen. Don’t ask me exactly how, where or why, I’ll hang it; the logistics haven’t been ironed out and hopefully they’ll never need to be. But for now let me say that that day feels a long way off.

The Dating Game

This month I have donated a considerable amount of mental energy towards thinking about love, life, the universe and everything. Yes, that is a reference to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Sadly, my cognitive capacity has been somewhat blocked up over the past six weeks and as such I have not really achieved much. Scrap that, anything. Instead of being productive I have been introverted, introspective and frankly a little bit mopey. Why, you ask? The same reason any man is a bit mopey: because of a woman. What, you need more? Okay fine, I’ve been a tad bit heartbroken. Please note the inclusion of the word "tad". This is a deliberate insertion, and is an attempt to keep some dignity whilst baring a little bit of myself (perverts among you please discard mental images of me flashing a nipple). At this point I feel I need to make clear that if you are looking for graphic details about this situation, you’re going to be disappointed. That type of intimacy has never nor ever will be part of this blog, and more than that I have too much respect for said person to discuss any details in such a tacky and revealing way. After all I don’t work for Nut magazine. Yet. However, luckily I have no such constraints about revealing my own flaws, weaknesses and failings so let me continue.

Now, I’ve spent most of the last six or so weeks in a pretty dark place, primarily at the business end of an alcoholic beverage. When I finally came to about a week ago, three things initially became apparent; I made three discoveries if you will. Firstly, three-day-long hangovers do exist. Secondly, three-day-long drinking binges are expensive. And finally, a discovery that only really came when I was too skint to continue with the drinking, ‘Drinking doesn’t actually help’!

Now, as mentioned I don’t want to get into specifics but I have talked to a lot of friends over the past few weeks. They have been understanding, considerate and even, when required, stern, but all in the interests of digging me out of my current slump. Thank you friends, I am pleased to announce that I am now at least on the right track once more.

Conversing with my peers helped me to appreciate more fully the commonness of heartbreak. At the time that didn’t help. In fact it felt as though it trivialised my own emotions. In retrospect it’s been useful.

Remember the first time you ever, ever got dumped? Sure you do. It may be buried somewhere deep down but you remember. At the time you thought you’d never like anyone as much ever again, right? How could you, after all, that first person was special. Well yes they were, but only until the next, more special person came along to replace them. Now depending on how young you were, and are, you probably realise that last statement was a cosmic simplification of emotion but there is an element of truth in it. I remember my first love, my real first love, I’ll never forget them, but I don’t pine after them any longer. After all, life goes on, and whether or not you really like it you’ll get dragged along with it. Well hopefully you will anyway. Anyway I digress. What I want to do with the remainder of this month is impart some useful tips, tip-bits if you like, in case you find yourself in a similar situation.

First up let’s address standard breakup practice. At least one big weekend is a necessity. However, constant drinking is not healthy or useful. I know I’m right, you know I’m right, I know I’ll still do it, you’ll probably still do it but needs to said. Enough said.

One night stands are not a good idea if you are feeling vulnerable. They tend to go hand -in-hand with the heavy drinking, however if you are upset, really upset, they will not make you feel better. Momentary gratification is exactly that, short lived. On a more practical note, so I’m told, this is a sure fire way to lose accessories, and disposable items of clothing, such as scarves, hats, gloves and jewellery (sometimes even underwear). Many such item has been left behind in the act of the rapid morning ‘escape’, or so I’m led to believe.

Do not listen to acoustic guitar music or love songs. I have no idea why people do this, and when I say people I am of course referring to everyone because at some stage we have all stuck on the most depressing music imaginable after a breakup. How stupid is that. Seriously, it’s ridiculous and to what possible end? It’s never going to make you feel good, is it? No it’s not, It has the same logical merit as giving a gun to someone on suicide watch.
Don’t read or watch romantic comedies, they are the equivalent to lifestyle and fashion magazines for timid, ugly, poorly dressed people (I am aware I have slightly manipulated and plagiarised Baz Luhrmann). Some stimulus, at distinct points in your life, can be rather detrimental. This is one of them. They pamper to people in love, not the depressed or upset. Let’s be clear: Hugh Grant is not real. Okay, he’s real but he’s not Hugh Grant, not really. Fiction is exactly that and I personally, when I’m upset, cannot always distinguish the difference.

Do not imagine your ex with someone else. If you do, you will go mad. They will (as will you) at some point see someone else. Just don’t think about it, it doesn’t help. This is one of those rare moments where sweeping something under the metaphorical carpet really does the job.

Do not check Facebook for a while. If you insist on doing so make sure you unsubscribe from your ex’s updates otherwise you’ll probably see pictures, status updates and chat you don’t want to. Remember this though: anyone can make themselves look happy and amazing in a picture. I’m sat at my laptop now, but if I took a picture, smiled and maybe brushed my hair it could make a vaguely presentable image, one that doesn’t exist. Facebook is evil for the newly single. Best not to check it.

Accept it‘s over. This is the most important thing in any breakup. Thinking there is a chance of getting back together does not work. It hardly ever happens and thinking it makes it impossible to move on. One day it might do, but you wishing it to do so will not increase the odds of that occurring. Space helps.

Now there are a lot of don’ts above, so I thought I’d end on some positives, some things to do, no more do-nots. Get out of the house. Explore your city. Do the things that make you happy. Go to a theatre, go to a cinema, go to a museum, a gallery, a restaurant, a sports game. Spend time with old friends, make new friends. Read books, watch films, paint, write, run, walk, cycle and, if you can, travel.

As always this has been a self serving, demi-rant which I’m very grateful you have taken time out to read. Thank you and feel free to share anything you have to add.