Tuesday, 5 June 2012

Some Words.(be nice)


It should have happened on an ordinary day, these things always do. In fact, this day was possibly the most ordinary day he had experienced for some time. Life had been so, so catastrophic, so full of energy, dazzling and dizzying. But now, somehow, it had ceased. The books lay to one side, disused and unattended. The paper left in piles around the room stood proof to his previous state of disarray. Pens left inky marks across the carpet: trodden upon during anxious retreats or disbanded during moments of helpless vexation. By the window lay an empty packet of Marlborough cigarettes, the stubs left haphazardly across the windowsill and floating in a mug of mouldy, half-drunk coffee. One might have imagined this room to be disbanded, abandoned in a half-hedonistic, half-dazed departure, leaving the traces of a half-life frozen in memoriam to its’ previous occupant. Nonetheless in the corner of the room, on a small double bed there remained a sole occupant, a crumpled form under a mass of linen, duvet and pillows.
            As the light began to permeate through the half drawn vertical blinds, the crumpled form beneath the sheets began to stir in a mass of groans: a gradual affirmation, somewhat resentfully of consciousness. With a further groan, and a rasping cough reflective of an over consumption of tobacco, the figure furtively shifts as if unsure of his surroundings. An outreached hand grabs towards the bedside table in search of something, grasping onto the spindly stem of a wine glass, he moves it carelessly to a pair of dry, wine-stained lips, sips furtively and immediately returns the red liquid to its glass. This is not what he wants. With a further sigh the spindly legs move effortlessly, surprisingly effortlessly, out of the bed, to reveal a neglected body of about twenty-two. The feet tentatively touch the floor, like one touching hot-coals for the first time. But no showman miracle is needed here. The floor is shaky, uncertain, but substantial.  He makes his way to the door, across the paraphernalia so carelessly scattered around the course, stained carpet and reaches for the handle.
The cold sensation of the iron handle brings a sudden realisation: he is naked. Nudity is not appreciated in this house, not that he would want to be seen naked anyway. It has been years since anyone has seen him naked. Even lovers he has brought home for one or even two nights have seen a carefully constructed, demi-lit silhouette of what he feels to be an obscene form. Better preserve some dignity, or at least, maintain some self-respect and prevent humiliation. He pulls from the floor, another crumpled heap, this time an overly large t-shirt not suited to one of his form at all; it may be knee-length in fact. This is pulled unceremoniously over hair greasy from the hair spray, wax and smoke of the night before to vaguely promote an idea of modesty.
At the point when he opens the door, he is confused to what he wants from the world outside. The stuffiness within his nose indicates fresh air, but the light already blinds his eyes, sunglasses would have been a better idea. He does not yet want a cigarette as the mouth feels dry and inhospitable. Yes that is what he needs, water, liquid, rehydration.
Stumbling through the house, his eyes glued together with sleep and the beginnings of an eye infection indicative of over-work and a weakened immune system, he makes out the mess overflowing from every room. Something here needs to change. The kitchen is worse still; the bin has rebelliously surged onto the floor. Cardboard everywhere crunching underfoot, accompanied by the jarring of wine bottles. Nonetheless somewhere behind a month’s worth of washing up, he can see what he moved for. There are of course no clean cups, so he places his head directly under the tap, switching it immediately to cold. This is exactly what he needs; the cold liquid instantly removes the dryness of stale tobacco, gin, and the red-wine stains from around his mouth. This is the first stage of his becoming.
Now that the staleness has drifted from his mouth, the muzzyness in his head becomes the next priority. Fortunately a clear path is always kept towards the kettle. Of all the people that lived in the house it had been mutually agreed that a common need for caffeine required the kettle to be full and accessible at all times. He opens his cupboard to find the mug from last-nights coffee still accessible, still presentable, potentially hygienic. He seeks the strong Columbian coffee he always buys and pours a generous quantity of the blackish granules into the cup, reaches into the fridge to find milk, anybodies milk, and adds the slightest of splashes. Then the water is poured on.
Careful not to scald himself, he removes the mug from the table and hobbles, cripple-like to the nearest comfortable sofa. It is a crippled thing itself, the cushions dented and worn, the fabric faded and sun-battered, uncared for, unattended, but reliable and accommodating. It creaks with his insubstantial, but evidently challenging, weight. “Im getting fat”, he muses to himself, “it never did that before”. It probably did of course, but neurosis has become the past time of choice, a distraction from reality, or perhaps a heightened sense of it. For him, it is easier to obsess upon the unintelligible, it can never really be understood or explained, subjectivity binds him like a rope to an obscured reality that can never fully be escaped. The coffee is thick and bitter, jokes could be made about this later, but now it was serving an essential purpose in pushing away the remnants of fog that lurked in his consciousness.
With a sudden lurch of awareness, he jolted upright as a distant memory forced its way to the forefront of the stage of consciousness. With a surprising jolt of energy, he jumps up and races across the kitchen and back to the stale habitation that remained his sleeping place and previous study place. In a blur of movement, and a sudden unsteadiness of the head that must have remained symptomatic of last nights behaviour caught him reeling as he opened the door. Upon the bed was something he hadn’t noticed until now.
A yellow crumpled sticky sheet, above the bed, lay a single word written in black block capitals. THANKS. The empty silence of the word resounded around the room, echoing in its emptiness, until he felt nauseous and dizzy. Clutching the walls for support, his hands slid down the smooth surface. It was not the gravity of the word that had instigated this moment of neurosis, but the realisation of what had come before. He crumples slightly as if receiving a blow to the stomach, and finally gripping a nearby table, lowers himself back into the bed and throws the duvet over his head. In the warm darkness, he wraps his arms around his torso and closes his eyes.

Sunday, 11 December 2011

?

A friend commented the other day that looking for jobs what a lot like online dating. After bravely selling yourself and putting yourself out there, no replies are pretty devastating.

Times are hard, people are going through jobs faster than hot meals. Divorce is on the increase, (if you can afford it), and its becoming increasingly difficult to meet people in a world where becoming socially acceptable (aka shitfaced) is becoming steadily more and more expensive.

So what happens in a world where you are getting no replies from job applications, but also the replies to your gaydar messages are equally scarce or solely comprised of the over-forties?

Here are my survival tips...

The similarities between the dating market and the job market are clear:
1. We are living in a recession, its time to lower your expectations.
2. If you are over 40, you are probably wasting your time.
3. Expect to send out considerably more than you get back.
4. Everyone wants a cleaner, a cook, a nanny.
5. Skillz kills, experience is everything.
6. A cock picture will get you nowhere.

Thursday, 18 August 2011

And here we are again...





Over one year later. It all seems massively disconcerting to find myself in the same city, in the same position, watching June Brown on Who Do You Think You Are? Somehow ironic....

I'm right at the beginning of June Brown discovering she is related to some sort of Boxer, to be honest I am trying to ignore the other channels. Somewhere else out there among the digital signals, X quantity of the effluent of society is being pumped from Broken Britain into a small house filled with cameras, mirrors and hormone-enriched mineral water. There is a positive, if you will view it that way. That's twelve people not looting Britain's major cities and, presumably, they've had to give up jobs. So thats twelve (or so) jobs, around for us graduates to take from unsuspecting people that have worked, potentially quite hard...

Even as an avid fan for ten years (has it been that long?), of Big Brother, I somehow totally fail to understand the compulsion. It seems that even most Class-A drugs have more appeal (or at least social justification), than watching Two drunk young people squatting on each-other, drunk, trying to master the Karma Sutra, looking like they have the book inside out. If I wanted this surely I would A) take a walk down the high street, or B) do it myself at greater satisfaction.

Without wanting to sound like the risk of sounding like the Daily Telegraph, or the Daily Mail I shall probably stop now, until i can think about something less bitter. Or something at least someway profound.

Til' the next time.

J.




Wednesday, 28 July 2010

I dreamed a dream...





This morning, to the horror of my cleaner, i was discovered cross legged upon the floor of my bedroom, shredding confidential information in my underwear, singing to a Judy LP. The old life is dead.

It becomes quite worrying when you spend your mornings watching children's tv and reruns of To the Manor Born, as means of passing the day. In the last two weeks my life has become just this, a continuous run of Penelope Keith, Dame Judy Dench and Iggle Piggle.

I'm assured that after leaving university it is natural for one to go through a process that almost resembles, grieving. I have indeed been mourning the loss of my freedom and return to the bosom of my slightly over protective family for just over a week. Had it not been for work i probably would have bought myself a nice veil to wear as well. Cornwall seems to have a slightly stale air about it these days that, no surprises, does not sit too comfortably. I feel I now know how Subo felt, dreaming of fame, fortune and show tune covers- to discover she was just a middle-aged scottish singer with a somewhat poorly produced album. I discover, I cannot escape my roots.

So, within a somewhat Social dry spell, i have been forced into some rather compromising, if not shameful situations. Im sure the idea of watching variety shows alongside the parentals, whilst your slightly typsy mother critiques Ruthie Henshall's technique is a low point that very few ordinary people would be lucky enough to experience. Nevertheless, she has a point, Ruthie is not only a bit shit but clearly the charisma deficit that her sidekick, John Barrowman, is the over zealous benefactor of.

I think I'll write more about John Barrowman at some point. Perhaps when I have gone a little bit more mad.

KEEP CALM and CARRY ON.

Monday, 14 June 2010

And now....Lessons learnt.


Four years, one failed attempt, countless unread novels, and an unhealthy quantity of cigarette ends and Merlot bottles later, it seems somewhat shocking to still be in the same place I was receiving A Level results in the sweaty summer of 2006. Mummy and Daddy coupled with the pressure from a back-water Cornish school formed the inspiration that I, like all my contemporaries, would become a world leader or write a book that held the answer to world debt. That perhaps we wouldn't spend our lives making Pasties, or campaigning to re-open the tin mines to become miners but instead move on to greater heights. I just wanted to be a teacher.

Imagine my surprise, following three years of diligence and a false start somewhere across the Welsh border, that I still don't understand the semi colon. Furthermore, after studying literary theory, The Enlightenment and the finer points of Feminism, I still can't spell Rousseau, don't understand post-structuralism, and certainly have no understanding of women.

Admittedly the false start posed quite a problem, the notion of being grouped with four welsh men in a freshers flat, has probably been transformed into an equivalent pornographic film by this stage- another missed opportunity. Nevertheless, the idea of starting again, of abandoning the safety of convention, defying familial expectation is never easy. Leaving education is about as easy as abandoning a child in a supermarket- everyone judges you and no-one thinks it is a good idea. Sometimes you just have to do it. And, somewhat like that metaphorical child i abandoned by the deli in Morrisons, I have never really looked back to see a screaming face, but stepped into a new era of choice that lead to a somewhat tearful return to a different University 11 months later.

Of course University isn't all about Education, they put it on the front of the prospectus, (particularly if you go to a polytechnic). I've had more than my fair share of compromising situations, house traumas involving more than anyone's portion off sanitary towels, and a hangover for at least 80% of my seminars. But somehow, perhaps throughout the three year hangover and horrific flashbacks, i've learnt a few more valuable lessons that i shall begin to divulge whenever i am not too hungover to see a keyboard.