Sunday 26 April 2015

#106 Imperfect perfection

Waiters in the waiting line, tripping on their toes
Secretaries so divine, underneath their clothes
Ain't no f****** party like we're throwing in this s***
******s sell your pension funds, cash in on this s***
Teachers with their ABCs, dosey f****** do
Nurses and the doctors all want some f****** more
Players and the *****s and the ******s Plc
Getting f****** burned when they try to burn me
Inspiration elevates, thirty fourth floor
Cash in on your s*** if you want some f****** more
Nominate the bar and we'll drink the f****** tab
Leave your dirty bra in the back seat of the cab
Inspiration elevates, thirty fourth floor
This is every week and there's plenty f****** more

Sunday 19 April 2015

#105 Ten small things

I don't know whether the ego generally does strengthen us. I wonder if it can. Everything can be seen from a cynical viewpoint and one of the main challenges in life is deciding what to question, from the real benefit of the two lie-ins that you had last weekend to the real benefit of the extra two sets of tennis that you played last night, after which you felt ill, realised that your ankle was twisted and wondered whether the decision to go on playing had been a sensible one.

You may question the wellbeing of a person who feels the need to make a blog post of some pointless things that they think they're good at. You might question it with pity or resentment or believe that you are somehow wiser than the author because you don't just realise but truly understand and embody the awareness that such a post would amount to nothing more than a glaringly ungrateful and embarrassingly lazy perspective on life. This post is not for you. Though I may believe it is for me, it is not either. 

Words and ideas, like viruses, have a life of their own. They spread from person to person. Sometimes they are met by the strength of opposing forces and perish. At other times, they find weakness or a home in their host and there thrive. Some thoughts need to be heard. Some don't. These ones might be. What follows is a list of ten small things that I believe I may do well.

Eat whilst walking
Read scruffy handwriting
Scale a fence
Record my life on paper
Drink fast
Staring contests
Recover stuck snacks from vending machines
Run down staircases
Spot differences between two images
Finding the compost in someone else's bullshit

Sunday 12 April 2015

#104 Do whatever he tells you

Tears rolled down the face of the overwhelmed bride. A small boy, one of two children at the wedding breakfast, who had several minutes ago taken a pause from their game of tag, cheekily tagged his little girl friend again, who retained her composure and shifted contentedly in her sandals. Creaking open, wooden doors gave way to the party guests. A reactionary wave spread through them as they realised that firstly, the newly-wed actually seemed quite happy for some reason and then somehow, the drinks on every single table in the room had been topped-up. It simply wasn't possible. Everyone knew that the booze had run out so where the hell had it all come from?

Excitedly, the son emerged out from the upstairs bedroom window at the back of the house, clambered down onto the flat roof, lowered himself into the side passage and quickly jogged round to the the gathering at the front, rejoining his friends. The news was just about to reach them. He tried hard not to start crying himself, an emotionally fragile young man as he was. His self restraint did him credit as, through tearless eyes, he spotted the blackberry juice all over his own sandals, hurriedly tore them off and lobbed them onto the roof of the building. "What was that?" asked one of his mates. The question was quickly lost as the word spread about the newly materialised drinks on the tables. "Thank God for that" Paul sighed, relieved. "The thought of having to get through another one of these things without any plonk was getting to be a bit much". The son smiled inwardly and remained towards the back of the crowd as they dutifully made their way into the room.

"Well whoever pulled this off is a bloody miracle-worker" declared a thirst-quenched uncle. The son didn't hear this remark and was by this time sat back in his chair, dipping a hunk of bread into the olive oil on his table, trying not to spill any on his robe. As he chewed, he relished the thought of how it had all come together. It had been about eighteen months since his buddy Mark had given him that concentrated home-made blackberry jucie to try. He'd never really been a fan of the stuff but having been given a bottle as a gift, decided to take it home regardless. After all, times were hard. Times had always been hard and probably would be for another couple of thousand years. In fact even when times became less hard, people would continue to moan about stupid little things like the weather or the trains being late... whatever trains were.

The son wasn't exactly the smartest guy in the world. A tad naive. No university. His father hadn't been much of an intellectual and Lord knows what his own career path would end up being. Religious preacher maybe. Spiritual guru. They both seemed a bit weird and far-fetched but then he'd always had some basic people skills and they complimented reasonably well his underlying religious faith, which he had been known to babble about from time to time. He certainly was resourceful though. He had that combination of practical intelligence and inner strength that tends to be developed partly through a life of some external hardship, self-sacrifice and the right kind of parents although to a lesser extent, is available to anyone who really wants to look for it. 

On this particular day though, he'd mostly just been lucky. The pantry, around the back of the wedding venue, contained a jar of common carub syrup, which he thought little of comandeering (he could always replace it later). As he'd found out a few weeks ago, the syrup mixed remarkably well with the concentrated juice. This could then be diluted to create gallons of a sweet-tasting drink, soon to become the latest cool thing to drink at parties, at least until people remembered how much they enjoyed getting drunk and switched back to alcohol.

"Oi mushty" came a hushed voice from the seat next to him, "I knew you'd pull something off". The son, mouth full of bread, turned to his mother and gave her a big fat wink, with near-perfect timing. They both burst into laughter as the band struck up, the waiters came forward and the hundred or so guests settled happily to joke and gossip into the night.