Dear God #1.

(I shall be 40 on the 23rd of this month.  On the same night Rufus Wainwright is playing in Bristol.  I found out today that the tickets are sold out.  Which inspired this post….)

Dear God,

I don’t know who You are.  I don’t know what You want.  If You are looking for ransom, I can tell you I don’t have money.  But what I do have are a very particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a very long career.  Skills that make me a nightmare for people like You.  If You get me tickets for the Rufus gig in Bristol on the 23rd, that’ll be the end of it.  I will not look for You, I will not pursue You.  But if You don’t, I will look for You, I will find You, and I will fucking kill You.

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The Boy The Girl Forgot.

I wrote in the last post that my ex-girlfriend had said that I would forget all about her when I met someone else, and how I took that to mean she would forget all about me when she met someone.  Well, tonight I got wind of my erasure from her memory banks, and the consumation of her relationship with another fella.  A fella she first started chatting to when we were still seeing one another too.  Sadly the quote from Bob Marley I referenced previously isn’t working it’s magic anymore.

It’s half past one in the morning, and I am unable to sleep, and unable to rationalise my feelings.  I don’t feel good, that’s for sure.  And I am annoyed by my own inability to ‘man up’ and just ‘get over her’ as a few well-meaning folk have tried to encouraged me to do.

That’s easy for them to say.

Some say that love is “the highest form of energy”, but if this is so then it cannot be destroyed or diminished.  It can only be changed into another state.  And a tempestous energy like love can likely only be changed into something equally as tempestous.  Which is why it is said love often turns to hate, and vice versa.

Not that I am anywhere close to hate.

And I feel this way despite the fact she has met someone else.  I feel this way despite the fact that her love was always conditional and mine was not, and despite the likelihood that she is in the process of forgetting me.  Despite my suspicions that I was a stopgap til something better came along, and despite the fact I am a no good bum, undeserving of such wonder in my life, I FEEL this way.   Despite the fact there is no hope, I feel this way.  Despite the fact she even advised her family to remove me from their friends lists on Facebook, I feel this way.  And despite her desire to remain friends after ripping my guts out, I feel this way.

Maybe one day I shall generate some ill-feeling that will help me get over her.  Just not tonight.

Feelings, they are a pain in the fucking arse.

Stop That Brain!

For the last couple of days I have been re-reading Galapagos, by Kurt Vonnegut.  A theme of this book is mankind evolving to have smaller brains, because big brains as we currently have them are just more trouble than they are worth.  Big brains are nothing but the “irresponsible generators of suggestions”.  I can dig that.

Take tonight, for instance.  I spend a couple of merry hours this evening researching for an epic blog post I was working on about the London 2012 Olympic Games.  But after a brief digichat with an ex-girlfriend my big brain became distracted.  The epic blog post became harder and harder to concentrate on, and took longer and longer to write.  About half an hour ago my big brain made me delete a whole evenings work, probably five or six hundred words worth.  Fuck you, brain!

Mind you, I have always been easily distracted.  My Mum still has my school report cards that say exactly that on them.  It was a girl called Mhairi then.  Not that I ever actually spoke to the lass.  She lived near me, and I remember I would do anything to get on the same bus as her.  I shudder to think what her big brain suggested to her about me, the strange boy in braces who loved her from a distance, without the gumption to actually say or do anything about it.  Though I did get myself the belt once for throwing a brick in a puddle and splashing her.  My brain thought it would impress her.  I was 12 or 13 or thereabouts.

Of course, I’m nearly 40 now, and my days of throwing bricks in puddles to splash lassies are over.  Age has caught up with me, any bricks I throw now I only splash myself.

Word of advise, if you ever get an awesome woman in your life, and I mean A.W.E.S.O.M.E. Woman, don’t fuck it up.  It’s harder than giving up fags fur fox sake.  I’m trying to find consolation in the fact it’s my brain’s fault, not mine.

PS – Epic Olympic Blog Post Coming Soon 😉

Life Blues – A Perspective.

It was my intention last night to write a drunken ranting blog post about the vagaries of my day, and about how nothing seems to be going right.  I was going to be cursing my luck, cursing the gods, cursing fate, and just cursing in general.  But something happened on the way home from the pub last night that made me think again.  I stopped and chatted to a homeless chap and remembered all my problems are not actually that bad when put into some perspective.

I was a wee bit drunk as I staggered home last night.  It had been a long day, or a “cunting shitfuck motherfucker of a day” as I had posted on Facebook earlier in the evening.  The primary problem was the car breaking down, and this was compounded by the fact it happened on the road between Totnes and Dartmouth, which is almost the middle of nowhere.  And of course I don’t have breakdown cover…

I was supposed to be in Dartmouth to do a job for a guy, and I had to phone him and ask if he would come and pick me up, and possibly help tow the car back to Plymouth.  He agreed to do that once I’d sorted his boiler.  By the time we got back to the car it was maybe 6 hours later, and the hazard lights, on all that time, had drained the battery.  This meant it would be difficult to break and steer while being towed.  Still, that didn’t turn out to be a problem as the steel tow cable snapped after about 100 yards!  I came back to Plymouth car-less last night, leaving my poor wee motor to be recovered today.  At the cost of £70.  God knows what it’s going to cost to fix the car.  Or even if it can be fixed.  One mate tentatively suggested it might be the cambelt, and it might be a scrappage job!  Eek!

I was already going to be on a very tight budget this month, so as you can imagine I was a little upset by these developments.  Hence my desire for a rare beer, and my intention to rant about it last night.

I bumped into ‘James’ outside the Spar on North Hill in Plymouth.  He was sitting huddled against a wall, looking cold, miserable, and hungry.  Before I went into the shop, I fished out the shrapnel from my pocket, and told him to get himself something to eat.  In a further act of drunken compassion, while in the shop I decided to buy him a hot sausage roll.  As I handed it to him outside the shop, he said “no thanks, I’m a vegetarian”.  Which just seemed to sum up how my day was going.  So I went back into the Spar and got him a cheese and tomato sandwich.

I sat with him for 10 minutes as he ate, hungrily.  James was from Plymouth, and he had been on the streets for at least ten years, since both his parents had died.  He indicated that he had been through some unpleasant experiences, and that possibly accounted for for what seemed to me his rather nervous and skittish appearance.  Or maybe he just wasn’t used to loud and slightly intoxicated Scotsmen being nice to him.  Who knows?

Anyway, I came away from this encounter cursing my luck a little less than I had been.   My luck is not as bad as James’.  Or of countless people like him.

Is There A Life Coach In The House?

“Life is just one damned thing after another.”  Right now I am minded to agree with those words of the American author, Elbert Hubbard.   And this isn’t just about the spectacular failure of my venture into wildlife cinematography either.  No, as I approach my 40th birthday, I find myself mired in a morass of problems easily avoided or of my own making.  I’m having visions of my supposed mid-life crisis turning into a full-on nervous breakdown.  Which I suppose at least should have positive repercussions for my creativity…

The more I think about it, it occurs to me that for 6/7 months now I have been suffering from a kind of emotional, spiritual, and psychological hangover.  Of course, being a bit of a drama queen, I may be exaggerating a bit.   All I know is that lots of things in my life are going tits up.  Family troubles, bank troubles, Occupy troubles, girl troubles; it’s like one of those perfect storms you read about.  My Mum always says that bad things come in threes, but I think she underestimates it.  Still, I have the therapeutic benefits from my work to buoy me, the knowledge that there are others in far worse predicaments than I, and the hope that tomorrow will be better.  There is also the clear knowledge that the answers to some of my problems lie in my own hands, if I pull my finger out.  Is there a Life Coach in the house?