Your blogger is in love dear reader. Totally, unashamedly and crazily in love. Tomorrow the Girlf and I will be together a year. A year of passion, joy, heartbreak and pain. In no other year of my life have I felt so alive, so vibrant and vital.
She dominates my waking thoughts, obsesses me. She haunts my dreams, stalking me. There’s no escaping it she enraptures me, she has captured me. I am completely hers. As she is mine.
My baby, my women, my Girlf.
This year is the culmination of half a decade. An inevitable, natural outcome from that very first moment I laid eyes on her. The first moment when she walked into my life and I fell in love.
Those eyes. Those amazing eyes. Your blogger fell there and then.
Your blogger was a bachelor back in those days. Happy with his freedom. Content with his spontaneity. He had no time for love but there it was in front of him, freckled and giggly. Gorgeous and sensual and taken.
O the woe. Taken, unavailable, she belonged to someone else. Settled and affluent in the warm bosom of her family, she was my antithesis but how I wanted her. How I needed her. How I needed her heat against me. I could feel it mere inches from me as her friend. If I got close enough I could bask in her aura. I could feel her pulsing and radiating next to me.
O how I pined for her. Pined to touch her, pined to have her sure of my ability to bring her to ecstasy. Sure of my abilities as a lover, my ability to take her to the highest heights and change her. Drag her from her mundane, domestic complacency and make her a woman.
I knew she wanted it to, without arrogance I knew her heart beat a little faster when I was around. Her temperature rose as she stood by me trying to ignore the fact. Her eyes would scan me up and down involuntarily. I’d catch her staring but I never let on.
I enjoyed the moment. I enjoyed watching her bite her lower lip, fire eyes full of lust and guilt. In those moments she was mine. Totally mine and no mortgages or family holidays or life plans could change that.
I pursued her, how I pursued her. Prose poem’s by text. Tenderness and lust mixed into a heady cocktail and sent. The endless moments waiting for the reply. Minutes feeling like hours.
Would she respond? Would she care? Was her lust real or merely a distraction of a bored housewife?
Reader I pray you never have the pain of the textual relationship, all the desire, all those words and promises without the touch. Your heart aches. You want to believe but without the concrete proof of her body against yours all the words are meaningless.
Then the guilt, the guilt that you’re corrupting her, corrupting the beauty and the innocence that attracted you in the first place.
All too obvious it became apparent she was in unchartered territory. Flattered and lustful, full of the desire for consummation but apprehensive, stood on the precipice, still safe but knowing that extra step would change everything. That extra step would change her.
How could I, I with nothing, I with my history ask her to give everything up for me? All I could offer was my passion, my flesh. Could she walk away for that? Walk away from everything for me?
Guilt and lust and text messages.
And then...stolen mornings in my bed.
Hours, that in the bubble of our passion and the secrecy of my flat, stood apart from both our realities. Hours, so beautiful and full of joy they had their own life outside of our lives.
Together we created a new existence. We created a new reality between the sheets of my bed. All consuming we stoked a fire that tortured us but at the same time ecstatically consumed us as we played our roles to the rest of the world. Our secret, our beautiful secret but in our fear, in our guilt there was no mention of love.
Then without warning she was gone.
The pillars crumbled and the roof fell in on me. My heart crushed under the cold masonry of loss and regret.
The knave gets no sympathy dear reader. The interloper gets no reassuring hand on his shoulder. He suffers his loss on his own. He keeps his tears to himself and he re-constructs his world because he is a man and a man accepts the consequences of his actions.
But the little boy is lost. The little boy pines and beats his fists on the wall. The little boy wails in his big, cold lonely bed as her scent slowly fades from its sheets.
Then fate.
Fate can not be held back. Fate can not be stopped and just when you think that chapter of your life is over and you stoically start to settle for life’s meagre offerings fate sends an earthquake that throws you off your feet and flips out of your complacency.
Cheeky, cheeky fate, with your chance encounters and your new phone numbers and all those old passions glowing quietly under the surface over the intervening years.
Fate throws you back into the fight, back into the chase and with a kiss it’s as if no time has passed at all.
My beautiful love, my beautiful, beautiful girl back in my life still confusing me, still making me feel stupid and still making me a complete man.
I love her. I love her so, so much for now, grown, we can speak of love.
I smell her on me. My fingers trace her spine from the base of her neck to the glorious cleft of her rump. All those dormant feelings, repressed, flood back. How could have I replaced her with such inadequate others? Once more I drown in those eyes. My arms are strong, powerful. This time I will not let her go. I will not!
For in this last year I have known my heart for the first time. In this last year I, for the first time, have believed in a future. For the first time I have not been killing time.
I want to watch her grow old. I want to watch her suckle my young. I want to be there to hear her sharp tongue berate me and then cool her anger with my soft words and sensual touch.
I devote my body to her pleasure. I will make all her climaxes super novas. I will destroy her in that all consuming fire and then resurrect her and she will rise, phoenix like from the furnace of our passions.
I’m hers. I will be her protector. I will be her rock. I’ll be her stability and her reassurance for when she fears I will be there. When she is cold I will warm her against me. When she is hungry I will feed her.
She is the most beautiful girl in the world and she is mine.
Now and forever.
Sunday, 20 December 2009
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
Xfactor
Rage against the machine (RATM) are currently in the lead for the Christmas number one. Simon Cowell is squirming and twisted about it. How dare anyone challenge his right for the for the Christmas top spot? It’s not about him you understand it’s not fair on little Jo. We’re trampling all over his dreams by cynically ganging up and choosing to buy a different download.
Shame on us, shame on us all.
I love the Rage campaign it’s what the internet was invented for. A mass group movement to upset the received order. It’s great isn’t it?
The reality is that the Christmas number one is the only guaranteed success any Xfactor winner can hope for. A career is not assured. Little Jo, bless him, could get dropped at anytime by Simon. If he isn’t good enough he’s gone. This isn’t actually strictly true. If he isn’t popular enough he’s gone.
Simon will not suffer failure.
Xfactor winners have hit and miss careers. The last couple seem to be doing well. Leona’s is doing great with her amazing voice and her horse face. Although what the hell were they thinking giving her an Oasis song to sing on Sunday? It just made you wish you were listening to Oasis.
Then there’s that Alex girl. A hit single and celebrity lovers too boot. Alex has arrived. Shame about her twisted, jealous mother.
Other’s have not been so lucky. Steve Brookstein for instance. It seemed he got taken around the back of the studio and shot immediately after the final.
Michelle McManus, what the hell happened to her? After she got the bless her she’s fat vote all her fans totally forgot to buy her album.
You will have your moment in the sun and in theory your Christmas number one after that you have to stand on your own two feet.
It can be very, very short lived.
There is a very good reason for this. Few of the people who appear on Xfactor are actually any good. They’re so so average. Nothing amazing, nothing exceptional. Had they any they wouldn’t know what to do with the artistic control.
Just pleased to be involved aren’t they?
We seemed to be amazed by ordinary people who can kind of sing. The SuBo phenomenon was a perfect example of this. Old, mad, ugly Scottish woman, not a bad voice. We were knocked of our feet weren’t we? She can sing! With that face!
Shocking.
Susan Boyle (bless) isn’t actually that good. It was a definitive example of an amateur performance. It started strong, sagged in the middle and wimped out a bit at the end.
If you want proof of this juxtapose SuBo with an actual professional performing I dreamed a dream. Youtube I dreamed a dream 10th anniversary that one is a corker. There is a world of difference between a plucky amateur with a nice voice and a professional who sings for a living. I’m serious youtube it is an amazing performance.
Cynical the RATM campaign may be but Xfactor is a cynical format. Every year dozens of competent singers never make it through the first audition, not because they can’t sing but because they just aren’t telly friendly. They don’t generate empathy in the audience. You’re better off having an ok voice and some hardship in your life.
Then there are the people who aren’t at all good but get through anyway. Simon Cowell knows some people will have to be lost throughout the run so it makes sense to have some shit in there to jettison in the early and middle stages.
This year Simon loved Danyl however when it was becoming apparent that no-one else did he switched his efforts to Ollie. What’s the point in pushing Danyl to win if no-one’s going to buy the record. Danyl fucked himself when he admitted being bi-sexual. Nothing puts the mums off quicker than a bum boy.
So now we’re left with Jo. Nice kid, good voice but who’s going to buy the records? Who’s going to buy them in the long run? He’s very young and little girls aren’t going to find him JLS sexy are they? Maybe the grannies but long term I can’t see it. I can’t see him lasting.
Maybe the Christmas number one is all Jo can really hope for and now that looks in serious jeopardy. Nearly eight hundred thousand people have joined the RATM for Christmas no1 facebook group. If they all buy Killing in the name it will be the Christmas number one and Jo will be an also ran.
So we have the choice, a twenty year old middle class teen rebellion song or little Jo singing a Miley Cyrus cover. I know which one I would rather have because it would be funny and Top of the pops always has the sing-a-long lyrics on the red button.
Come on everyone, sing along.
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me.
Shame on us, shame on us all.
I love the Rage campaign it’s what the internet was invented for. A mass group movement to upset the received order. It’s great isn’t it?
The reality is that the Christmas number one is the only guaranteed success any Xfactor winner can hope for. A career is not assured. Little Jo, bless him, could get dropped at anytime by Simon. If he isn’t good enough he’s gone. This isn’t actually strictly true. If he isn’t popular enough he’s gone.
Simon will not suffer failure.
Xfactor winners have hit and miss careers. The last couple seem to be doing well. Leona’s is doing great with her amazing voice and her horse face. Although what the hell were they thinking giving her an Oasis song to sing on Sunday? It just made you wish you were listening to Oasis.
Then there’s that Alex girl. A hit single and celebrity lovers too boot. Alex has arrived. Shame about her twisted, jealous mother.
Other’s have not been so lucky. Steve Brookstein for instance. It seemed he got taken around the back of the studio and shot immediately after the final.
Michelle McManus, what the hell happened to her? After she got the bless her she’s fat vote all her fans totally forgot to buy her album.
You will have your moment in the sun and in theory your Christmas number one after that you have to stand on your own two feet.
It can be very, very short lived.
There is a very good reason for this. Few of the people who appear on Xfactor are actually any good. They’re so so average. Nothing amazing, nothing exceptional. Had they any they wouldn’t know what to do with the artistic control.
Just pleased to be involved aren’t they?
We seemed to be amazed by ordinary people who can kind of sing. The SuBo phenomenon was a perfect example of this. Old, mad, ugly Scottish woman, not a bad voice. We were knocked of our feet weren’t we? She can sing! With that face!
Shocking.
Susan Boyle (bless) isn’t actually that good. It was a definitive example of an amateur performance. It started strong, sagged in the middle and wimped out a bit at the end.
If you want proof of this juxtapose SuBo with an actual professional performing I dreamed a dream. Youtube I dreamed a dream 10th anniversary that one is a corker. There is a world of difference between a plucky amateur with a nice voice and a professional who sings for a living. I’m serious youtube it is an amazing performance.
Cynical the RATM campaign may be but Xfactor is a cynical format. Every year dozens of competent singers never make it through the first audition, not because they can’t sing but because they just aren’t telly friendly. They don’t generate empathy in the audience. You’re better off having an ok voice and some hardship in your life.
Then there are the people who aren’t at all good but get through anyway. Simon Cowell knows some people will have to be lost throughout the run so it makes sense to have some shit in there to jettison in the early and middle stages.
This year Simon loved Danyl however when it was becoming apparent that no-one else did he switched his efforts to Ollie. What’s the point in pushing Danyl to win if no-one’s going to buy the record. Danyl fucked himself when he admitted being bi-sexual. Nothing puts the mums off quicker than a bum boy.
So now we’re left with Jo. Nice kid, good voice but who’s going to buy the records? Who’s going to buy them in the long run? He’s very young and little girls aren’t going to find him JLS sexy are they? Maybe the grannies but long term I can’t see it. I can’t see him lasting.
Maybe the Christmas number one is all Jo can really hope for and now that looks in serious jeopardy. Nearly eight hundred thousand people have joined the RATM for Christmas no1 facebook group. If they all buy Killing in the name it will be the Christmas number one and Jo will be an also ran.
So we have the choice, a twenty year old middle class teen rebellion song or little Jo singing a Miley Cyrus cover. I know which one I would rather have because it would be funny and Top of the pops always has the sing-a-long lyrics on the red button.
Come on everyone, sing along.
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me.
Money and sushi
I’m fucking penniless. I’m over come by skintness. It has been an expensive few weeks and I foresee an austere new year. It was not always this way I was quite flush a year ago but twelve months of holidays and an increased standard of living has left me scrapping the bottom of the barrel. Bugger. Where the fuck did it all go?
I should be able to save next year. I will tighten my belt and keep my head down. I will horde Christmas and Birthday money. I shall hide under a duvet and turn the heating off.
Having a girlfriend taps you. She’s not in her self expensive but operating within a relationship means you have to keep putting your hand in your pocket. I bought clothes for the first time in half a decade this year.
Basically before I lived in work clothes and shorts and this was perfectly adequate. Let’s face it I didn’t have anyone to tart myself up for. No one other than my previous girlfriend that is but I wasn’t going to make much of an effort for her.
It’s not until you start spending it that you realise just how little money you have. If it’s all put to one side and only brought out for bills and rent you feel quite rich. You eat in the shop and occasionally treat yourself and you don’t notice it.
I haven’t recovered from Paris yet I’ve just kind of stabilised, but Christmas...o my God. Christmas has punched me in the stomach and left me winded.
The time has come to get strict. I have to put a stop to the frivolities and suck it up. I have to calculate my out-goings and cut corners. It’s time to start building up that nest egg. Collecting my nuts and hiding them because, at the moment, I have absolutely no wiggle room and it feels shit.
Having said all that...Sushi on Thursday!
I love sushi. I absolutely adore it. I mean really. Not in a I’ll look cool if I say I like this kind of way. It makes my mouth water. I love the raw fish.
There is a total connection with the food. There is no barrier between you and what’s on your plate. No chefs skill in the way, no masking with herbs or spices you don’t take the base meet an adulterate it with your whimsy. It’s just you and the fish.
You see I’m a maniac. I go for the sashimi. The sashimi is different from sushi in the respect that there is no block of vinegared rice. It’s just fish. It’s just the raw fish. No rice to distract you from that. No illusions about what you’re eating.
It’s amazing. It’s visceral. It’s as if you’ve pulled it out of the sea and bitten into it as it still flaps, gasping for oxygen in your hands.
The Japanese actually have a dish that does that. The live fish is gutted, skinned and shown the pan for the briefest moment then, still twitching in its death throws, brought to your table.
If it’s not still moving you send it back.
Dear God. Just once in my life I have to try that.
That’s what I love about sushi and sashimi it is the antithesis of the general attitude to food in this country. People are very fussy about their food but not in the respect that they want something of quality or something special only in the respect that they have a very limited culinary vocabulary.
People say to me does your chicken have bones in it. Well, yeah it does it’s a chicken. Vertebrates generally come with bones. We are in a place were it’s acceptable to be fussy about the physiology of the animal we’re eating. It’s to much hassle to work around the skeleton of your pray.
Human beings grow their brains sucking the marrow out of bones they scavenged and now we don’t even want to be reminded that out meat was once a living, breathing animal.
People want their food cooked to the death. Twenty years ago there were a few salmonella out breaks and scares all around the country and since then the public have been genuinely scared of their food. The consensus seems to be that slightest pinkness will kill you. It won’t. Old meat will make you ill not raw meat. We evolved on raw meat. It’s our heritage.
Let’s embrace it. Let’s start eating everything again. Let’s put the clock back fifty years and break out the offal. The kidneys, the liver, lets put the oven on low and roast some hearts. Why not? They’re in your burgers; they’re in your sausages.
Fry up some sweetbreads with egg. Trust me they rock. Not all sweetbreads are testicles just some of them. You have the neck glands as well. They’re called sweetbreads because they are sweet. They’re wicked, try them.
People avoid these things not because they don’t like the taste of them, because they wouldn’t know, but because they don’t like the thought of them.
So much is wasted. When you and your tribe butcher an animal all you should be left with is the hide and the bones and you can wear both.
Everyone wants the choice cuts, they want the fillet and then they want it fucking incinerated.
Sashimi motherfucker!
I should be able to save next year. I will tighten my belt and keep my head down. I will horde Christmas and Birthday money. I shall hide under a duvet and turn the heating off.
Having a girlfriend taps you. She’s not in her self expensive but operating within a relationship means you have to keep putting your hand in your pocket. I bought clothes for the first time in half a decade this year.
Basically before I lived in work clothes and shorts and this was perfectly adequate. Let’s face it I didn’t have anyone to tart myself up for. No one other than my previous girlfriend that is but I wasn’t going to make much of an effort for her.
It’s not until you start spending it that you realise just how little money you have. If it’s all put to one side and only brought out for bills and rent you feel quite rich. You eat in the shop and occasionally treat yourself and you don’t notice it.
I haven’t recovered from Paris yet I’ve just kind of stabilised, but Christmas...o my God. Christmas has punched me in the stomach and left me winded.
The time has come to get strict. I have to put a stop to the frivolities and suck it up. I have to calculate my out-goings and cut corners. It’s time to start building up that nest egg. Collecting my nuts and hiding them because, at the moment, I have absolutely no wiggle room and it feels shit.
Having said all that...Sushi on Thursday!
I love sushi. I absolutely adore it. I mean really. Not in a I’ll look cool if I say I like this kind of way. It makes my mouth water. I love the raw fish.
There is a total connection with the food. There is no barrier between you and what’s on your plate. No chefs skill in the way, no masking with herbs or spices you don’t take the base meet an adulterate it with your whimsy. It’s just you and the fish.
You see I’m a maniac. I go for the sashimi. The sashimi is different from sushi in the respect that there is no block of vinegared rice. It’s just fish. It’s just the raw fish. No rice to distract you from that. No illusions about what you’re eating.
It’s amazing. It’s visceral. It’s as if you’ve pulled it out of the sea and bitten into it as it still flaps, gasping for oxygen in your hands.
The Japanese actually have a dish that does that. The live fish is gutted, skinned and shown the pan for the briefest moment then, still twitching in its death throws, brought to your table.
If it’s not still moving you send it back.
Dear God. Just once in my life I have to try that.
That’s what I love about sushi and sashimi it is the antithesis of the general attitude to food in this country. People are very fussy about their food but not in the respect that they want something of quality or something special only in the respect that they have a very limited culinary vocabulary.
People say to me does your chicken have bones in it. Well, yeah it does it’s a chicken. Vertebrates generally come with bones. We are in a place were it’s acceptable to be fussy about the physiology of the animal we’re eating. It’s to much hassle to work around the skeleton of your pray.
Human beings grow their brains sucking the marrow out of bones they scavenged and now we don’t even want to be reminded that out meat was once a living, breathing animal.
People want their food cooked to the death. Twenty years ago there were a few salmonella out breaks and scares all around the country and since then the public have been genuinely scared of their food. The consensus seems to be that slightest pinkness will kill you. It won’t. Old meat will make you ill not raw meat. We evolved on raw meat. It’s our heritage.
Let’s embrace it. Let’s start eating everything again. Let’s put the clock back fifty years and break out the offal. The kidneys, the liver, lets put the oven on low and roast some hearts. Why not? They’re in your burgers; they’re in your sausages.
Fry up some sweetbreads with egg. Trust me they rock. Not all sweetbreads are testicles just some of them. You have the neck glands as well. They’re called sweetbreads because they are sweet. They’re wicked, try them.
People avoid these things not because they don’t like the taste of them, because they wouldn’t know, but because they don’t like the thought of them.
So much is wasted. When you and your tribe butcher an animal all you should be left with is the hide and the bones and you can wear both.
Everyone wants the choice cuts, they want the fillet and then they want it fucking incinerated.
Sashimi motherfucker!
Friday, 11 December 2009
Baby names
Yet another one of my friends is about become a father. That’s four new arrivals next year. Four new Greek babies will be unleashed on Weston. Four curly haired, chocolaty eyed cherubs.
There’s nothing cuter than a Greek baby. We’re born in proportion there’s none of that big head, northern European thing going on. Just multilingual lushness.
With your impending bundle of joy imminent you’re faced with the dilemma of the name.
‘The first gift you give your child is their name.’
That’s right. Justify your website.
It’s a difficult one isn’t it? The name you give them is for life. You’re branding your child. Of course they could change it in adulthood but it always seems to be the weirdest people that do that.
‘I’ve always felt like an Angelica.’
Have you? Have you really?
I think you should be stuck with your name. It’s pretty much the most personal thing about someone and I think it only fitting that someone else chooses it for you. You grow into it.
I love being a Stellios. I’ve only met four in my life. I am the only Stellios Diakou in the world (according to facebook but quite frankly I’ll take that thank you). You have to say it two or three times to some people before they get it. Sticks in the mind. I like that.
When I started school the conversation kinda went like this;
‘What’s his name?’
‘Stellios.’
‘Ok. What do you want us to call him?’
‘Stellios.’
‘No I mean what’s his name in English?’
‘Stellios.’
‘Can’t we call him Steve?’
‘No. It’s not his name.’
‘Oh...’
‘His name is Stellios.’
That’s right mum. You tell them.
Fair play to my mother she didn’t like my name at the start but I suppose daily use got her used to it.
Stellakis, Stilli, Stillianos that’s right. Fuck all of you.
One day I will be faced with the problem of naming my own children. If this was just up to me it wouldn’t be a problem but clearly somewhere down the line they’ll be a woman with her own ideas.
My children will have Greek names. No son of mine will be called Kieran. It ain’t going to happen. Traditionally I should name my first boy after my father but, well, I don’t like his name. Ironically I like the female version on a girl. Thimidrou.
The Girlf isn’t having this. Gallingly she isn’t having my mum’s name either and throws in alternatives that seem to be thinly veiled wind ups. Prudence, Violet, please.
The big thing with the Girlf is the abbreviation or what the name rhymes with thus limiting play ground piss taking. I find this ridiculous. Am I going to raise children so weak that I bit of childish banter is going to ruin them? I hope not.
I want a classic Greek name and I make no apologies that they’re all boys names (if I can’t name my girl after my mum I’m out of ideas to be honest).
The Girlf wants a Leo. Very popular name nowadays but no son of mine is being called Leonardo. It’s the definitive hairdresser’s name. I’m not having it and it’s Italian for fucks sake.
The compromise is Leonides (Li-o-ni-dis in the Greek and the Greek pronunciation is very important to me).
That is a proper Greek name. She can call him Leo all she wants I’ll be calling him Leonides.
‘You can’t really call a baby Plato can you...?’
O you can darling. You certainly can. There aren’t enough Plato’s around in this day and age.
Personally I prefer Socrates (So-gra-dis). That’s a proper name.
‘What does your name mean?’
‘Well he was the first proponent of free speech in history.’
A little more gravitas than it means peace in Hindu don’t you think?
Staying with the S’s there’s Sophocles (So-fa-cli).
The inventor of the second actor in theatre. No pressure son.
I also like Menalaus but being a complete girl she likes Paris. She would wouldn’t she?
It being a two person decision there’s a massive element of sucking it up and listening to crap.
‘Why don’t we call him Leo-NAR-das?’
Because it’s not a fucking name is it? It’s a word you’ve made up.
Believe me I hate Prudence (we can call her Pru) but Prudence is a God send compared to the first suggestion which was, wait for it, River-Song.
That’s right, meet my daughter River-Song.
Silence.
Why don’t we just call her Amethyst-Woodstock and be done with it?
I like traditional, classical names. I don’t want to make a name up. I don’t want to play with the name or the spelling.
I love the name Catherine I love the name Jennifer. I want my kids to have names with three syllables. Don’t ask me why it just sounds right to me. A three syllable name takes that little bit more effort to pronounce. I like that. It’s a mini journey for the tongue. You can keep your Ki’s and your Mia’s. They’re not names, they’re audible squeaks. There's no effort what-so-ever.
I real name has to have three syllables.
Except my mum’s.
Because that’s my mum’s.
There’s nothing cuter than a Greek baby. We’re born in proportion there’s none of that big head, northern European thing going on. Just multilingual lushness.
With your impending bundle of joy imminent you’re faced with the dilemma of the name.
‘The first gift you give your child is their name.’
That’s right. Justify your website.
It’s a difficult one isn’t it? The name you give them is for life. You’re branding your child. Of course they could change it in adulthood but it always seems to be the weirdest people that do that.
‘I’ve always felt like an Angelica.’
Have you? Have you really?
I think you should be stuck with your name. It’s pretty much the most personal thing about someone and I think it only fitting that someone else chooses it for you. You grow into it.
I love being a Stellios. I’ve only met four in my life. I am the only Stellios Diakou in the world (according to facebook but quite frankly I’ll take that thank you). You have to say it two or three times to some people before they get it. Sticks in the mind. I like that.
When I started school the conversation kinda went like this;
‘What’s his name?’
‘Stellios.’
‘Ok. What do you want us to call him?’
‘Stellios.’
‘No I mean what’s his name in English?’
‘Stellios.’
‘Can’t we call him Steve?’
‘No. It’s not his name.’
‘Oh...’
‘His name is Stellios.’
That’s right mum. You tell them.
Fair play to my mother she didn’t like my name at the start but I suppose daily use got her used to it.
Stellakis, Stilli, Stillianos that’s right. Fuck all of you.
One day I will be faced with the problem of naming my own children. If this was just up to me it wouldn’t be a problem but clearly somewhere down the line they’ll be a woman with her own ideas.
My children will have Greek names. No son of mine will be called Kieran. It ain’t going to happen. Traditionally I should name my first boy after my father but, well, I don’t like his name. Ironically I like the female version on a girl. Thimidrou.
The Girlf isn’t having this. Gallingly she isn’t having my mum’s name either and throws in alternatives that seem to be thinly veiled wind ups. Prudence, Violet, please.
The big thing with the Girlf is the abbreviation or what the name rhymes with thus limiting play ground piss taking. I find this ridiculous. Am I going to raise children so weak that I bit of childish banter is going to ruin them? I hope not.
I want a classic Greek name and I make no apologies that they’re all boys names (if I can’t name my girl after my mum I’m out of ideas to be honest).
The Girlf wants a Leo. Very popular name nowadays but no son of mine is being called Leonardo. It’s the definitive hairdresser’s name. I’m not having it and it’s Italian for fucks sake.
The compromise is Leonides (Li-o-ni-dis in the Greek and the Greek pronunciation is very important to me).
That is a proper Greek name. She can call him Leo all she wants I’ll be calling him Leonides.
‘You can’t really call a baby Plato can you...?’
O you can darling. You certainly can. There aren’t enough Plato’s around in this day and age.
Personally I prefer Socrates (So-gra-dis). That’s a proper name.
‘What does your name mean?’
‘Well he was the first proponent of free speech in history.’
A little more gravitas than it means peace in Hindu don’t you think?
Staying with the S’s there’s Sophocles (So-fa-cli).
The inventor of the second actor in theatre. No pressure son.
I also like Menalaus but being a complete girl she likes Paris. She would wouldn’t she?
It being a two person decision there’s a massive element of sucking it up and listening to crap.
‘Why don’t we call him Leo-NAR-das?’
Because it’s not a fucking name is it? It’s a word you’ve made up.
Believe me I hate Prudence (we can call her Pru) but Prudence is a God send compared to the first suggestion which was, wait for it, River-Song.
That’s right, meet my daughter River-Song.
Silence.
Why don’t we just call her Amethyst-Woodstock and be done with it?
I like traditional, classical names. I don’t want to make a name up. I don’t want to play with the name or the spelling.
I love the name Catherine I love the name Jennifer. I want my kids to have names with three syllables. Don’t ask me why it just sounds right to me. A three syllable name takes that little bit more effort to pronounce. I like that. It’s a mini journey for the tongue. You can keep your Ki’s and your Mia’s. They’re not names, they’re audible squeaks. There's no effort what-so-ever.
I real name has to have three syllables.
Except my mum’s.
Because that’s my mum’s.
Wednesday, 2 December 2009
The long game
Life is about the long game. You need a cast iron arse because shit does not happen over night. Life would be so much easier if it did but we wouldn’t appreciate anything would we?
The things we have that we truly care about have taken work, effort and sweat. We have struggled for them, came close to losing them then reclaimed them. The importance is in the struggle because if we didn’t care we would have let them go and not even felt their passing.
The long game teaches you things about yourself. It teaches you can grow. It teaches you can evolve. We all think we’re the finished product but we’re not. Life can still make you feel like a child. It makes you feel venerable and powerless. You question all your certainties and you re-evaluate everything you thought you believed in.
Sooner or later you have to confront yourself. Sooner or later you have to put away all your clichés and truly see yourself. See the naked you. The infant you. The child in you.
I am no longer a child but I’ve had a good run.
To long of a run.
I’ve pushed it just over the line and the child has withered in the glare of all the consequences. Humbled and mewling he has cried, beat himself. He’s fought back but eventually in a blaze of clarity he has dropped his guard and conceded.
He’s taken his final bow and departed from the stage without fuss.
The man stands in his place.
The man knows that life isn’t only today. He knows his faults and is strong enough to deny his baser nature. Strong enough to throw out all those things that will ruin him, that will debase him, that will divert him from the truth.
The man understands the long game. He knows it’s not just today or tomorrow or next week. He knows the path will be rocky. He knows it will be steep and the journey will be long but his legs are strong.
His heart pumps with certainty.
It pumps faith through him.
His goals are there waiting, calling to him. Out of reach but he will reach them. With sweat and blistered feet and sun chapped lips he will reach them. With effort and faith he will reach them and the journey will be time well spent.
The things we have that we truly care about have taken work, effort and sweat. We have struggled for them, came close to losing them then reclaimed them. The importance is in the struggle because if we didn’t care we would have let them go and not even felt their passing.
The long game teaches you things about yourself. It teaches you can grow. It teaches you can evolve. We all think we’re the finished product but we’re not. Life can still make you feel like a child. It makes you feel venerable and powerless. You question all your certainties and you re-evaluate everything you thought you believed in.
Sooner or later you have to confront yourself. Sooner or later you have to put away all your clichés and truly see yourself. See the naked you. The infant you. The child in you.
I am no longer a child but I’ve had a good run.
To long of a run.
I’ve pushed it just over the line and the child has withered in the glare of all the consequences. Humbled and mewling he has cried, beat himself. He’s fought back but eventually in a blaze of clarity he has dropped his guard and conceded.
He’s taken his final bow and departed from the stage without fuss.
The man stands in his place.
The man knows that life isn’t only today. He knows his faults and is strong enough to deny his baser nature. Strong enough to throw out all those things that will ruin him, that will debase him, that will divert him from the truth.
The man understands the long game. He knows it’s not just today or tomorrow or next week. He knows the path will be rocky. He knows it will be steep and the journey will be long but his legs are strong.
His heart pumps with certainty.
It pumps faith through him.
His goals are there waiting, calling to him. Out of reach but he will reach them. With sweat and blistered feet and sun chapped lips he will reach them. With effort and faith he will reach them and the journey will be time well spent.
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
The beard
I have to be honest I am loving the beard. I’ve managed to get through the itchy fifth day and it has gone from scraggy, vagrant mess and into proud, unashamed, deliberate beard mode.
It sits un-apologetically on my face. It stares down everybody down who views it.
‘Yes I’m a fucking beard. I was intended. Do you have a problem with that?’
Ah the joys of facial hair. This is the most I’ve let in grow in fifteen years. The nineties were a beard fest. A time of fashionable facial adornments. I was swarthy, dark, angry. My youthful smooth skin hidden beneath my caveman, long haired attitude.
The irony being I couldn’t properly grow one. Now I actually have a tash not a poor excuse for one. This is a tash not a bum fluffy, thin, girlish miss mash of random hairs clinging to my upper lip.
I think perhaps I’m reaching that stage in life that a beard seems like a good idea. Maybe next I’ll be wearing my mobile on my belt. Holstering it to my side rather than simply putting the thing in my pocket. What’s next? Driving gloves?
I’m going to call this beard a jihad. It’s completely un-sculptured. It is as it is. It goes where it pleases. It takes no shit as any self respecting beard shouldn’t.
This is no Gillette trimmer baby. O no. This doesn’t emulate the gay guy in the advert. This beard threatens to take over the world. Un-checked it would traverse national boundaries. This beard could start international incidents.
How far dare I go?
This could end up a Charles Darwin if I have the balls. A modern day Victorian gentleman. I shall have to take to wearing a three piece and sporting a pocket watch.
I’m finding the grey hairs on my chin distinguished. I’m happy to look worn. Perhaps this is an early acceptance of impending middle age. Perhaps I will tire of it in a few weeks.
Perhaps I can be Father Christmas this year.
It sits un-apologetically on my face. It stares down everybody down who views it.
‘Yes I’m a fucking beard. I was intended. Do you have a problem with that?’
Ah the joys of facial hair. This is the most I’ve let in grow in fifteen years. The nineties were a beard fest. A time of fashionable facial adornments. I was swarthy, dark, angry. My youthful smooth skin hidden beneath my caveman, long haired attitude.
The irony being I couldn’t properly grow one. Now I actually have a tash not a poor excuse for one. This is a tash not a bum fluffy, thin, girlish miss mash of random hairs clinging to my upper lip.
I think perhaps I’m reaching that stage in life that a beard seems like a good idea. Maybe next I’ll be wearing my mobile on my belt. Holstering it to my side rather than simply putting the thing in my pocket. What’s next? Driving gloves?
I’m going to call this beard a jihad. It’s completely un-sculptured. It is as it is. It goes where it pleases. It takes no shit as any self respecting beard shouldn’t.
This is no Gillette trimmer baby. O no. This doesn’t emulate the gay guy in the advert. This beard threatens to take over the world. Un-checked it would traverse national boundaries. This beard could start international incidents.
How far dare I go?
This could end up a Charles Darwin if I have the balls. A modern day Victorian gentleman. I shall have to take to wearing a three piece and sporting a pocket watch.
I’m finding the grey hairs on my chin distinguished. I’m happy to look worn. Perhaps this is an early acceptance of impending middle age. Perhaps I will tire of it in a few weeks.
Perhaps I can be Father Christmas this year.
Thursday, 26 November 2009
Katie Price
Jorden has left the jungle. By, by Katie it was fun but shit happens darling. Incidentally what the fuck were you thinking!
I’m being a little hypocritical here because I love the whole Katie Price road show. The tabloid bullshit. It amuses my highly the same way the whole Jade Goodey phenomenon did. Stupid people in the public eye doing themselves no favours. It’s funny. It gives as all a reason to be cheerful.
The poetic bookending of Jade destroying herself on the same show that made her was mesmerising. I watched gawping. It was nasty and racist and horrible and nobody involved even had an inkling of what they were doing. Give a chav enough rope...
There was stuff in the paper about Jade being a nasty cunt when she was in big brother the first time. Jade bullied me stories. They kind of went away without anyone noticing. All the evidence was there. You can’t polish a turd but you can cover it in icing sugar I suppose.
I didn’t feel sorry for Jade when she died. There was the irony that she got diagnosed in India, the home of karma, but I couldn’t muster much empathy. The women had had health problems for years and not visited her doctor. Her cancer was operable and curable but she couldn’t be fucked. To busy fucking her boy/man, trophy/retard boyfriend.
Women seemed to feel sorry for her. The whole she has kids, I have kids, it could be me thing. Yeah it could be you girls if you left any health concerns two years before you consulted a professional.
Jades gone now so we’re spared more pain. Her ex junkie ex whore mother occasionally still rocks up but slowly, slowly she’s fading from view. As is Jack Tweed, who has to rape someone to get into the papers nowadays.
Life would be boring wouldn’t it but luckily for us we still have Jorden.
You’ve got to love Katie haven’t you? Not in a sexual way obviously because she’s hideous (who jerks off to Jorden pictures. Who ever fucking did? Why ruin your day like that?).
You’ve got to love her lack of self view. The inability to stand out side of herself and actually see what she looks like.
She must read the papers and even though, no doubt she feels, the papers get stuff wrong she has be aware the ordinary unaffected people believe every fucking word of it.
So if you juxtapose pictures of her getting pissed up in Ibiza surrounded by blokes and pictures of Pete in Cyprus surrounded by the kids and his mum who’s going to look like a cunt?
Katie, Katie, Katie. She isn’t helped by the fact she hasn’t got the most warming of voices. She sounds like she’s going to start on someone whenever she opens her mouth. That whole arroga-chav sound.
There are those that think she’s very savvy and very smart. That she’s built herself up to where she is now by pure grit and determination. Really? Breast enlargement and soft porn? Nothing to do with luck then?
Surely Katie Price is the human manifestation of the reality TV, untalented celeb, footballers’ wife culture of the last decade. The point at people. I’m doing it now aren’t I? I’m actually doing it. I’m saying look at her what a cunt.
Moment of introspection...
The honest truth is we love freaks. We love the schadenfraude because we’re twisted like that. We like to point and laugh and feel better about ourselves. Being rich and famous would be fun but none of us will achieve that so when someone does and they’re an idiot we feel a perverse delight.
That’s why the British public enjoyed torturing Jorden on I’m a celebrity. No one wants to know the real Katie Price, the soft motherly, kind, part of herself she wanted to project. Nobody cares about that they’ve already made their minds up.
They now have their opinion on her.
This is the woman who drank through her first pregnancy. Look at the poor kid born blind.
The woman has become very rich on her notoriety. She’s courted it, played up to it and but now, when she’s feeling shit, she wants a big national hug and it isn’t forthcoming. Sorry darling. You’re not very huggable.
We’ve got our opinions on her and she doesn’t disappoint. On leaving the jungle she dumped her boyfriend on live TV.
Lovely.
In a funny kind of way that’s Katie Price blowing us all a kiss. Her way of saying you all know I’m a cunt here’s something special for all of you to take to work tomorrow and have a good laugh over.
Thank you Katie, we wouldn’t want to meet you but we love you.
I’m being a little hypocritical here because I love the whole Katie Price road show. The tabloid bullshit. It amuses my highly the same way the whole Jade Goodey phenomenon did. Stupid people in the public eye doing themselves no favours. It’s funny. It gives as all a reason to be cheerful.
The poetic bookending of Jade destroying herself on the same show that made her was mesmerising. I watched gawping. It was nasty and racist and horrible and nobody involved even had an inkling of what they were doing. Give a chav enough rope...
There was stuff in the paper about Jade being a nasty cunt when she was in big brother the first time. Jade bullied me stories. They kind of went away without anyone noticing. All the evidence was there. You can’t polish a turd but you can cover it in icing sugar I suppose.
I didn’t feel sorry for Jade when she died. There was the irony that she got diagnosed in India, the home of karma, but I couldn’t muster much empathy. The women had had health problems for years and not visited her doctor. Her cancer was operable and curable but she couldn’t be fucked. To busy fucking her boy/man, trophy/retard boyfriend.
Women seemed to feel sorry for her. The whole she has kids, I have kids, it could be me thing. Yeah it could be you girls if you left any health concerns two years before you consulted a professional.
Jades gone now so we’re spared more pain. Her ex junkie ex whore mother occasionally still rocks up but slowly, slowly she’s fading from view. As is Jack Tweed, who has to rape someone to get into the papers nowadays.
Life would be boring wouldn’t it but luckily for us we still have Jorden.
You’ve got to love Katie haven’t you? Not in a sexual way obviously because she’s hideous (who jerks off to Jorden pictures. Who ever fucking did? Why ruin your day like that?).
You’ve got to love her lack of self view. The inability to stand out side of herself and actually see what she looks like.
She must read the papers and even though, no doubt she feels, the papers get stuff wrong she has be aware the ordinary unaffected people believe every fucking word of it.
So if you juxtapose pictures of her getting pissed up in Ibiza surrounded by blokes and pictures of Pete in Cyprus surrounded by the kids and his mum who’s going to look like a cunt?
Katie, Katie, Katie. She isn’t helped by the fact she hasn’t got the most warming of voices. She sounds like she’s going to start on someone whenever she opens her mouth. That whole arroga-chav sound.
There are those that think she’s very savvy and very smart. That she’s built herself up to where she is now by pure grit and determination. Really? Breast enlargement and soft porn? Nothing to do with luck then?
Surely Katie Price is the human manifestation of the reality TV, untalented celeb, footballers’ wife culture of the last decade. The point at people. I’m doing it now aren’t I? I’m actually doing it. I’m saying look at her what a cunt.
Moment of introspection...
The honest truth is we love freaks. We love the schadenfraude because we’re twisted like that. We like to point and laugh and feel better about ourselves. Being rich and famous would be fun but none of us will achieve that so when someone does and they’re an idiot we feel a perverse delight.
That’s why the British public enjoyed torturing Jorden on I’m a celebrity. No one wants to know the real Katie Price, the soft motherly, kind, part of herself she wanted to project. Nobody cares about that they’ve already made their minds up.
They now have their opinion on her.
This is the woman who drank through her first pregnancy. Look at the poor kid born blind.
The woman has become very rich on her notoriety. She’s courted it, played up to it and but now, when she’s feeling shit, she wants a big national hug and it isn’t forthcoming. Sorry darling. You’re not very huggable.
We’ve got our opinions on her and she doesn’t disappoint. On leaving the jungle she dumped her boyfriend on live TV.
Lovely.
In a funny kind of way that’s Katie Price blowing us all a kiss. Her way of saying you all know I’m a cunt here’s something special for all of you to take to work tomorrow and have a good laugh over.
Thank you Katie, we wouldn’t want to meet you but we love you.
Monday, 23 November 2009
Delusional reason monkeys
Everyone has read The God Delusion and it, it would seem, has released us from the archaic fantasy world in which we all lived before it was published.
I like Richard Dawkins. I like the pained look he has on his face when some creationist asks him a stupid question that he has to dignify with an answer. I like his pompous manner as he looks down on the lesser intelligence that he finds himself surrounded by. Poor old Richard, all he wants to do is tear down the belief systems of several billion people and all he gets is shit for it.
Dawkins is a very important figure in today’s world. If it wasn’t for the rise of radical Islam and their Christian brethren preaching intelligent design in the states we probably wouldn’t have heard of him. Dawkins brings to the table, along with Christopher Hitchens a total modern outlook on life. We are now in the age of reason and, who in their right mind, would have the arrogance to argue against reason.
Yeah you guessed it. Actually no. I have no problem with reason just some of the people that preach it.
I believe in God. I am a theist. Culturally I’m a Christian and although I am a modern, intelligent, inquisitive man I can still get very bronze age about certain subjects. I don’t think a belief in a higher power makes a person ignorant and I certainly don’t think teaching your children there is a God is tantamount to child abuse
It starts getting dodgy when you begin, injecting hell and damnation and guilt into those teachings. It gets really dodgy when you start putting more emphasis on the next world rather than this one. There are Christians working on starting world war three so they can realise the predictions of Revelations and achieve their own personal rapture.
Now I find this rather selfish of these Christians. Setting out to usher in the end of the world in order to bring Christ back and therefore ensure your own personal salvation doesn’t seem a very Christian act.
Rapture is when all the worthy, god fearing Christians will rise up to heaven. Physically rise up to heaven, not their souls, their bodies will be picked up by God and they will ascend to sit by his side. To this end they use their power and their influence to stir up tensions in the middle east because, lets be honest, if its going to kick off it’s going to kick off there.
The problem with all fundamentalists is they take the word of their particular religious book as truth. I was always taught the bible was ment to be taken metaphorically not as an exact version of events.
Even as a small kid I realised that people didn’t live for hundreds of years and the stories themselves were full of inconsistencies. (Adam and Eve are the first people created by God but when Cain kills Able Cain is banished to land of Nod. Cain fears he will be killed in exile. Who’s going to kill him? Clearly there are people other than his immediate family.)
Now to believe that God created Adam six thousand years ago out of dirt literally is a pretty extreme belief but there are millions of Christians that do. Unfortunately Dawkins bundles up all Christians together so along with these crazies even more, moderate, scientifically literate Christians, like me, get tarred with the same brush.
So I end up getting into discussions with God Delusion carrying reason monkeys who feel its there duty to tell you your wrong. Look, I don’t believe the world is six thousand years old. I know its four and a half billion years old. You don’t need to tell me the bible was written by ordinary people fleshing out a creation myth in a desert trying to make sense of their world because I’ve known this for years.
The thing with atheists today is they, now having found a voice and a rabbi in Dawkins, are in danger of adopting all the smug self-righteous certainty that the faithful have monopolised for years.
Science is a great tool that advances mankind. The scientific model has been instrumental in bringing us to where we are now. We do indeed stand on the shoulders of giants. We live off all that has gone before and because of it we live longer, happier lives in a comfort that our ancestors only dreamed about.
I get all this. I understand the universe needs no God. I understand it all operates quite nicely without an intervening deity. I understand how it evolved from the big bang, how all the laws of physics conspire to create stars, to blow them up in supernovas and to spew the heavier elements out to make us.
I’m not stupid but I’m still not prepared to admit I’m an accident of nature.
The galling thing is neither are most modern atheists. It seems to me they want their cake and to eat it. They are happy to put away their judgemental, authoritarian God however they want to keep all the good stuff. They want to keep their eternal soul. They are quite happy to know they’re not going to hell but the baulk at the idea that they won’t be going anywhere.
The modern atheist and I’ve spoken to more than one that believes this still wants to carry on living after their death. I have heard the argument that the laws of physics are compatible with carrying on your conscience existence after your body dies.
Sounds like a soul to me. Sounds rather religious.
They want to go onto a higher plane, a higher place but they just don’t want to meet God when they get there. The reason monkeys still don’t like the idea that when they die, under their rules, they die. That’s it game over. This is probably the chapter in The God Delusion they skimmed over. Dawkins himself has absolutely no problem with ceasing to exist after brain death.
‘I don’t believe in God but I believe in ghosts.’
Ok.
You’re kind of missing the point.
We’ve become the Gods of our own lives but unfortunately as our own God, making ourselves in our own image doesn’t guarantee us eternal salvation. All it means is we don’t have to follow a bronze age doctrine and won’t be judged according to it. We create our own heaven on earth, live our lives as we choose and then we die. No hell, no fire and brimstone but on the other hand no heaven, no angels and no relaxing, chilled out eternity in the clouds. Worm food. Go back and read Dawkins.
The problem seems to be despite living in a world of reason people get rather attached to themselves. They like their personality, they like what they think and they think they’re special.
We live in a culture where everyone is now led to believe they are some how unique and vital. Look at Jedward. They feel they have the right to their dreams, the right to work in an industry without any of the talents or skills which you’d expect them to posses.
Imagine surgeon idol. 12 wannabe surgeons without any of the skills or training to be a surgeon competing to get a job cutting people up at a hospital.
‘This has always been my dream Simon.’
Would you let them operate on you?
This is why the modern spiritual atheist shy’s away from Buddhism.
Personally I’m rather found of the Buddhist view of enlightenment and the eternal soul. When a Buddhist finally reaches enlightenment and breaks the cycle of re-incarnation their spirit rejoins the universe. Their spirit not their personality.
The personality, Buddhists believe, is a completely false construct that we create during our lives in order to manage them. A needy, whiney wanting computer programme whose sole purpose is to keep our body alive and re-produce.
When a Buddhist achieves enlightenment he/she abandons all earthly, human needs and desires. That’s all of them. Not just possessions and monies. Everything, human attachments, love, grief, sexual desire it all has to go. They leave their personality behind because it is the needs of the self that stops the spirit reaching enlightenment.
This grates against our self obsessed culture. So under the Buddhist model you will, eventually, achieve eternal life with enough work and discipline but it isn’t the you you understand as you because that you, the personality that everyone loves, will die. It merely being an artificial, false yet necessary body manager. The soul, the spirit is your part of the universes’ life force that your body borrows while it has its time on earth. It has no needs or cute quirks. It is elemental and constant.
Whenever I’ve explained this model to people I’ve watched their brows furrow and their noses wrinkle. The idea that they weren’t special, that they were merely a by-product of a much bigger process really irked them. The irony is that Dawkins would argue that we are anything but special. We are all very ordinary and our collective life mass and effect compared to and on the rest of the universe is next to negligible.
Dawkins will argue we’re not special we just really, really, really want to be. He would also say if it makes you happy to think that you are and it doesn’t effect anyone else, you go right ahead.
I’m reminded of the nurse in Weston who got into trouble for asking patients if they wanted her to pray for them. The Daily Mail made a big fuss about the oppression of Christians by the liberal secular society.
Personally I think it was right for her to be disciplined because it isn’t her job to pray for people. It’s her job to administer care, scientific care. If you were ill and your medical professional offered to pray for you you’d shit yourself.
Prayer is the last resort don’t you think?
Fundamentally I think she was wrong as a Christian to feel the need to ask permission. Nowhere in the bible does it state that you need a release form in order to pray for someone. In fact we are told to pray for our enemies so one would feel permission would not be a factor in bringing up a third party in your conversation with God.
What we really have here is a woman who wants everyone to know how pious she is. How god fearing and good and special she is. Asking permission was all about ego and nothing to do with God.
Shit Christian shit Buddhist.
I think my main point is this. We still haven’t put away the idea of God. What we have put away is the need to obey him, to live our lives in away that we would rather not. We don’t want to live by set down rules anymore however we still want all the good stuff promised to us by religion. We’re like naughty little children who want to misbehave all year but still get our Christmas presents.
Like I say I like Dawkins. What he has to say is necessary and intelligent and should be taught in schools. However if you’re going to quote him you have to take on all he has to say. You have to accept your mortality and understand that your time is finite.
You are going to die and then you will be gone. Forever.
I like Richard Dawkins. I like the pained look he has on his face when some creationist asks him a stupid question that he has to dignify with an answer. I like his pompous manner as he looks down on the lesser intelligence that he finds himself surrounded by. Poor old Richard, all he wants to do is tear down the belief systems of several billion people and all he gets is shit for it.
Dawkins is a very important figure in today’s world. If it wasn’t for the rise of radical Islam and their Christian brethren preaching intelligent design in the states we probably wouldn’t have heard of him. Dawkins brings to the table, along with Christopher Hitchens a total modern outlook on life. We are now in the age of reason and, who in their right mind, would have the arrogance to argue against reason.
Yeah you guessed it. Actually no. I have no problem with reason just some of the people that preach it.
I believe in God. I am a theist. Culturally I’m a Christian and although I am a modern, intelligent, inquisitive man I can still get very bronze age about certain subjects. I don’t think a belief in a higher power makes a person ignorant and I certainly don’t think teaching your children there is a God is tantamount to child abuse
It starts getting dodgy when you begin, injecting hell and damnation and guilt into those teachings. It gets really dodgy when you start putting more emphasis on the next world rather than this one. There are Christians working on starting world war three so they can realise the predictions of Revelations and achieve their own personal rapture.
Now I find this rather selfish of these Christians. Setting out to usher in the end of the world in order to bring Christ back and therefore ensure your own personal salvation doesn’t seem a very Christian act.
Rapture is when all the worthy, god fearing Christians will rise up to heaven. Physically rise up to heaven, not their souls, their bodies will be picked up by God and they will ascend to sit by his side. To this end they use their power and their influence to stir up tensions in the middle east because, lets be honest, if its going to kick off it’s going to kick off there.
The problem with all fundamentalists is they take the word of their particular religious book as truth. I was always taught the bible was ment to be taken metaphorically not as an exact version of events.
Even as a small kid I realised that people didn’t live for hundreds of years and the stories themselves were full of inconsistencies. (Adam and Eve are the first people created by God but when Cain kills Able Cain is banished to land of Nod. Cain fears he will be killed in exile. Who’s going to kill him? Clearly there are people other than his immediate family.)
Now to believe that God created Adam six thousand years ago out of dirt literally is a pretty extreme belief but there are millions of Christians that do. Unfortunately Dawkins bundles up all Christians together so along with these crazies even more, moderate, scientifically literate Christians, like me, get tarred with the same brush.
So I end up getting into discussions with God Delusion carrying reason monkeys who feel its there duty to tell you your wrong. Look, I don’t believe the world is six thousand years old. I know its four and a half billion years old. You don’t need to tell me the bible was written by ordinary people fleshing out a creation myth in a desert trying to make sense of their world because I’ve known this for years.
The thing with atheists today is they, now having found a voice and a rabbi in Dawkins, are in danger of adopting all the smug self-righteous certainty that the faithful have monopolised for years.
Science is a great tool that advances mankind. The scientific model has been instrumental in bringing us to where we are now. We do indeed stand on the shoulders of giants. We live off all that has gone before and because of it we live longer, happier lives in a comfort that our ancestors only dreamed about.
I get all this. I understand the universe needs no God. I understand it all operates quite nicely without an intervening deity. I understand how it evolved from the big bang, how all the laws of physics conspire to create stars, to blow them up in supernovas and to spew the heavier elements out to make us.
I’m not stupid but I’m still not prepared to admit I’m an accident of nature.
The galling thing is neither are most modern atheists. It seems to me they want their cake and to eat it. They are happy to put away their judgemental, authoritarian God however they want to keep all the good stuff. They want to keep their eternal soul. They are quite happy to know they’re not going to hell but the baulk at the idea that they won’t be going anywhere.
The modern atheist and I’ve spoken to more than one that believes this still wants to carry on living after their death. I have heard the argument that the laws of physics are compatible with carrying on your conscience existence after your body dies.
Sounds like a soul to me. Sounds rather religious.
They want to go onto a higher plane, a higher place but they just don’t want to meet God when they get there. The reason monkeys still don’t like the idea that when they die, under their rules, they die. That’s it game over. This is probably the chapter in The God Delusion they skimmed over. Dawkins himself has absolutely no problem with ceasing to exist after brain death.
‘I don’t believe in God but I believe in ghosts.’
Ok.
You’re kind of missing the point.
We’ve become the Gods of our own lives but unfortunately as our own God, making ourselves in our own image doesn’t guarantee us eternal salvation. All it means is we don’t have to follow a bronze age doctrine and won’t be judged according to it. We create our own heaven on earth, live our lives as we choose and then we die. No hell, no fire and brimstone but on the other hand no heaven, no angels and no relaxing, chilled out eternity in the clouds. Worm food. Go back and read Dawkins.
The problem seems to be despite living in a world of reason people get rather attached to themselves. They like their personality, they like what they think and they think they’re special.
We live in a culture where everyone is now led to believe they are some how unique and vital. Look at Jedward. They feel they have the right to their dreams, the right to work in an industry without any of the talents or skills which you’d expect them to posses.
Imagine surgeon idol. 12 wannabe surgeons without any of the skills or training to be a surgeon competing to get a job cutting people up at a hospital.
‘This has always been my dream Simon.’
Would you let them operate on you?
This is why the modern spiritual atheist shy’s away from Buddhism.
Personally I’m rather found of the Buddhist view of enlightenment and the eternal soul. When a Buddhist finally reaches enlightenment and breaks the cycle of re-incarnation their spirit rejoins the universe. Their spirit not their personality.
The personality, Buddhists believe, is a completely false construct that we create during our lives in order to manage them. A needy, whiney wanting computer programme whose sole purpose is to keep our body alive and re-produce.
When a Buddhist achieves enlightenment he/she abandons all earthly, human needs and desires. That’s all of them. Not just possessions and monies. Everything, human attachments, love, grief, sexual desire it all has to go. They leave their personality behind because it is the needs of the self that stops the spirit reaching enlightenment.
This grates against our self obsessed culture. So under the Buddhist model you will, eventually, achieve eternal life with enough work and discipline but it isn’t the you you understand as you because that you, the personality that everyone loves, will die. It merely being an artificial, false yet necessary body manager. The soul, the spirit is your part of the universes’ life force that your body borrows while it has its time on earth. It has no needs or cute quirks. It is elemental and constant.
Whenever I’ve explained this model to people I’ve watched their brows furrow and their noses wrinkle. The idea that they weren’t special, that they were merely a by-product of a much bigger process really irked them. The irony is that Dawkins would argue that we are anything but special. We are all very ordinary and our collective life mass and effect compared to and on the rest of the universe is next to negligible.
Dawkins will argue we’re not special we just really, really, really want to be. He would also say if it makes you happy to think that you are and it doesn’t effect anyone else, you go right ahead.
I’m reminded of the nurse in Weston who got into trouble for asking patients if they wanted her to pray for them. The Daily Mail made a big fuss about the oppression of Christians by the liberal secular society.
Personally I think it was right for her to be disciplined because it isn’t her job to pray for people. It’s her job to administer care, scientific care. If you were ill and your medical professional offered to pray for you you’d shit yourself.
Prayer is the last resort don’t you think?
Fundamentally I think she was wrong as a Christian to feel the need to ask permission. Nowhere in the bible does it state that you need a release form in order to pray for someone. In fact we are told to pray for our enemies so one would feel permission would not be a factor in bringing up a third party in your conversation with God.
What we really have here is a woman who wants everyone to know how pious she is. How god fearing and good and special she is. Asking permission was all about ego and nothing to do with God.
Shit Christian shit Buddhist.
I think my main point is this. We still haven’t put away the idea of God. What we have put away is the need to obey him, to live our lives in away that we would rather not. We don’t want to live by set down rules anymore however we still want all the good stuff promised to us by religion. We’re like naughty little children who want to misbehave all year but still get our Christmas presents.
Like I say I like Dawkins. What he has to say is necessary and intelligent and should be taught in schools. However if you’re going to quote him you have to take on all he has to say. You have to accept your mortality and understand that your time is finite.
You are going to die and then you will be gone. Forever.
Saturday, 21 November 2009
Diatribe of a reactionary old fart
It must be hard being young nowadays. What with being stabbed, the binge drinking and having no job. Needing a dozen A pluses to get into collage and seven or eight A levels to get into a university. No wonder they’re all so annoying.
It seems every day there is a new report coming out reminding us just how fucking awful it is to be young.
Black boys are doing terribly in the school league tables. They’re putting this down to the fact the black youths perceive academic success as, culturally, a white thing. This of course isn’t helping white working class boys who are doing equally as bad. No one told them culturally they should be excelling. The Asian kids are laughing. They’re doing alright but they have the unfair advantage of having parents.
The girls are doing much better. It’s shame that they’re just going to waste it all when they get pregnant.
Confusingly every summer everyone gets A’s.
Children seem to have divided into two groups. Lower class and illiterate with no prospects or middle class and excelling but with devalued exam results because all their peers are doing equally well.
I never got any A's at GCSE. To be honest no one did. Maybe one or two people a class (and they were swotty girls). Now everyone seems to be. This however will not stop them getting stabbed.
It’s not much better for younger kids. Growing up without the security of getting a slap. You see them running wild screaming, knocking stuff over as there doting parents look on, love in their eyes, thinking it’s the cutest thing ever while everyone else simmers in quite resentment.
We find any discipline now will be ignored because a) they’re just expressing themselves and any curtailing of this will damage them in later life or b) any adult talking to them for any reason clearly just wants to molest them.
We are at a stage where you can’t take a picture of your own child in a public places just in case you get someone else’s child in the frame and everyone knows what you’re going to use that picture for. O yeah we know. Pervert.
We’re going to have a whole generation of adults who won’t trust anyone. A professional adult can not be alone with a child anymore unless that is specifically their job description. I know of people who clean schools and if a child walks in and they are the only people in the room they have to leave. They have to walk out and leave the child on their own. Just in case.
Of course there are a lot of nasty bastards out there but they tend to be related to the kids. Sixty children a year are killed by immediate family or extended family. One is killed by a stranger and some years none.
If you really want to protect your kids don’t have any friends or relatives. Probably a good idea to fuck your husband off as well because you know he likes to bath them. Mmm. Dodgy.
So here we are. Sexualised at birth. Spoilt or beaten (depending on your class). Illiterate or with unrealistic life goals (depending on your class). Pregnant or stabbed before you’re twenty.
It used to be good to be a kid. No responsibilities, years to make your mind up what you were going to do. Fisty cuffs that ended in bragging rights and not intensive care and you couldn’t get laid for love or money.
Where were all these rampant, perverted older women when I was 14 eh? I could have done with one and now thinking back I know which one. O yeah. Mrs Grills. She was lurrrvely! If I was at school now I’d be fucking her.
It seems every day there is a new report coming out reminding us just how fucking awful it is to be young.
Black boys are doing terribly in the school league tables. They’re putting this down to the fact the black youths perceive academic success as, culturally, a white thing. This of course isn’t helping white working class boys who are doing equally as bad. No one told them culturally they should be excelling. The Asian kids are laughing. They’re doing alright but they have the unfair advantage of having parents.
The girls are doing much better. It’s shame that they’re just going to waste it all when they get pregnant.
Confusingly every summer everyone gets A’s.
Children seem to have divided into two groups. Lower class and illiterate with no prospects or middle class and excelling but with devalued exam results because all their peers are doing equally well.
I never got any A's at GCSE. To be honest no one did. Maybe one or two people a class (and they were swotty girls). Now everyone seems to be. This however will not stop them getting stabbed.
It’s not much better for younger kids. Growing up without the security of getting a slap. You see them running wild screaming, knocking stuff over as there doting parents look on, love in their eyes, thinking it’s the cutest thing ever while everyone else simmers in quite resentment.
We find any discipline now will be ignored because a) they’re just expressing themselves and any curtailing of this will damage them in later life or b) any adult talking to them for any reason clearly just wants to molest them.
We are at a stage where you can’t take a picture of your own child in a public places just in case you get someone else’s child in the frame and everyone knows what you’re going to use that picture for. O yeah we know. Pervert.
We’re going to have a whole generation of adults who won’t trust anyone. A professional adult can not be alone with a child anymore unless that is specifically their job description. I know of people who clean schools and if a child walks in and they are the only people in the room they have to leave. They have to walk out and leave the child on their own. Just in case.
Of course there are a lot of nasty bastards out there but they tend to be related to the kids. Sixty children a year are killed by immediate family or extended family. One is killed by a stranger and some years none.
If you really want to protect your kids don’t have any friends or relatives. Probably a good idea to fuck your husband off as well because you know he likes to bath them. Mmm. Dodgy.
So here we are. Sexualised at birth. Spoilt or beaten (depending on your class). Illiterate or with unrealistic life goals (depending on your class). Pregnant or stabbed before you’re twenty.
It used to be good to be a kid. No responsibilities, years to make your mind up what you were going to do. Fisty cuffs that ended in bragging rights and not intensive care and you couldn’t get laid for love or money.
Where were all these rampant, perverted older women when I was 14 eh? I could have done with one and now thinking back I know which one. O yeah. Mrs Grills. She was lurrrvely! If I was at school now I’d be fucking her.
Thursday, 19 November 2009
Night owl
It’s late. Quarter to four and the Girlf is asleep. I would be to if I hadn’t passed out after dinner. Helped along nicely by a cheeky whisky consumed far too early in the day. I’m not a drinker but it was there, barely two shots left in the bottle that Justin and I destroyed last week.
Fuck it I thought. Went down lovely it did and was the perfect aperitif to the lounge floor picnic. Unfortunately, as she lay reading, I embraced her and closed my eyes. I was out. Three hours later the house was spotless and my sleep pattern’s completely destroyed. I’m up and she’s going to bed. Nice.
Sitting alone in someone else’s house is weird. There’s not a lot I can do. I could watch TV but I’d have to have it painfully low. If I wake her up she’ll turn into a monster. She does a very good incredible hulk impersonation. So I’m sat here respectfully quiet.
You become very aware you’re not in your own place. I love my squat. It’s falling apart but all that I have is there. It looks like an absolute mess but trust me it’s a very complex and evolved filing system. It may look like a jumble of plates and clothes piled up on stacks of paper but I know exactly where everything is.
The Woman cleaned the place a few weeks ago and, to be fair, it looked immaculate but I was fucked for days. I couldn’t find a single thing. I’m not exaggerating. Everything I needed had vanished into thin air.
‘I put everything in the little cupboard. It’ll be in there.’
Umm no. I think you’ll find it isn’t. There are birthday cards off of my ex from two years ago but the gas bill that arrived last week has mysteriously disappeared.
It’s taken me over a month to get it back to the way I like it but at least the shower’s clean I suppose.
I’ve been at mine for nearly a decade I know every creak of every floor board. I understand the acoustics of the place subconsciously so I don’t wake her up when she’s there.
This place is treacherous, it hasn’t yet accepted me. It amplifies everything I do and wakes the Kraken in the other room.
New builds see. Made out of fucking paper.
My old place is lush. You can’t hear anything from room to room. This place puts four stone on me. I sound like a fat man jogging when I nip downstairs to the loo. I’m frightened to move around.
See, see! Every time I have a burst of typing I can hear her turn over and mumble in the other room. Nasty, disloyal, house. It’s because I’m a man. The oestrogen from the three women who live here has seeped into it’s walls. The place even feels pink. It clearly hates me.
Now I’m wondering if it’s acceptable to put on babe station on her telly. Is it the done thing to watch soft porn on your girlfriends TV? I won’t need the sound for that but it seems a little cheeky. Like using her phone without asking permission.
God this is annoying. If I go to bed I’ll probably wake her up. I have to climb over her because she can’t sleep next to the wall and that will unleash the whinge. Bugger.
I think I’m going to risk it...
Fuck it I thought. Went down lovely it did and was the perfect aperitif to the lounge floor picnic. Unfortunately, as she lay reading, I embraced her and closed my eyes. I was out. Three hours later the house was spotless and my sleep pattern’s completely destroyed. I’m up and she’s going to bed. Nice.
Sitting alone in someone else’s house is weird. There’s not a lot I can do. I could watch TV but I’d have to have it painfully low. If I wake her up she’ll turn into a monster. She does a very good incredible hulk impersonation. So I’m sat here respectfully quiet.
You become very aware you’re not in your own place. I love my squat. It’s falling apart but all that I have is there. It looks like an absolute mess but trust me it’s a very complex and evolved filing system. It may look like a jumble of plates and clothes piled up on stacks of paper but I know exactly where everything is.
The Woman cleaned the place a few weeks ago and, to be fair, it looked immaculate but I was fucked for days. I couldn’t find a single thing. I’m not exaggerating. Everything I needed had vanished into thin air.
‘I put everything in the little cupboard. It’ll be in there.’
Umm no. I think you’ll find it isn’t. There are birthday cards off of my ex from two years ago but the gas bill that arrived last week has mysteriously disappeared.
It’s taken me over a month to get it back to the way I like it but at least the shower’s clean I suppose.
I’ve been at mine for nearly a decade I know every creak of every floor board. I understand the acoustics of the place subconsciously so I don’t wake her up when she’s there.
This place is treacherous, it hasn’t yet accepted me. It amplifies everything I do and wakes the Kraken in the other room.
New builds see. Made out of fucking paper.
My old place is lush. You can’t hear anything from room to room. This place puts four stone on me. I sound like a fat man jogging when I nip downstairs to the loo. I’m frightened to move around.
See, see! Every time I have a burst of typing I can hear her turn over and mumble in the other room. Nasty, disloyal, house. It’s because I’m a man. The oestrogen from the three women who live here has seeped into it’s walls. The place even feels pink. It clearly hates me.
Now I’m wondering if it’s acceptable to put on babe station on her telly. Is it the done thing to watch soft porn on your girlfriends TV? I won’t need the sound for that but it seems a little cheeky. Like using her phone without asking permission.
God this is annoying. If I go to bed I’ll probably wake her up. I have to climb over her because she can’t sleep next to the wall and that will unleash the whinge. Bugger.
I think I’m going to risk it...
Man about the house
Quarter past twelve and I’m around the Girlf’s. The Woman’s. Mmm. The day hasn’t started well. The Girlf rang me half an hour ago. Every day for the last year I’ve woken up and text her a ‘morning gorgeous’ yet today, even though no such text was forthcoming she assumed I was awake. Bearing in mind she knew I was up until half three blogging.
This woman is phenomenally intelligent but it’s galling that she can slip straight into dumb woman mode at the slightest provocation.
So I’m awake, ranting and when I calm down I ask her what she wants.
‘O nothing. I just wanted to see if you were awake.’
Well I fucking am now aren’t I!
I continue my rant and throw in a few insults then I tell her I’m going to have a shower...with the door open.
She informs me that I clearly want a slap
So here I am listening to Five Live on my laptop because there isn’t a TV control. There’s never a TV control. Even the rare occasions that there is a TV control the batteries are missing because there is only one set of batteries to go around.
Of course none of the controls have backs on them so if there are no batteries they may simply be lost not otherwise appropriated. The Girlf spends about thirty pounds a week on chocolates and cakes and other confectionaries but when she is shopping at Morrison’s for these things she always neglects to buy dustbin liners, washing up liquid (the current one is half a bottle brought around from mine at short notice) and of course bloody batteries. If you’re in the mood for chocolate covered cornflakes or Pringles you’re laughing however if you fancy throwing the rubbish out, washing up and maybe watching a bit of telly you’re fucked.
Five Live is pretty good though today. There was a short piece on prostitution and it’s still all OUR fault. See prostitution is a very bad thing but the prostitutes, of course, aren’t bad people it’s just all those horrible men creating a demand. The bastards.
There was a male escort on who told everyone to shut up. He loves his job, he hadn’t been coerced into it. He just loves doing it. It suits his high sex drive. He’s won awards for his work, it pays well and he has plenty of free time.
I’ve considered it myself but funnily the Girlf objects.
This woman is phenomenally intelligent but it’s galling that she can slip straight into dumb woman mode at the slightest provocation.
So I’m awake, ranting and when I calm down I ask her what she wants.
‘O nothing. I just wanted to see if you were awake.’
Well I fucking am now aren’t I!
I continue my rant and throw in a few insults then I tell her I’m going to have a shower...with the door open.
She informs me that I clearly want a slap
So here I am listening to Five Live on my laptop because there isn’t a TV control. There’s never a TV control. Even the rare occasions that there is a TV control the batteries are missing because there is only one set of batteries to go around.
Of course none of the controls have backs on them so if there are no batteries they may simply be lost not otherwise appropriated. The Girlf spends about thirty pounds a week on chocolates and cakes and other confectionaries but when she is shopping at Morrison’s for these things she always neglects to buy dustbin liners, washing up liquid (the current one is half a bottle brought around from mine at short notice) and of course bloody batteries. If you’re in the mood for chocolate covered cornflakes or Pringles you’re laughing however if you fancy throwing the rubbish out, washing up and maybe watching a bit of telly you’re fucked.
Five Live is pretty good though today. There was a short piece on prostitution and it’s still all OUR fault. See prostitution is a very bad thing but the prostitutes, of course, aren’t bad people it’s just all those horrible men creating a demand. The bastards.
There was a male escort on who told everyone to shut up. He loves his job, he hadn’t been coerced into it. He just loves doing it. It suits his high sex drive. He’s won awards for his work, it pays well and he has plenty of free time.
I’ve considered it myself but funnily the Girlf objects.
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
New Moon or They've cut the balls off of Dracula
New moon is released tomorrow. Twilight Two: The sequel. Now I realise women are going to hate me for this and especially THE woman is going to hate me for this but what the fuck has happened to the modern vampire? The genre is fucked. They have, it seems, cut the balls off of Dracula.
Some clarification is needed here. When I was young I wanted to be a vampire. I would have loved to be a vampire. The scene that clinched it for me was the window scene from Salem’s Lot. The kiddie floating at the window begging to be let in. Those fucked up soulless eyes. What can I say I was a fucked up kid.
Vampires were cool. Look at Blade. Vampires don’t give a fuck. Vampires don’t need to give a fuck. They eat people for Gods sake. They are top of the food chain.
Dracula was a metaphor for sexual temptation. The lure of corruption. His bite ment death but it also gave his victims the biggest orgasm of their life. They went from innocent Victorian girls to sexual predators. The vampires bite freed you from all society’s constraints. You no longer had to obey anyone else’s rules. Dracula gave you the ultimate freedom to stand apart and do what ever you damn well pleased. You were strong, immortal, your eyes hypnotic you could have anybody you wanted. Feared yet totally irresistible you became a true creature of the night in every sense of the word. Very appealing to a 14 year old boy.
So what’s happened? Why now do vampires now hang around schools falling in love with miserable 16 year old Emo chicks. How can vampires sparkle in daylight? Vampires should be spontaneously combusting in daylight not sparkling. He’s not a necklace he’s the living fucking dead. Incidentally why is a 90 year old guy hanging around a school falling in love with barely legal girls? I’m sixty years younger than Edward and if I tried that they’d be calling the police. What does he see in her? Why would anyone over the age of twenty want to date a teenager. It would be carnage. He has the life experience of a 90 year old he would, in truth, run a mile.
Edward is a pussy. He doesn’t bite people. He wears skinny jeans and he falls in love with the first girl that looks at him. That is so cool isn’t it? Like the grandparents who fought Hitler, who despair at their moaning, teary, weak grandchildren, Dracula must look at Edward and think what the fuck happened. Is this my legacy? This pussy is what I’ve become. Top trump (killing power 100) to soppy teenage wank fantasy in a hundred years. I’m wondering, as I write, if the werewolves in this new film are also vegetarian?
There was a time when Goths modelled themselves on vampires. It seems now vampires are modelled on Goths.
Some clarification is needed here. When I was young I wanted to be a vampire. I would have loved to be a vampire. The scene that clinched it for me was the window scene from Salem’s Lot. The kiddie floating at the window begging to be let in. Those fucked up soulless eyes. What can I say I was a fucked up kid.
Vampires were cool. Look at Blade. Vampires don’t give a fuck. Vampires don’t need to give a fuck. They eat people for Gods sake. They are top of the food chain.
Dracula was a metaphor for sexual temptation. The lure of corruption. His bite ment death but it also gave his victims the biggest orgasm of their life. They went from innocent Victorian girls to sexual predators. The vampires bite freed you from all society’s constraints. You no longer had to obey anyone else’s rules. Dracula gave you the ultimate freedom to stand apart and do what ever you damn well pleased. You were strong, immortal, your eyes hypnotic you could have anybody you wanted. Feared yet totally irresistible you became a true creature of the night in every sense of the word. Very appealing to a 14 year old boy.
So what’s happened? Why now do vampires now hang around schools falling in love with miserable 16 year old Emo chicks. How can vampires sparkle in daylight? Vampires should be spontaneously combusting in daylight not sparkling. He’s not a necklace he’s the living fucking dead. Incidentally why is a 90 year old guy hanging around a school falling in love with barely legal girls? I’m sixty years younger than Edward and if I tried that they’d be calling the police. What does he see in her? Why would anyone over the age of twenty want to date a teenager. It would be carnage. He has the life experience of a 90 year old he would, in truth, run a mile.
Edward is a pussy. He doesn’t bite people. He wears skinny jeans and he falls in love with the first girl that looks at him. That is so cool isn’t it? Like the grandparents who fought Hitler, who despair at their moaning, teary, weak grandchildren, Dracula must look at Edward and think what the fuck happened. Is this my legacy? This pussy is what I’ve become. Top trump (killing power 100) to soppy teenage wank fantasy in a hundred years. I’m wondering, as I write, if the werewolves in this new film are also vegetarian?
There was a time when Goths modelled themselves on vampires. It seems now vampires are modelled on Goths.
Coffee and ecstacy
Fair that was easy. The first, tentative, awkward post out of the way. Now I sit comfortably on my sofa, tension ebbing away. One way or another I've sat in front of this laptop for six hours today! Six bloody hours and six cups of coffee. I drink far to much coffee but yet I'm strangely very chilled out. Without coffee I'd probably be asleep. I have no time for those that blame their drug intake for their mood and behaviour. The Greeks say to know the fruit of tree you must water it well. Or to put it another way a drunk prick is generally a prick but the alcohol has brought down his inhibitions.
Personally I haven't been a drunk prick for years. Years and years. My twenties were a work of art. I was on a mission. No insult left un uttered for I was obsessed with truth and the truth hurt. To be brutally honest I intended it to hurt. Emotional and embittered, double vodka and redbull in hand, no one was safe. women were dis respected and men insulted. Thinking about it, considering I couldn't fight to save my life back then I'm surprised I didn't get my head kicked in. Training and age has tempered me.
My point being I was a prick because I was a prick not because I was drunk. The drinking was down to my ill will and an excuse for my mis behaviour. I was a naughty boy because I wanted to be.
Of course now I'm a good boy. I hardly drink and my druggie days are a distant memory. I suppose I've become old and boring not that throwing up in the street is particularly interesting mind. but it's good for the soul and good for the body. in January I will give up smoking and you can close the lid on me. Enfant terrible to boring middle age cunt in 15 short years.
But wait. We all know I'm still capable. There is still the lure to waste a night in the middle of a sweaty dance floor. Feeling the bass penetrating my very core. Feeling the rushes up and down my spine. O the desire is still there. My partners in crime may have put on their comfortable slippers but this old quaver hasn't forgotten.
Personally I haven't been a drunk prick for years. Years and years. My twenties were a work of art. I was on a mission. No insult left un uttered for I was obsessed with truth and the truth hurt. To be brutally honest I intended it to hurt. Emotional and embittered, double vodka and redbull in hand, no one was safe. women were dis respected and men insulted. Thinking about it, considering I couldn't fight to save my life back then I'm surprised I didn't get my head kicked in. Training and age has tempered me.
My point being I was a prick because I was a prick not because I was drunk. The drinking was down to my ill will and an excuse for my mis behaviour. I was a naughty boy because I wanted to be.
Of course now I'm a good boy. I hardly drink and my druggie days are a distant memory. I suppose I've become old and boring not that throwing up in the street is particularly interesting mind. but it's good for the soul and good for the body. in January I will give up smoking and you can close the lid on me. Enfant terrible to boring middle age cunt in 15 short years.
But wait. We all know I'm still capable. There is still the lure to waste a night in the middle of a sweaty dance floor. Feeling the bass penetrating my very core. Feeling the rushes up and down my spine. O the desire is still there. My partners in crime may have put on their comfortable slippers but this old quaver hasn't forgotten.
An empty room with white walls
Well this is interesting. Here I am in cyberspace about to set down my words and its all a little bit overwhelming. And my a doesn't work properly. Mmm. What do I set out to do with this? I suppose it will degenerate into rants and general musings and probably a lot of blah that I'll tire with. We will see won't we?
Welcome to all. Welcome to anyone reading this. My name is Stelios and I am 37 years old even though I generally feel about fifteen. Today I have been writing. 1000 words that although enjoyable they aren't really going anywhere. I suspect I'll return to them but without a story, and believe me there is no story, they are just becoming poetic flourishes. Soap bubble ideas. Glimmering and fragile. Mere moments. Well I'm enjoying it so that's OK.
I'm intrigued by my ability to write. I've sat in front of computers for years. Sat in front of word hating that blank page with nothing to put on it but lately I've been churning them out and I'm liking it. Maybe there is something in here. Maybe the woman inspires me. I think that might be it. Quite possibly. She challenges and cajoles. Pushes me out of my cosy little rut. Pulls the duvet off my complacency.... god she can be infuriating.
My a is still playing up. I blame her. It was fine on Monday before she got her heavy, chubby little fingers on it. She clanks. Heavy, heavy typing. she bludgeons the words on to the page. Forces them out with feminist authority. This will be read! Right this is my first post. I will post it and check it out. There will be more.......
Welcome to all. Welcome to anyone reading this. My name is Stelios and I am 37 years old even though I generally feel about fifteen. Today I have been writing. 1000 words that although enjoyable they aren't really going anywhere. I suspect I'll return to them but without a story, and believe me there is no story, they are just becoming poetic flourishes. Soap bubble ideas. Glimmering and fragile. Mere moments. Well I'm enjoying it so that's OK.
I'm intrigued by my ability to write. I've sat in front of computers for years. Sat in front of word hating that blank page with nothing to put on it but lately I've been churning them out and I'm liking it. Maybe there is something in here. Maybe the woman inspires me. I think that might be it. Quite possibly. She challenges and cajoles. Pushes me out of my cosy little rut. Pulls the duvet off my complacency.... god she can be infuriating.
My a is still playing up. I blame her. It was fine on Monday before she got her heavy, chubby little fingers on it. She clanks. Heavy, heavy typing. she bludgeons the words on to the page. Forces them out with feminist authority. This will be read! Right this is my first post. I will post it and check it out. There will be more.......
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