I hate airports with a passion. Because I live in foreign places, and because of my job, I travel quite a bit, and it seems like I'm in Manchester airport every other week. And I'm really beginning to loathe the place. The sooner they build some sort of teleportation device, the better, as far as I'm concerned. But that's another story.
Lately, my airport experiences have been unfavourable, to say the least. It's probably something to do with the fact that, now, I almost always expect the worst when I'm flying anywhere, but I think it's also something to do with the fact that airports are run by muppets. Complete and utter muppets.
It's funny (that's 'funny hysterical-verging-on-madness' rather than 'funny ha ha') because I'm not afraid of flying whatsoever. In my job, I know a little bit more about airplanes and how they work (and sometimes don't work) than the average person. I know what noises to listen out for during the flight, and how to tell if everything's going ok or if there might be a slight problem, etc. In this age of hyper-sensitivity regarding all things big and shiny and metal hurtling through the air at speeds upwards of 500mph, I'm quite comfortable with flying. It's definitely my preferred mode of transport, unless the alternative is a swanky BMW with a cooler full of beer. I love seeing the land spread out before me, marvelling at how tiny all the houses and fields are, watching the sun glinting off car windshields miles below, and then soaring above the cotton wool clouds, feeling as though the laws of physics and gravity do not apply. I love flying. It's the bits beforehand and afterwards that bother me.
Last week, I had to fly to Southampton for a couple of days work, and it was, without doubt, one of the worst trips I've ever been on. Things got off to a funky start in the taxi to Manchester airport. I hopped into the regulation Black Cab, and gave my destination to the driver. Before I could even sit down, he slammed his foot on the accelerator, throwing me backwards into my seat, and sped off towards the airport. At the first set of lights I was still adjusting myself, desperately trying to buckle my seatbelt and willing my heart rate to slow down, when the driver decided that some hardcore dance music was needed to liven up the trip, and turned the stereo up full blast. As both my eardrums simultaneously started to bleed, I tried to shout at the driver to please turn the music down, but, of course, he couldn't/wouldn't hear me, and so I had to endure "duf-duf-duf-duf" for the rest of the very long 20 minute journey.
We eventually got to the airport, and I practically fell out of the cab. My ears had that weird ringing/cotton wool sensation that makes you feel like you're really, really stoned. I wandered into the airport in a daze, and checked in for my flight. I have always found checking in for my flight in Manchester to be a doddle. I think they do it on purpose - make check-in as easy as physically possible in order to lull you into a false sense of security before you have to face the complete mindfuck that is running the security gauntlet before you can get to your gate.
The security area in Manchester airport must have been designed by an alcoholic with the DT's and not enough cash to buy chewing gum, let alone his next bottle of moonshine, and who wanted to inflict the same amount of pain and confusion on anyone able to afford to get this far in the airport. If you're travelling to anywhere in the UK, Channel Islands or Ireland, they have a separate 'fast channel' through which you can get your boarding card and passport checked and then you can go through to a separate X-ray machine, and basically you skip the huge queues of Mancs heading off to Torremolinos, or wherever. But, if the airport isn't particularly busy, then you all go through the same security machines. In theory, this is a good idea, and it usually works.
Anyhoo, so, I went off down this corridor, expecting to get through to the departure lounge fairly quickly, so I could get my caffeine fix smartish. I arrived at the end of the corridor only to find out that there was, unusually, a really long queue. This is because the muppet in charge of checking the passports, etc., was... well, he was being a muppet. He was pretty much going through everybody's passport, page-by-page, double checking the photographs, etc.
As an aside: I know 9/11 was an awful, awful event. I watched it live on TV. I saw the second plane hitting the WTC in real time, and it scared the shit out of me. I can't even begin to imagine how the people who were directly involved or who lost family members or friends must feel. But I have to say that airport security has gone to the point where it's ridiculous. And, what's worse is that it's not even consistent. One day, you might get strip searched even though you're only flying to Dublin. The next day, you could be flying to LA and they won't even glance at your luggage as it goes through the X-ray machine. That really annoys me.
Anyway, so there was this huge queue, and I looked over at the queue for the people flying to other destinations, and there were only about five people in it. So I thought what most normal people would think, which was "Why am I standing here waiting for Kermit the Frog to check my passport when I could get through security there in about 30 seconds?" We were all being directed to the same X-ray machines, so I didn't think it would be a problem. I went over to the other queue, waited behind the five people for my turn, got to the top of the queue and handed the lady my boarding card and passport. She looks at it and says "Oh no, you have to queue over there".
I said "But, that queue is really long, and we're all going through the same machines, so could you not just check my details here".
"No. You have to queue up over there."
"But I'm only going to Southampton. It's not like I'm flying to foreign places."
"No. Over there."
The woman had a head for slaps. It made absolutely no sense whatsoever for her to make me wait in the really long queue. There was no one behind me, so it's not like I was holding up other passengers. All she had to do was check my boarding card and passport, and she could have let me go through. But, because she's a bitch, and because it would require a small amount of thinking, she refused. I can't stand people who do this kind of thing. It reminds me of going into KFC or some other such fast food place once. I ordered a burger and fries. The girl asked me what drink I wanted. I told her I didn't want a drink. But... why not? She couldn't understand this. I said I don't like fizzy drinks, therefore I don't want one. But it only costs 1p more to get the drink. I don't care, I don't want a drink, I just want the burger and fries. At this point, the girl's head exploded. Moron. Life doesn't run according to the script! Get used to it! USE YOUR BRAIN!!!
*and breathe*
Anyhoo, so I queued for ages and Kermit eventually checked my details and let me through. Then the fun started. I put my bags through the X-ray machine, and then stepped through the metal detector. As per usual, the detector didn't beep because I had nothing metal in my pockets and, oh yeah, because I'm not a terrorist. But, every time I go through the metal detector in Manchester airport, they always call me over for a random search. I like to think it's because I'm so damn hot that the women can't wait to run their hands up and down my body, but in reality I know it's because I always look guilty and/or like I'm hiding something. I kid you not - every single time I go through security there, I get searched. Anyway, this 'lady' calls me over (I'm using quotes there because she was rough! I felt kind of dirty afterwards) and starts to feel me up. She spent a long time feeling my bra to check I didn't have a grenade or something hiding in there. She had me there for about two minutes and I swear I had bruises afterwards.
*shudder*
She eventually let me go, and I grabbed my bags and ran all the way to Starbucks for the precious rocket fuel, and finally began to relax. Then I remembered that my boss would be along soon, and I got all stressed out again. I swear I'm going to have a stomach ulcer before my contract is up in October.
Sunday, 30 July 2006
Tuesday, 25 July 2006
While my guitar gently weeps
Isn't it amazing how music has evolved over the centuries. From Beethoven to Boyzone, from Elvis to Evanescence, from Mozart to Metallica, when I think about it, it makes me marvel at the ingenuity of the human mind.
However, it's so easy to become blasé about music. I listen to music for a couple of hours a day - when I get up in the morning, in the car, at work, at the gym - but I don't often take the time to actually listen to the songs. Usually, when I'm listening to music, I'm engaged in some other activity, and the songs become part of the background noise.
In almost every aspect of life, you are bombarded with music - sometimes good, sometimes bad, and sometimes plain shite. There are catchy jingles on the radio and tv selling you everything from hemorrhoid cream to bread. TV shows and movies are rated as much by their soundtrack as they are for the acting, directing or aesthetic appeal. Live gigs have become big business and going to summer festivals has become almost a rite of passage in modern society. All in all, it's quite easy to just let the tunes wash over you.
But every now and then, I'll hear a song that quite literally stops me in my tracks. Sometimes it'll be a new song on the radio, that I've never heard before, but sometimes it's a song that I've heard dozens of times before, but never really paid attention to.
And I think it's incredible that music can have this kind of reaction. That music has the power to inspire such emotions in a person. Music can cause you to feel joy, hope, confusion, depsair, hurt, longing, lust, nostaliga, heartbreak, and so much more.
Anyhoo, on Saturday I was on the train down to London, and was listening to myPod, as usual. The tunes were pretty good, as I have great taste in music (:-D), and then Black by Pearl Jam came on, and it made me catch my breath. I've been a Pearl Jam fan for many years, and I've heard this song countless times before. I always thought it was good, but on Saturday, as I sat on the train watching England whizzing by, with myPod turned up loud, it had a heart-wrenching effect on me.
I think the combination of a very mellow and yet dramatic tune, Eddie Vedder's mournful voice, lyrics that are utterly despairing and the haunting piano just made me feel hollow inside. Towards the end of the song, the last verse, his voice becomes so anguished and wretched that it made me want to howl and weep in sympathy with his pain.
I'd forgotten that music can cause this kind of reaction; that it can be this powerful and moving.
From now on, I'm resolving to spend more time actually listening to music, rather than letting it fade into the background. And I'm dedicating this blog to Mr. Eddie Vedder for reminding me of this simple pleasure.
However, it's so easy to become blasé about music. I listen to music for a couple of hours a day - when I get up in the morning, in the car, at work, at the gym - but I don't often take the time to actually listen to the songs. Usually, when I'm listening to music, I'm engaged in some other activity, and the songs become part of the background noise.
In almost every aspect of life, you are bombarded with music - sometimes good, sometimes bad, and sometimes plain shite. There are catchy jingles on the radio and tv selling you everything from hemorrhoid cream to bread. TV shows and movies are rated as much by their soundtrack as they are for the acting, directing or aesthetic appeal. Live gigs have become big business and going to summer festivals has become almost a rite of passage in modern society. All in all, it's quite easy to just let the tunes wash over you.
But every now and then, I'll hear a song that quite literally stops me in my tracks. Sometimes it'll be a new song on the radio, that I've never heard before, but sometimes it's a song that I've heard dozens of times before, but never really paid attention to.
And I think it's incredible that music can have this kind of reaction. That music has the power to inspire such emotions in a person. Music can cause you to feel joy, hope, confusion, depsair, hurt, longing, lust, nostaliga, heartbreak, and so much more.
Anyhoo, on Saturday I was on the train down to London, and was listening to myPod, as usual. The tunes were pretty good, as I have great taste in music (:-D), and then Black by Pearl Jam came on, and it made me catch my breath. I've been a Pearl Jam fan for many years, and I've heard this song countless times before. I always thought it was good, but on Saturday, as I sat on the train watching England whizzing by, with myPod turned up loud, it had a heart-wrenching effect on me.
I think the combination of a very mellow and yet dramatic tune, Eddie Vedder's mournful voice, lyrics that are utterly despairing and the haunting piano just made me feel hollow inside. Towards the end of the song, the last verse, his voice becomes so anguished and wretched that it made me want to howl and weep in sympathy with his pain.
I'd forgotten that music can cause this kind of reaction; that it can be this powerful and moving.
From now on, I'm resolving to spend more time actually listening to music, rather than letting it fade into the background. And I'm dedicating this blog to Mr. Eddie Vedder for reminding me of this simple pleasure.
Thursday, 13 July 2006
Won't you be my neighbour?
Neighbours are a funny thing, I think. Funny weird, that is. Not funny ha ha. Not usually.
For most of my adult life I've lived in apartments (some fabulous, some not so fabulous) and it's always struck me as bizarre that on the other side of a relatively thin piece of plywood or cardboard or rice paper or whatever it is that they make apartments out of these days, is a person whom I've only ever met in the elevator and have never spoken to beyond the odd grunted salute. Whilst I'm lying in bed reading my book, this stranger could be lying inches away from my head, and could be getting up to all sorts of tricks, from kinky sex to cannibalism.
When you think about it, it really is quite strange how, in a single apartment complex you can have literally hundreds of people living side-by-side and yet they know nothing about one another. The last place I lived in in Dublin was like that. It was quite a fancy complex of about five or six four-storey buildings, with about 20 apartments in each building. I lived in one of the penthouse apartments (ooh! posh!) and I think I only ever exchanged greetings with one person in my building for the entire six months that I lived there. And that was only because we just happened to step into the lift at the same time. In fact, I know there were people in that building (yes, stuck-up-lady from number 419, I'm looking at you!) who used to deliberately wait to make sure no one else was leaving their apartment for the elevator at the same time, so that they wouldn't have to make small talk with a stranger. How bizarre is that? Why are people so afraid to make contact with one another nowadays?
Anyway, at the moment I'm living in the upstairs apartment of a nice little duplex about twenty minutes from Manchester city centre. My downstairs neighbour should be The Neighbour From Hell for many reasons, some of which include the fact that he's a complete alcoholic and has a very tempestuous relationship with his ex-wife. I've only been living above him for two months now, but he's a constant source of soap-operatic antics that will keep me amused for many a time, I hope.
One day last week, I left my apartment in the morning and found him fast asleep on his doorstep. He'd obviously been so pissed when hed gotten home the night before that he couldn't even get into his own apartment. I checked to see if he was breathing, but didn't try to wake him up as I was in a bit of a rush to get to work and just didn't need to deal with that first thing in the morning. However, Norman the Mormon (my car) was parked right next to his door, and his head was resting about an inch from Norman's front bumper. The guy didnt budge even when I slammed the door, started the engine, revved it a bit and drove off. He was out cold. Nutter.
Every now and then, his ex-wife calls over with the kids and they have the most spectacular rows. They'll be screaming insults at one another, calling each other every name under the sun, slamming doors etc. They're very considerate though - it often spills out on to the street so that all the neighbours can watch. Hilarious. Thank god for soundproofed apartments, is all I say.
But he's by no means the worst neighbour I've ever had the unfortunate luck to live next to or above. He doesn't watch TV at ear-splitting volume, doesn't play his Dire Straits album at full blast well into the night, doesn't throw garbage into the back garden until it rots in the sun, etc.
Even the smallest thing can turn a good neighbour into a bad neighbour. I lived in a terraced house once and the girl next door had the most beautiful singing voice. She liked to sing aby herself quite a bit, and it really was a pleasure to listen to her. Sometimes. At 3am, it's not quite so magical. And no amount of banging on the wall would shut her up.
I like to think of myself as a good, considerate neighbour. Although that wasn't always the case. In my first year at Uni, a bunch of us were sharing a ground floor apartment in a duplex in a student village. The students who lived above us were noisy buggers always dragging chairs across the ground when we were trying to watch Friends or Podge & Rodge. So we used to phone them, pretend to be the owners of the building and tell them they were having a spot check in the morning to make sure the place was clean. All night long, we'd hear them vacuuming and cleaning like mad trying to get the place in shape, whilst we sniggered downstairs. Childish, I know, but you take your pleasure where you can. And they never copped on it was us either. Dumbasses.
But that's neither here nor there. The point of this blog was merely to say how strange it is in this day and age to live literally side by side with someone else, often for years and years, and never even know their name. Or have a decent conversation with them. I think human beings are possibly the only creature on earth that could have this amount of unfounded fear? loathing? for another of their own species. At least dogs sniff each other's arses when they meet for the first time. They don't scurry away, afraid that the other dog might realise how lonely and vulnerable they really are.
People make me laugh.
In a weird way.
Not in a ha ha way.
For most of my adult life I've lived in apartments (some fabulous, some not so fabulous) and it's always struck me as bizarre that on the other side of a relatively thin piece of plywood or cardboard or rice paper or whatever it is that they make apartments out of these days, is a person whom I've only ever met in the elevator and have never spoken to beyond the odd grunted salute. Whilst I'm lying in bed reading my book, this stranger could be lying inches away from my head, and could be getting up to all sorts of tricks, from kinky sex to cannibalism.
When you think about it, it really is quite strange how, in a single apartment complex you can have literally hundreds of people living side-by-side and yet they know nothing about one another. The last place I lived in in Dublin was like that. It was quite a fancy complex of about five or six four-storey buildings, with about 20 apartments in each building. I lived in one of the penthouse apartments (ooh! posh!) and I think I only ever exchanged greetings with one person in my building for the entire six months that I lived there. And that was only because we just happened to step into the lift at the same time. In fact, I know there were people in that building (yes, stuck-up-lady from number 419, I'm looking at you!) who used to deliberately wait to make sure no one else was leaving their apartment for the elevator at the same time, so that they wouldn't have to make small talk with a stranger. How bizarre is that? Why are people so afraid to make contact with one another nowadays?
Anyway, at the moment I'm living in the upstairs apartment of a nice little duplex about twenty minutes from Manchester city centre. My downstairs neighbour should be The Neighbour From Hell for many reasons, some of which include the fact that he's a complete alcoholic and has a very tempestuous relationship with his ex-wife. I've only been living above him for two months now, but he's a constant source of soap-operatic antics that will keep me amused for many a time, I hope.
One day last week, I left my apartment in the morning and found him fast asleep on his doorstep. He'd obviously been so pissed when hed gotten home the night before that he couldn't even get into his own apartment. I checked to see if he was breathing, but didn't try to wake him up as I was in a bit of a rush to get to work and just didn't need to deal with that first thing in the morning. However, Norman the Mormon (my car) was parked right next to his door, and his head was resting about an inch from Norman's front bumper. The guy didnt budge even when I slammed the door, started the engine, revved it a bit and drove off. He was out cold. Nutter.
Every now and then, his ex-wife calls over with the kids and they have the most spectacular rows. They'll be screaming insults at one another, calling each other every name under the sun, slamming doors etc. They're very considerate though - it often spills out on to the street so that all the neighbours can watch. Hilarious. Thank god for soundproofed apartments, is all I say.
But he's by no means the worst neighbour I've ever had the unfortunate luck to live next to or above. He doesn't watch TV at ear-splitting volume, doesn't play his Dire Straits album at full blast well into the night, doesn't throw garbage into the back garden until it rots in the sun, etc.
Even the smallest thing can turn a good neighbour into a bad neighbour. I lived in a terraced house once and the girl next door had the most beautiful singing voice. She liked to sing aby herself quite a bit, and it really was a pleasure to listen to her. Sometimes. At 3am, it's not quite so magical. And no amount of banging on the wall would shut her up.
I like to think of myself as a good, considerate neighbour. Although that wasn't always the case. In my first year at Uni, a bunch of us were sharing a ground floor apartment in a duplex in a student village. The students who lived above us were noisy buggers always dragging chairs across the ground when we were trying to watch Friends or Podge & Rodge. So we used to phone them, pretend to be the owners of the building and tell them they were having a spot check in the morning to make sure the place was clean. All night long, we'd hear them vacuuming and cleaning like mad trying to get the place in shape, whilst we sniggered downstairs. Childish, I know, but you take your pleasure where you can. And they never copped on it was us either. Dumbasses.
But that's neither here nor there. The point of this blog was merely to say how strange it is in this day and age to live literally side by side with someone else, often for years and years, and never even know their name. Or have a decent conversation with them. I think human beings are possibly the only creature on earth that could have this amount of unfounded fear? loathing? for another of their own species. At least dogs sniff each other's arses when they meet for the first time. They don't scurry away, afraid that the other dog might realise how lonely and vulnerable they really are.
People make me laugh.
In a weird way.
Not in a ha ha way.
Wednesday, 12 July 2006
Random thoughts make for a rather pointless blog
There's a saying that goes along the lines of "Life is what happens while you're waiting for it to start". Sometimes, I wonder if my life is just slipping by whilst I'm looking in the other direction, trying to figure out what it's all about.
Human beings have this fundamental belief that we are all in control of our own lives. And to a certain degree this is true - we can decide what actions to take in particular situations and how to handle events that we find ourselves in. I don't really believe in the idea of fate or destiny - that our lives are predetermined by some higher power.
But, every now and then, I seem to 'wake up' from the daily grind and wonder "How the hell did I get here?" I wonder how I ended up in this particular situation, with this person, in this country, with this job and having to deal with this boss. I don't remember signing up for this, so how did it happen.
I wonder if someday I'll 'wake up' and I'll be 50 with three kids and a house and a car and stuff, and wonder "When did this all happen?" Is it just me who feels like this? That sometimes life is like a dream and that, whilst I'm the one making the decisions and taking the actions, there's something else out there that's guiding it all along? Some higher form of... something... that's whispering in my ear "marry that man, buy this car, live in that area, take this job, call your child this name". Some might call that "advertising" and maybe they're right.
I met a couple in their 60's at the weekend, and they'd been married for about 30 years or so. They seemed like a very happy couple and very contented with their lives. But the woman confided to me at one point that inside she still feels like she's about 20. I know what she means. I'm only 28 (! nearly 30!) but inside I still feel as confused about life as I was when I was 16.
It seems like life has become so much more complicated and busy that we all get too bogged down in the minute details, and never take the time to look at the bigger picture. I think life was so much simpler when I was younger. When I was 16, I was able to look forward to life. I could sit back and think about "what I want to be when I grow up". The possibilities seemed endless.
Nowadays, there's so much crap that people have to worry about. Are my family ok? Do my friends all get along with one another? Is this person that I'm sharing my bed with the person that I want to spend my life with? Were the clothes on my back made in a sweatshop? Were animals tortured to test the mascara that I'm wearing. Will the food that I eat choke the planet with exhaust fumes from the delivery trucks? Is my job really advancing my career? Will my boss give me that pay raise next month? What's my credit rating like? Will I be able to get a mortgage? Will I ever be in a position to buy a property? Where will I buy it? If I move to California, will I miss my family and friends? If I don't go to the gym today, will I put on weight? If my car gets a puncture, can I afford to get it repaired? Will I be able to pay my bills this month? And so on and so forth.
We get so bogged down in the minute details of everyday life, that life just slips by. We find ourselves in situations that we had never envisaged when we were younger. If someone had told me, aged 16, that this is where I'd be and this is what I'd be doing, I would have laughed in their faces. A big nervous disbelieving laugh.
I remember a previous summer job that I had, and there were a couple of people who worked there full time, and they used to live from week to week. All they ever seemed to think about was "get through this week, and then it's the weekend". And they never seemed to be able to see beyond the next weekend. I remember being horrified and thinking I'd rather hang myself than fall into that trap. And yet, here I am. Maybe not living from week to week, but not far off it. It's so hard to think in terms of the future. Where will I be in 5 years? Who fucking knows. I can hardly think in terms of where I'll be in five weeks.
Life seems so transient now. People have become so demanding. We want everything now. Instant gratification. But... what happens after that? Do we ever really think through the ramifications of our actions? Or what we want to do with our lives?
I have a couple of secret ambitions - huge, epic goals that I've always wanted to achieve. But they seem so ridiculous in this day and age. People used to dedicate their lives to a single cause before, be it climbing Mount Everest or finding a cure for cancer or whatever. Do people actually do that any more? Or has this new celebrity/wealth/status/instant gratification culture destroyed our interest in anything more than the here and now?
I don't know what the point of this blog is. Random thoughts, I guess. Just trying to sort my head out. Am I the only one who thinks about this kind of stuff?
Human beings have this fundamental belief that we are all in control of our own lives. And to a certain degree this is true - we can decide what actions to take in particular situations and how to handle events that we find ourselves in. I don't really believe in the idea of fate or destiny - that our lives are predetermined by some higher power.
But, every now and then, I seem to 'wake up' from the daily grind and wonder "How the hell did I get here?" I wonder how I ended up in this particular situation, with this person, in this country, with this job and having to deal with this boss. I don't remember signing up for this, so how did it happen.
I wonder if someday I'll 'wake up' and I'll be 50 with three kids and a house and a car and stuff, and wonder "When did this all happen?" Is it just me who feels like this? That sometimes life is like a dream and that, whilst I'm the one making the decisions and taking the actions, there's something else out there that's guiding it all along? Some higher form of... something... that's whispering in my ear "marry that man, buy this car, live in that area, take this job, call your child this name". Some might call that "advertising" and maybe they're right.
I met a couple in their 60's at the weekend, and they'd been married for about 30 years or so. They seemed like a very happy couple and very contented with their lives. But the woman confided to me at one point that inside she still feels like she's about 20. I know what she means. I'm only 28 (! nearly 30!) but inside I still feel as confused about life as I was when I was 16.
It seems like life has become so much more complicated and busy that we all get too bogged down in the minute details, and never take the time to look at the bigger picture. I think life was so much simpler when I was younger. When I was 16, I was able to look forward to life. I could sit back and think about "what I want to be when I grow up". The possibilities seemed endless.
Nowadays, there's so much crap that people have to worry about. Are my family ok? Do my friends all get along with one another? Is this person that I'm sharing my bed with the person that I want to spend my life with? Were the clothes on my back made in a sweatshop? Were animals tortured to test the mascara that I'm wearing. Will the food that I eat choke the planet with exhaust fumes from the delivery trucks? Is my job really advancing my career? Will my boss give me that pay raise next month? What's my credit rating like? Will I be able to get a mortgage? Will I ever be in a position to buy a property? Where will I buy it? If I move to California, will I miss my family and friends? If I don't go to the gym today, will I put on weight? If my car gets a puncture, can I afford to get it repaired? Will I be able to pay my bills this month? And so on and so forth.
We get so bogged down in the minute details of everyday life, that life just slips by. We find ourselves in situations that we had never envisaged when we were younger. If someone had told me, aged 16, that this is where I'd be and this is what I'd be doing, I would have laughed in their faces. A big nervous disbelieving laugh.
I remember a previous summer job that I had, and there were a couple of people who worked there full time, and they used to live from week to week. All they ever seemed to think about was "get through this week, and then it's the weekend". And they never seemed to be able to see beyond the next weekend. I remember being horrified and thinking I'd rather hang myself than fall into that trap. And yet, here I am. Maybe not living from week to week, but not far off it. It's so hard to think in terms of the future. Where will I be in 5 years? Who fucking knows. I can hardly think in terms of where I'll be in five weeks.
Life seems so transient now. People have become so demanding. We want everything now. Instant gratification. But... what happens after that? Do we ever really think through the ramifications of our actions? Or what we want to do with our lives?
I have a couple of secret ambitions - huge, epic goals that I've always wanted to achieve. But they seem so ridiculous in this day and age. People used to dedicate their lives to a single cause before, be it climbing Mount Everest or finding a cure for cancer or whatever. Do people actually do that any more? Or has this new celebrity/wealth/status/instant gratification culture destroyed our interest in anything more than the here and now?
I don't know what the point of this blog is. Random thoughts, I guess. Just trying to sort my head out. Am I the only one who thinks about this kind of stuff?
Tuesday, 27 June 2006
In anticipation of a hangover
There are some days when you finish work and you feel that all is right with the world. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, your boss didn't annoy you too much and you've just been paid.
And there are other days when you finish work and you just think, "I need a drink." Today is one of these days.
Luckily for me, one of my beer monsters, I mean, friends, is in town tonight, and is ready for action! And so, without further ado, I'd like to dedicate this blog to tomorrow's hangover.
I love those nights when you go out, usually "just for one", and you know in your heart that you're not going to be doing any work tomorrow. In fact, if you make it into work tomorrow, it'll be a frickin' miracle. You won't be capable of much more than drinking a pint of lucozade and eating a few bites of a bacon sandwich, whilst trying to piece together the last few hours of last night.
Your head will pound, your stomach will roll, your muscles will ache and your arms will be covered in those tiny little bruises that look like someone's been stabbing you with a pencil all night long. So much pain, so much agony. Is it really worth it?
Of course it is! And here's why!
The first beer of the night. He Who Provides The Beer places that first glass of heaven on the bar in front of you, and all you have to do is give him some metal discs in return. You lift up the cold glass, feeling the reassuring weight of the amber nectar inside, and return to your seat. You don't take a sip straight away, no. Instead, you gaze upon its glory for a little while, marvelling in the neverending stream of tiny bubbles that race their way to the top. You watch the slow lazy trickle of condensation on the outside of the glass. You shiver in anticipation of that first sip.
You lift the glass to your lips and drink. The bubbles burst on your tongue and then the cold liquid hits the back of your mouth and slides down your throat, all the way to your stomach. You delight in the instant sensation of the cold elixir moving down your throat, immediately followed by the heat of the alcohol, warming your torso and slowly spreading to encompass your entire body.
You take another sip. You accidentally gulp too much liquid and the bubbles fizz up your nose, not unpleasantly, tickling you from the inside. With each succeeding mouthful, you become more and more convinced that, truly, this is the drink of gods.
Whilst the converstation flows around you, the warm feeling spreads to your brain, wrapping it in cotton wool, and you become convinced of the goodness inherent in everything and everyone around you. All your problems start to melt away and everything seems bathed in a fuzzy amber glow.
You decide to order another beer. It would be rude to leave now! It would be an affront to the gods, the givers of life and beer! He Who Provides The Beer smiles at you with approval as you order a second drink from the holy grail. He places the second glass of frosty nirvana on the bar in front of you, you exchange metal, and return to your table holding the glass aloft. You stare at the glass again, and your body tingles in anticipation...
That is why one beer is never enough. That is why hangovers are worth it. That is why beer will never go out of fashion.
Hangover, I salute you!
And there are other days when you finish work and you just think, "I need a drink." Today is one of these days.
Luckily for me, one of my beer monsters, I mean, friends, is in town tonight, and is ready for action! And so, without further ado, I'd like to dedicate this blog to tomorrow's hangover.
I love those nights when you go out, usually "just for one", and you know in your heart that you're not going to be doing any work tomorrow. In fact, if you make it into work tomorrow, it'll be a frickin' miracle. You won't be capable of much more than drinking a pint of lucozade and eating a few bites of a bacon sandwich, whilst trying to piece together the last few hours of last night.
Your head will pound, your stomach will roll, your muscles will ache and your arms will be covered in those tiny little bruises that look like someone's been stabbing you with a pencil all night long. So much pain, so much agony. Is it really worth it?
Of course it is! And here's why!
The first beer of the night. He Who Provides The Beer places that first glass of heaven on the bar in front of you, and all you have to do is give him some metal discs in return. You lift up the cold glass, feeling the reassuring weight of the amber nectar inside, and return to your seat. You don't take a sip straight away, no. Instead, you gaze upon its glory for a little while, marvelling in the neverending stream of tiny bubbles that race their way to the top. You watch the slow lazy trickle of condensation on the outside of the glass. You shiver in anticipation of that first sip.
You lift the glass to your lips and drink. The bubbles burst on your tongue and then the cold liquid hits the back of your mouth and slides down your throat, all the way to your stomach. You delight in the instant sensation of the cold elixir moving down your throat, immediately followed by the heat of the alcohol, warming your torso and slowly spreading to encompass your entire body.
You take another sip. You accidentally gulp too much liquid and the bubbles fizz up your nose, not unpleasantly, tickling you from the inside. With each succeeding mouthful, you become more and more convinced that, truly, this is the drink of gods.
Whilst the converstation flows around you, the warm feeling spreads to your brain, wrapping it in cotton wool, and you become convinced of the goodness inherent in everything and everyone around you. All your problems start to melt away and everything seems bathed in a fuzzy amber glow.
You decide to order another beer. It would be rude to leave now! It would be an affront to the gods, the givers of life and beer! He Who Provides The Beer smiles at you with approval as you order a second drink from the holy grail. He places the second glass of frosty nirvana on the bar in front of you, you exchange metal, and return to your table holding the glass aloft. You stare at the glass again, and your body tingles in anticipation...
That is why one beer is never enough. That is why hangovers are worth it. That is why beer will never go out of fashion.
Hangover, I salute you!
Monday, 26 June 2006
Food, glorious food
In preparation for the bikini season, The Maori® has decided to put me on a strict diet & exercise regime for a couple of weeks, starting tomorrow. Thus, today will be my last opportunity to indulge in food that actually tastes of something other than bland, and all the other nice things in life, like alcohol and coffee.
Food is a touchy subject these days. There's such a glut of information about calories, carbs, grams of fat, salt content, sugar content, preservatives, additives, vitamins, nutrients, minerals, protein, GI level, slow-release energy and so on and so forth. None of it complementary, and all of it utterly, utterly boring.
I'm completely fed up with these food bores, who drone on and on about the negative calories in a piece of lettuce. The world is becoming food obsessed - you're either too fat or too thin and either way, you need help. And it's not just the ladies who are obsessed with waistlines and calorie-counting. The boys are at it too!
The other day, the beau announced, with great surprise, that ham and cheese pizza was, in fact, loaded with saturated fat.
The beau: This thing has about 20g of saturated fat in it!
Me: Eh.... your point being?
The beau: Well, I had no idea there was that much fat.
Me: Oh, you thought pizza was a health food, did you? Recommended by doctors?
If it tastes nice, of course it's bad for you. What about these bastards who are suing McDonalds because eating three fast food meals a day has made them fat. What the hell is that about? Are you serious? Really, why hasn't someone taken these people out yet. Shit, I'd even pay for the hit. Here's ten quid, go tell those people to stop eating burgers all fucking day long, and then shoot them. Shoot them in their big fat heads. Please and thanks.
If you need to lose weight, then don't bitch and moan about it whilst stuffing that sixteenth slice of choclate cake into your maw. Go to the gym. Swap your McChicken sandwich meal for some fruit and veg. Get your ass up off the sofa and stop being so fucking lazy!!
Food is a touchy subject these days. There's such a glut of information about calories, carbs, grams of fat, salt content, sugar content, preservatives, additives, vitamins, nutrients, minerals, protein, GI level, slow-release energy and so on and so forth. None of it complementary, and all of it utterly, utterly boring.
I'm completely fed up with these food bores, who drone on and on about the negative calories in a piece of lettuce. The world is becoming food obsessed - you're either too fat or too thin and either way, you need help. And it's not just the ladies who are obsessed with waistlines and calorie-counting. The boys are at it too!
The other day, the beau announced, with great surprise, that ham and cheese pizza was, in fact, loaded with saturated fat.
The beau: This thing has about 20g of saturated fat in it!
Me: Eh.... your point being?
The beau: Well, I had no idea there was that much fat.
Me: Oh, you thought pizza was a health food, did you? Recommended by doctors?
If it tastes nice, of course it's bad for you. What about these bastards who are suing McDonalds because eating three fast food meals a day has made them fat. What the hell is that about? Are you serious? Really, why hasn't someone taken these people out yet. Shit, I'd even pay for the hit. Here's ten quid, go tell those people to stop eating burgers all fucking day long, and then shoot them. Shoot them in their big fat heads. Please and thanks.
If you need to lose weight, then don't bitch and moan about it whilst stuffing that sixteenth slice of choclate cake into your maw. Go to the gym. Swap your McChicken sandwich meal for some fruit and veg. Get your ass up off the sofa and stop being so fucking lazy!!
Monday, 19 June 2006
It's not easy being green
So, I recently admitted that I enjoy being a consumer, that I love these new 24-hour mega-super-markets, and that I'd rather peel off all my skin and roll around in salt than purchase the goods in my local corner shop. Supermarkets are better for one simple reason: choice of products.
But, rather than being allowed to wallow contentedly in the fact that I can eat foods from all over the world; rather than being allowed to marvel with my fellow consumers at the ever shrinking nature of our spinning space-planet; gasp at the wonders of modern technology that allow us to purchase apples from New Zealand and bananas from South Africa; and cosy up in some sort of feelgood "we're all one global village" cotton-wool world; rather than being allowed to do all this, I'm being made to feel guilty. Why? Because I'm not buying local, and thus I am effectively strangling the very same world that I thought was marvellous just a few moments ago.
When did everyone suddenly become so obsessed with the number of air miles their food has travelled before it reaches their plate? I don't really care if my food has travelled to the moon and back four times before I wolf it down. I agree that, in theory, it's a good and moral stand to take, but I have a few issues with it.
The problem that I have with buying local produce is that I live in England, and local produce means cabbage, asparagus and potatoes. Now, I agree that locally grown food can be delicious, if you like that sort of thing. But I don't. I prefer foods that actually taste of something, like chillis, pineapples and mangoes. It's hardly my fault that they don't grow locally, so I have to buy the foods that are imported from Mars or wherever. Why should I punish my taste buds just because I live in a climate where the food I want to eat couldn't, and wouldn't grow, even if you held a gun to its... eh.... roots?
I do actually try to shop locally when I can. When I did my grocery shopping last week, I bought all British fruit and veg (with about three exceptions), so I felt quite proud of myself and I'm sure the checkout clone girl was thinking what a hip and PC young woman I was.
I'm feeling a similar sort of pressure with the car that I drive. When my car was born, the words "fuel" and "efficiency" would never have been uttered in the same sentence, and, thus, my car is a petrol-guzzling behemoth. I would drive a hybrid car if I could afford to buy one, but I can't so I don't. I would car pool with the people at work, insteading of driving to work by myself each day, except I work with just three other people, each of whom lives in the opposite direction from me. I would cycle to work, except I live 35 miles away. I would get public transport except I work in the middle of fucking nowhere and the nearest train station and bus stop are an hour's walk from the office (no exaggeration - I did get the train to work one day. Never again).
I have similar problems with recycling. I used to recycle pretty much everything when I lived in Ireland. I even had a compost bin! But in England, all I'm allowed to recycle is paper (magazines and newspapers), tin cans (beverage cans only, please!), and glass bottles or jars. I can't recycle cardboard and I can't recycle plastic bags, which is just ridiculous. If I did want to recycle these items, I'd have to drive to a specialised centre which is over 50 miles away from where I live, so I'd still be killing the planet with my pollution-belching monster car.
I just can't win.
I want to buy local produce, but I can't get the foods I want to eat locally. I want to buy Fairtrade produce when I can't get it locally, but it costs almost 50% more than "normal" (unfairtrade?) food, and I can't afford that. I want to buy a hybrid or fuel efficient or planet-loving car, but they're also too expensive for my budget. I want to recycle, but the country doesn't have the facilities for me to do so.
So, in summary, I have three things to say:
1. Kermit the Frog said it best when he said: "It's not easy being green".
2. Denis Leary also hit the nail on the head when he said: "I didn't break the planet, it was this way when I found it".
3. I've tried to be a good person. I've tried to look after the planet. I've tried to do the right thing. But, at the end of the day, I figure I'll be long dead before the world becomes some sort of Mad Max-type desert planet.
So, screw the air miles. Screw the pollution. Screw the dolphins getting caught in the tuna nets. Anyone for a spot of tiger hunting?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)