Blogs..Huh..Good God! What are they good for....?

I spoke to my previous employer for the first time in 3 months, last night. He seemed tired. He mainly talked about how this would be the year he remembered as ‘the year people didn’t come to work’. It was like that when I was still there, over the 13 months I worked for him, my sick days must’ve averaged out at one a month, if not two. One of his workers got married last year after about 18 months of living together. Whilst I was there they essentially split up and we rarely saw him in work. I was told last night that in the last seven weeks he must’ve worked two.

Now you might think my old boss is stupid for letting his staff carry on like that, but what you perhaps don’t realise or know is that it’s incredibly difficult in this day and age to find people who want to work. Even more difficult is finding people who want to work and cut lettuce. It’s incredibly hard work. The only reason I’ve been happy doing it is because I accept work like that in my understanding of the world. Both my elder brothers worked on holdings at different times in their lives, so it was perfectly normal that my first summer jobs would be the same as theirs. I started at 15 making boxes for an hour or two. For every box I made I received a penny. I was making upward of 500 boxes of an evening though, so at 15 it was reasonable money. The next year when I left school I went to work full-time – until I started college in the September. It was f**king hard going, fortunately though I worked with a lad I’d been good friends through school with, and there were attractive young females there. It’s not like that anymore. One of the guys who works there is just over 30, maybe 33 or so. We went out nearly every Friday afternoon/evening when I worked there. He and I always got on very well, he introduced me to The Smiths and The Cure, and I introduced him to great, crazy music. I now love the two bands he played me; he was not so easily converted.

But he’s an alcoholic. One of three I’ve met in my life, each of whom I know well. It’s the most upsetting condition I’ve ever experienced. Each of these people have nothing better to do with their lives than drink as soon as they are able, to kill the pain, to alleviate the boredom of living, to make themselves more fun or to make other people more bearable, I don’t know. This is just me guessing at what drives them to drink. Perhaps these are the reasons I could become one if I chose. However I choose not to, in the same way I’ve chosen to never do heroin or ketamine or acid. Humans are weak willed by our very nature; it’s only things like self-respect and confidence that stop us all becoming addicts. Then again we can all be seen as addicts; the majority of us want nice clothes, nice cars, nice houses, nice jobs, nice friends and nice families. We are born with none of these things (except maybe the families) so we spend our lives chasing these things as if they’re round the next corner. Some people work hard for them, some are given them and some people never get them. I want these things as well, I’m as human as the next guy, but there are sacrifices I will not make, money I will not spend, and debts I will not incur.

I would love to find a drug that stills the constant whirl of thought and emotion occuring inside my head pretty much constantly, but that is life; it is the curse of sentience and being self aware. Prozac is a drug that prevents these thoughts, but it comes with too harsh side effects. Apathy, loss of libido, nausea and depression are the side effects that I remember. Whilst I don’t remember Prozac making me more depressed or particularly nauseaous, I must confess to it’s other side effects. The modern world aims to make us numb, Prozac is the ideal drug for that as it removes the analytical ability of the mind. A part of that then is an apathy toward everything which doesn’t concern you, things just wash blandly over you. You feel excited by the day to day, knowing you’re doing things, experiencing things, but it removes a point of perspective or a past or a future, you live solely in the now. Part of that apathy leads to a disinterest in almost everything including sex.

Now when in was on Prozac I had a girlfriend and suffice to say we had lots of sex, and in fact it helped me do so for longer periods than I’d usually been capable. Since that time though I have had little interest in sex other than the odd animalistic urge that bursts through my apathy and cyncism. I have never read Prozac Nation, and am not sure I ever will. American’s take drugs in a very different way to other people, prescription drug addiction I think was invented in America, not least because of the ready availability of habit forming substances. Read: Bret Easton Ellis, Hunter S Thomson, Armistead Maupin. Reading these books, particularly BEE’s, do something to me. I recently read The Rules of Attraction. Partly because I wanted to see the new film made of it (I haven’t as yet) and because I love BEE’s writing above all others. His characters are all cool to me, I want to be them, I want to experience their total lack of thoughts and cares. On coke behind sunglasses describes almost all his characters and whilst I don’t personally enjoy or agree with coke (perhaps it doesn’t agree with me?) the attitude’s of the characters toward life, the media, social lives and other humans touches me in a way these fictional people can never be. I want to care as little as them about everything, I want to waste my life strung out on mind-warping tranquilisers, motel rooms, dirty college sex and lusting after perfect women who don’t really exist. A woman who is perfect in my eyes can be a slut to others, a saint to their family. Who they are is utterly dependant on who’s looking at them.

But back to the alcoholics. I’ve had one living in my house for the last fortnight – granted I’ve not been there for the last week – I don’t mind, he’s homeless as well. He’s a very old, good friend. When I say old I mean it as well, he was forty this year. He taught me a lot of what I know about guitars and playing them he’s also always encouraged me to make music and inspired me to impress him. He will be one of the main beneficiaries of my eventual wealth, firstly through a good job in my studio then through alcoholics anonymous. He drinks if he’s able. Cheap cider, cheap lager, whatever is f**king cheap and in large quantities. Now our generation laugh about excess and damaging our bodies, but alcoholism will kill you. Spending time with someone whose breath constantly stinks of booze is horrible and upsetting. He doesn’t need it to enjoy time with us, but his life is so f**ked up that he has no choice. He doesn’t enjoy drinking, but he has to.

Perhaps in the same way I now feel compelled to write. This writing is for no one but myself, it is written as if there is a reader, but if I didn’t write it like that I wouldn’t write it. I’ve never known if writing is a cathartic experience for me or not, I feel better having written things and I sometimes feel better when I read it back. Does it allow me to analyse my own life the way I can others lives? I don’t think so. Even though I’m capable of viewing my life objectively, I cannot act on this perspective. I cannot make decisions about my own life the same way as advice so readily suggests itself to other’s predicaments. My life has seemed to me to be a search, for something better, something beautiful, something that is not the way my life has gone. As I grow older though it becomes clear that all the emotions that make me feel there is something else, are just distracting me from my life. Emotions seem to do that to me. Longings for girls who I’ve wasted every chance I’ve had with, retorts that come to me three seconds too late. I am too caught up in the emotional moment to control my thoughts and my actions. My thoughts spiral out of control as emotions charge round my body, my mind goes blank, is it chemicals rushing round me? Electrical charges? I do not know. Perhaps I never will.

Tell Me Why I Don't Like Mondays... (Part2 - Wednesday)

As i was saying about pub etiquette: I kept me head down in a pub and watched the world go by. That's what i look for in a drinking establishment nowadays. The Charles Bradlaugh was aperfect example of the perfect pub. You got every type of person in it at all different times and it was light and airy and inviting and had interesting views and things to look at; all in all my (and probably Nick's) ideal pub. It fits the way i was brought up in pubs. I'm sure your local and formative drinking years have made you (the reader) behave a particular way in pubs.

I've lost my thought process for this one....

Anyway, the house sitting is still going well, apart from the fact i put all the neighbours wheelie-bins out last night! Doh! They don't need to go out til 2morro. Oh well, i'd been back in York picking up my phone charger and letting Luke have his cash card back - he'd left it at mine over the weekend. Sat down to say hello to my housemates, ended up sat watching Dr. Who till nearly 10, still left before the end as well. Tara my beautiful Siamese cat is no fun to look after whatsoever. When you walk in the house she just starts shouting at you, when you feed her she shouts at you, when she's eating she wolfs it down like there's no 2morro, then starts shouting at you. She is beautiful though. Her full Siamese pedigree name is.... wait for it... Adwuiam Sweet Satin....

Mmm, what a handle

Is anyone reading this?????

Tell Me Why I Don't Like Mondays...

I'll tell you why. Because we've had two days away from work where we can be ourselves, spend our time the way we want to and enjoy life in the way we're supposed to. But then Monday is usually the day where that freedom is wrested off us for another five days. So we begrudge our lives, our boss, the place we work until Wednesday when we get used to it again, then back to Friday. Those of us who work with people their own age, with similar tastes and habits, who go to the same places, are so lucky. I don't, nobody i work with is under 35, they've all got partners, houses, cars, children, pets, holiday homes, caravans, etc. It doesn't mean anything to me. I wanna talk about films and TV and girls and music and getting wasted at the weekend, not holidays and moving house and D.I.Y. And i wonder why i feel i don't fit in....

Since Saturday morning i have been house-sitting for my parents. What fun, you might think?! But, not really, no. I'm even more paranoid about making a mess or ruining the furniture than i am about my own house, or indeed than when i lived at home. Hang on, is anyone actually reading this....? Because i'm certainly writing as if they were, what if no one ever reads it except me? Well at least it'll help me remember what i do in my life!

On Saturday i went shopping, (i can think of no more unhealthy way to spend ones leisure time) for some more trousers for work. I am wearing them now. They're very smart kinda ribbed black trousers, I'm not sure they 'go' with my shoes but then i've always been wary of Black clothes Brown shoes, Oh well! F**k It! After going shopping my friend (of many, many years) Simon and I got the bus into Selby. We went to a few of the pubs we usually do, had about four pints before getting back on the bus and heading back to my parents village. Where we set about getting some food. Whilst i was rooting fruitlessly in the freezer and fridge, Simon found a takeaway leaflet then found the set meal for two, i then found the phone...

They charged us delivery! Hah! My village is like two miles away, cheeky slags. It was very nice though. We then went to my lifetime local - The Forresters Arms. By any pub standards it's dire. But as i explained to my friend (and housemate) Luke, it's where i learnt the rules of getting wankered and pub etiquette. Now pub etiquette is a new thing t y'all i'm sure, it was to me until i gave it form and said the words (whilst drunk) on Saturday night. Where did you spend your formative years getting drunk? Clearly mine were spent in my local, which means i am a sad old git. Always have been always will be. (The way Freud believes we're formed by our formative experiences) Let me elaborate...

My early years in pubs were spent testing the water. (Not literally) You sat there quietly sipping your first/second/third pint, i didn't really like beer (still don't a great deal, except on hot days when the condensation's running down the side of the glass, mmm....), but you drank it all the same. Safe in the knowledge it would make you a man. You sat, scared to death of the bigger young people who you were scared of through school, but who look at you different now you're in a pub. You tried not to offend anyone, you didn't talk at the top of your voice about shagging and fighting, you didn't sit perched on a bar stool, getting slowly lower until the bar met your head or time was called. You just got drunk really, really fast.

Hang on. I really should do some work...