Well?
Come on? Everyones* waiting. What are you waiting for, what pearls of shit, piss-stained wisdom do you wish to impart? You started this blog so there’s no point drying up now is there forcryingoutloud. You consider yourself quite the bawdy raconteur with your so-called ready-wit and casual easy-charm down the boozer with your mates don't you? Well, its quite the opposite now with one eye on Google spell checking every other word whilst the other's watching out for beatings from some passing fucker with a shitty grammar stick isn’t it?
A bit about me then. I’m just a ‘regular joe’, straight up, and down the line. 5 foot and ten inches of fairly ineffective thirty-three year-old ‘bloke’, one whose slap bang in the middle of a bad hair life who enjoys very much to wholeheartedly chuck the ball of banter around in whatever direction it may take, wherever it may land. I make a vaguely passable generic-shit-look-alike for a whole manner of A to Z list stars – mostly band front men like the Supergrass or Sterophonics lead singers, or a slimmer Jack Black. And best of all; ‘a youthful Jack Nicholson’…the latter by a queer sort with an ulterior motive. My brother as it turns out makes quite a passable turn as a bigger-boned, more heavy-set Gareth Gates the lucky sod.
Between us both, we have village fete openings on the cheap sewn up for years to come.
What else? I wear Vintage clothes, I own a seventies shirt for every day of the month nearly, a seventies leather bomber jacket for every day of the week. I predominantly wear dark brown corduroy flares. Sometimes Beige, and occasionally black. But always, always, corduroy. In short I look like a cock....and thats before I even mention the word 'manbag'. Seriously, If anybody is reading this drivel, please, desist now. It will never ascend any higher than the heady heights of average.
Looking around Blogspot, be it the quite excellent 'I Hate The Earth', or 'Girl with a One Track Mind' amongst many many others, everybody seems to make this look easy, and everyone has so much to say, and everyone seems to have their own unique and unconventional, penetrating angle on whatever aspect of the human condition happens to be theirs...and then...theres me - staring blankly at the monitor of my girlfriends laptop at a quarter past quite late on a thursday night wondering what the hell I should write, and more alarmingly; exactly what the fuck am I going to do with the rest of my life. Well I'll level with you; 'easy' this ain't. Perhaps I should mention what exactly has compelled me to open myself up to the whole wide blogging world.
Well, a few short years ago in 2004 I was let go from my job in Liverpool and made to sail the redundant sea, and, stretching tenuous links and ill-fitting metaphors further still – I hit rocks when the cash ran dry (liquid assets or otherwise....*gets coat*) before finally rolling ashore once more in this hallowed land of north-easterly promise that happened to be Newcastle Upon Tyne. Well that’s how it seemed back then, only 5 years later it’s happened again. So there. In a nutshell - That Is It. I’ve lost my job so naturally why not start a blog. Nice one, good thinking Batman. Only this time it feels different, life has changed somewhat since the relatively carefree 27 year old who got cast-away with a bundle of cash (long since spent) into the great unknown 5 years-or-so-ago.
For one thing, I’m not in my mid-to-late twenties anymore, I’m rapidly approaching my mid-thirties, a time whereby a certain degree of self assessment begins to take place if certain things haven’t gone according to plan.
Plan?
What plan?
Theres never been a bleeding plan - but people have them so I'm told....So:
· Do I own my own house? Nope, and I get the impression that I’d have to locate every tear that I’ve ever wept and the secret of the elixir of life, and why not a casket of fucking Faberge eggs just to get near one, and even then my bank manager would still demand the seventies shirt from my back. Ok, so not the shirt then...
· Have I any children? Nope. And I doubt two terminations count either.
· Do I own a decent-ish sized flash…and it doesn’t even have to be all that flash…car? If a ten year old Peogot 306 with a side dent counts, then yes.
· Am I steadily rising to the very zenith of my chosen career arc? Clearly, oh so clearly not.
· Do I have and maintain a loving relationship with a gorgeous and talented, understanding better half……?
That last part, the bottom bullet point - I think so, yes – at least in part. But she suffers from deep and prolonged palls of periodic manic, or manicesque-depression which seems to be, to me at least cutely bundled up and re-packaged these days into the far more media friendly ‘Bi-polar disorder’. A few short weeks ago she said she didn’t love me anymore, amongst many other things – but that was the biggy. There were tears, we wept and finally talked, properly talked, and somehow we got through towards the end of that chapter, and, by the time we went to Glastonbury she felt that she did love me again. Whether the way she feels now will last I cannot say, I can already feel it slipping, but that could just be the situation I find myself in. What I can say is that, at least in part, this blog will be about how our relationship grows or deteriorates with the ebb and flow of my imminent unemployment because it will affect us.
And finally, I need to decide if the career path I’d chosen for myself and have subsequently been chewed up and spat out by twice now is the one I wish to persist with. Or do I want to change completely and do something different that could potentially see me through the next thirty years? And Just how the hell do you change direction? And how do you know that it is the right direction? I guess that is what this blog is ultimately going to be about – figuring things out and in all probability charting my spiralling descent towards the Scotsman's lounge (gutter) before hopefully a phoenix-like rise to at least the kerb by way of any low pay job available in hard-work, recession-struck Britain. This will be intersected only by spirit-sapping and soul-crushing jaunts to the Jeremy Kyle green room that is no doubt every job centre up and down the land. More news on those as and when it comes in. For Jeremy Kyle holding pens, see also any given Argos, and or sink estate you care to mention. But for now, Just for now, I’m going to sit on my arse and do fuck all. I’ve earnt it.
Be warned though, through sheer boredom and exasperation, and anything – absolutely anything to keep me away from the mental gut-rot of day time television, I may at times and completely without warning choose to punctuate this blog sporadically with tall tales of my ten biggest danger wank’s gone drastically wrong, just to keep things interesting. I can’t claim to have any great insight into anything in particular, I can't write shit for toffee, I’m not unique, I have no profound wisdom to share beyond “Do well at college son, it will mean more beer-drinking opportunities for the future…”. Thanks Dad for that one. I may at times appear slap-dash, laissez -faire and casual – but I’m already a statistic, so what I don’t intend to be is a casual(ty).
Amen Brother.
*No one is waiting. Are they? Jesus wept – its cold out there. Give me a hug man.
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3 comments:
Hugs posted with extra zealous lemony-goodness - sharp and pungent yet with an essence of sweet fruits and summer drinks.
This is a good post man, don't know why you are so down on yourself...checks...re-reads...slaps ownself for missing points made and rants relieved.
Well I for one look for ward to reading more even if it is a Michael Sheen descent into an awesome madness punctuated only by a fat man stroking his sweaty bald head in the shadows. (though being the literary twat I am I preferred the book - England has known its dark places too.)
As I said in the bar betwixt elbow-bending you have always had a unique style, clutured no doubt from the Arab-Strap rage of far-flung alternative brit-pop but even still it has its own nicely-cultured northern flavour that is seeped quite deeply in the many frothy mixtures of well-formed ales.
As for the stick, I shall leave it alone at the moment, my grammar sensibilities are rarely thrust in some commentary narcissistic manner intended for mastubatory relief. I prefer to entice myself by seeing them and then glossing over them, I will leave them for the worms of the woodwork who will no doubt crawl out and leave their sticky ichor on us both.
cheers kidda...i need to have a look at you thing. it must be on the next comment!
ha! found it! cheers mark:)
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