Monday, 30 December 2013

Happy New Year...

...A few days early with that, aren’t I?

In my opinion I’m not. Why can’t we say that every day? Every day is the start of another year long period in our lives so why should we wait for just one of them? Why make resolutions on December thirty-first? What was wrong with September the eighth or sometime mid March? Answer, absolutely nothing.

What if, in November, you decide you want to quit smoking but you’ll do it in the New Year? What if, having decided on that New Years resolution, that on December the eleventh you smoke “that” cigarette. The one that causes the cells to mutate and begin their destruction of your lungs. The one cigarette from which there is no return. By February you’re still coughing up horrid, speckled phlegm. You stand, looking at your sputum in the sink or toilet or handkerchief and, feeling proud of yourself, think that’s just the badness coming out. And that cough, you’ve had it a month but that’s just you acclimatising yourself to a life without smoke, isn’t it? No need to bother the doctor. No, you’re getting fitter. (You probably are getting fitter, but the cancer isn’t causing you any problems yet. It will.)

Don’t you wish you’d quit in November?

Next year we’ll get better jobs, eat healthier, make an effort to build bridges with loved ones and learn to dance. Won’t it be wonderful? It was wonderful last year when we gave up smoking, joined a pilates class, cut the driftwood from our social circles and learnt to paint, wasn’t it?

If you’re lucky enough to have been able to purchase a ticket for £40.00 to visit your local hostelry on NYE (the hostelry you’ve spent money in all year long, there’s gratitude for you) then think about this at two minutes to midnight.

That girl crying in the corner, drunk and ready to throw herself at the first man to smile at her, wasn’t she here last year? Doing the same thing? Maybe not, but there was certainly another girl in a very similar situation sat in the same pub crying tears for the same reasons.

Those three lads that have had too much to drink and are going to kick the living daylights out of some stranger on their way home later, didn’t they do that last year?

The life and soul of the party, stood over there by the fruit machine, he’s having a great time, isn’t he? He’s been here all night, drank more than he’s used to and, in about an hours time, he’ll be sat alone crying over the children he’s lost or the bills he can’t pay since his accident caused him to give up work. You’ll see him again tomorrow, in the corner shop buying milk. He’ll wish you Happy New Year again, forgetting he saw you last night. He’ll tell you all about the fantastic night he had and the hangover he’s suffering. A little ray of sunshine. But his happy tales are  edited. If he tells you about being sick when he got home he’ll laugh as he does because it’s hilarious. He’ll not tell you he went to bed alone without brushing his teeth and cried himself to sleep. Because who cares?

There is no “New Year”. There is a new date, a date that’s not been used before, but nothing has changed.

You’re a year older? No you’re not, you’re a day older. And tomorrow you’ll be another day older.

This will be “your year”? Probably not. If your life’s shit then chances are it’ll be even more shit next year. Decay isn’t just for the dead, we’re all doing it.

I’m aware I may be coming across as a miserable bastard, I’m not miserable at all. (I am a bastard though.) I have a shit life. Maybe it’ll get better next year, maybe it’ll get worse, but either way it won’t be as a result of my surviving another period of three hundred and sixty five days. The universe doesn’t give a shit about you, me, the crying girl in the pub or whether you’re trying to be a better person. It’s all in your hands. If something needs changing, change it. And change it now. Seize the day. By the throat. Grab it, shake it and shout in it’s face if you need to. Let a little bit of spittle escape as you shout and land in the day’s eye. Be angry when you need to. Be gentle when you need to. Tell people if you’re sad, but don’t expect help. Don’t expect them to care. They almost certainly won’t. They’ll say they do, but once you’ve parted company and they’re chatting to their families they’ll not be chatting about you. Don’t believe me? Remember that colleague whose grandmother died? No? Really? But when he/she told you about it you reassured them, made all the right, caring, noises and told them if they needed anything to let you know. Remember?

All that said, I actually believe January the first is a magical day. A special day. I really do. The sun comes up in the morning. The world is a beautiful place on the 1st of January. You’re loved ones love you on January 1st.  And second. And third. September 10th is magical. March the 21st  also. Oh, and November 13th…

See what I mean?


Monday, 16 December 2013

Appreciate that which is diminutive...

A change of style for my blog tonight
A bit of a break from the usual shite
I didn’t intend to make all this rhyme
I just sat at my laptop and wasted my time
I wanted to write of stuff good and stuff daft
To give all you readers a bit of laugh
I intended to blog about the best things in life
Things making us smile whilst suffering strife
The fries in the bag after sharing out Maccy’s
Playing the piano just using the black keys
Waking up two minutes before
The alarm interrupts your dreams in mid-snore
The yoghurt that’s stuck to the peeled back lid
Licking it clean like you did as a kid
Dancing in the kitchen while no one is looking
Shimmying to Elvis whilst doing the cooking
Finding a tenner in an old pair of jeans
Or eating Kentucky and flicking your beans
(That sounded rude, I’m sorry for that
I mean the bean in the bucket, not the one on your twat)
Playing with puppies, rolling on the floor
Ignoring the phone and not answering the door
Hearing the dawn chorus on the way to the bog
Climbing back into bed and spooning the dog
Staying in there and snoozing ‘til ten
Trumping and yawning and getting up when
You’re called for your breakfast, its bacon on toast
(You can replace that last line with what you like the most)
The mug of tea that sits by the plate
Is just cool enough so you don’t have to wait
Curled under a blanket watching crap on the telly
Eating the olives and cheese you bought from the deli
Knowing more answers than the team on the Chase
Sitting there smug with that look on your face
We all think it’s funny to fart in the bath
Those tickly bubbles make everyone laugh
It doesn’t matter how bad is the day
Whether its raining or foggy or just a bit grey
There’s a whole, wide, world for all to enjoy
Every man, every woman, every small girl or boy
To climb on and run round and sit and just chill
Whilst taking a break half way up a hill
Just sitting and watching the folk passing by
Admiring the birds flying high in the sky
Soaring and swooping and singing with glee
Reminding us all how much fun it can be
To see all the wonders each new morning brings
And be able each day to enjoy little things

Enjoy the little things. S’very important.


Thursday, 5 December 2013

You cheap, lousy faggot.

I bloody hate Christmas, of that there can be no doubt. If Santa has a Nemesis then I'm it. It's cold, everyone of us will have a massive argument at some point, there will be tears, it's expensive and, even having asked that prick in the red suit every year of my childhood, I still never got the puppy I wanted. And why? Because tradition dictates Santa draft two lists, naughty or nice. What a judgmental bastard he must be. Yes, okay, I did break that window with a football and blame my sister and yes, I did steal a "Dubble Bubble" bubble gum from the counter or my Aunties shop on Partington Lane when I was six but in my defence A) It was windy and that pane was loose and B) Dubble Bubbles were GREAT for blowing bubbles. I can resist anything, with the unfortunate exception of temptation.

There are twelve months in every year. Only twelve. Christmas exists in just one of those months. Depending on your view it lasts either for that one "special" day or for twelve special days. Therefore every year Christmas takes up something between one thirtieth and one three-hundred-and-fifty-sixth of the year. I could accept that. What I can't accept is being reminded Christmas is coming before October is finished. The "run up" to Christmas is over two months long, a SIXTH of the year. Advertisements on the TV reminding us that we need to spend money we haven't got on loved ones and people we can't abide on one specific date. A date that no one forgets. No one. Men forget wedding anniversaries, children forget parent's birthdays and I forget my wallet a lot, but no one who hasn't suffered major head trauma forgets when Christmas is. In fact, even those that do experience major head trauma know full well when it is, they just use their misfortune as an excuse to pretend they don't. Every cloud has a silver lining.

When my children were small I "did" Christmas. I over spent, I over ate and I drank too much. I watched James Bond rape and murder his way through his fascist missions. I played family games and wore a stupid hat. (I like hats, I'd have been wearing one anyway, but I dislike being told I should.) I danced and sang in the snow to entertain my boys as we were sent on our own (largely rape and murder free) missions to pick up a case of lager or bottle of Bailey's Irish cream from their Grandmothers house because we were running out and Doctor Who was starting soon. And every year, as they got older, I was a year closer to never having to put up with that shit ever again.

My children are now in their twenties, and like the rest of my family don't bother with me anymore. I'm a miserable bastard, I've made silly decisions and I'm now lying in the bed I've made for myself. I am the reincarnation of Scrooge and all the richer for it.

This Christmas, like last Christmas and, if I make it that far, like next Christmas, I will have one long, blessed day without any company other than that of my dogs. I will eat toast a lot. I will probably still watch Doctor Who. I may even have a drink or two. I will open no presents, give no cards, make no phone calls, baton down the hatches and ride out the storm. People will ask "How was your Christmas", not because they give a shit how my festivities went but because, once I've answered them, they can bore my tits off with tales of their own puerile day. I'll say "Oh, it was quiet." and leave it at that. I'll force a false smile as they tell me what ridiculously over priced gifts they bought for their ugly children, how the turkey was a bit too dry and that the sister/wife/mother/lady from next door is no longer talking to them as a result of a simply hilarious (sic) misunderstanding. Then it'll be over, for another ten months.

Christmas, it's said, is a time for sharing with loved ones, for giving and for making the world a better place. In actual fact Christmas is one long wank-fest for the big corporations. It's a time when Tesco can remind you to spend money you can ill afford on foodstuffs that will shorten your life. It's a time for television companies to rake in the revenue from advertising, on behalf of Tesco, that you can purchase foodstuffs you can ill afford and that will shorten your life. It's a time to get drunk and tell your mother in law exactly what you think of her, to give your wife the slap she's been asking for all bloody year and to shout at your children because, inexplicably, they're over excited and annoying you while you're trying to get pissed and pretend your worthless existence has any meaning.

Now before I get it in the neck off those of you that enjoy the forthcoming shenanigans please let me try and defend my standpoint in a very hypocritical and festive way. Christmas is a time for giving, right? So, give me a fucking break. I'll even write you a thank you letter.

If you're one of the three ghosts that I have to be rude to and ignore every Christmas Eve take this on board.

Ghost of Christmas Past - Thanks for the memories. I still have them, I enjoyed a few Christmases, I can remember these occasions, they were perfect, let's just leave them be.

Ghost of Christmas Present - Thanks for nothing. I'm poor, I'm cold, I don't like turkey and I've got all the socks I need.

Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come - Yes, I know I'm going to die. It's all I have to look forward to. Why not show me something useful, like winning lottery numbers, where I've left my ClubCard vouchers or how do vampires shave if they can't see themselves in a mirror?

On a more positive note, there is one tiny piece of 
Christmas I still hold dear. Everybody...


Monday, 2 December 2013

Aaah, bumhug.

As many of you know, either from my rants on Twitter or because you've been unlucky enough to have endured a conversation with me face to face on the subject, I HATE Christmas. 

This hasn't always been the case. Whilst my children were young enough to enjoy the holiday I was more than happy to play along with the disgraceful commercialisation and mind numbing puerility of the whole freak show that it has become. During the period in which I could stomach it I made this little video which has sat, mainly unwatched, on Youtube. A number of my friends and family have said they enjoy watching it in the run up to Christmas and that it always makes them smile, so in a nod to the season of goodwill I've decided to "share the wealth" with any of you that fancy a bit of a smile. 

Merry friggin' Christmas.