Doubtless this is what you are thinking as you realise, with some sort of nameless fear, that I am trying to breathe some life into the old cadaver of a blog.
Last time I dipped the quill in the ink I said that I would be posting more regularly, yet here I am, months later looking down at my feet, shuffling around in embarrassment like a kid brought forth by indulgent parents to recite some perfectly fowl piece of poetry or a song to ‘entertain’ friends.
For the afflicted among you that actually enjoy the missives and look forward to them (and I am led to believe that there are at least two) I can only once more apologise, I have been inordinately busy, with one thing or another, but hope, all things being equal, to climb back on the bike.
Tonight I had the pleasure of visiting the local Tesco branch, making some purchases and cashing in my winning Lottery ticket. No, nothing to get excited about, 2 numbers and 1 bonus number earned me the stunning prize of £5.90 on the Euro Millions.
Seeking to put some sunshine in the lady behind the jumps day I asked for “two lucky dips for Friday’s draw from the princely sum of winnings on this ticket” she smiled inanely and shuffled over to the machine, leaving me with the feeling that I had said something offensive. On return to said jump she faffed about with staples, passed me the new ticket and the £0.90 excess, to which I said ‘I shall go wild with this later this evening’, again the inane smile which didn’t spread to the eyes, which were filled with a combination of doubt, confusion and mild enquiry.
Now, obviously, these Partridge-like attempts at humour are hardly high comedy mined from a seam of originality, however, they deserved better than the vacuous, open mouthed confusion they received, a bit like the bald bloke who wore a vest and kilt in the Charlie Cairoli programmes that have mentally scarred my childhood, who was struck about the head for ‘entertainment’ (it was tempting). I’ve stood in this queue on a regular basis, the £2.50 for the ticket to freedom burning in my hands like the ‘One Ring’ in Frodo Baggins’ waistcoat pocket, and watched the trail of individuals queuing for their various tobacco products.
The same lady is often seen and heard guffawing, as she compares tattoos and piercings with the customers…clearly my pitiful attempts at humour and sociability are not sophisticated enough for her. I must make a note to mutilate myself and drool when speaking to achieve my goal of communication.
As I get older, to use a very well-worn phrase, it really does become clearer and clearer that the world has gone mad.
Having said that, I think it probably always has been mad, it’s just that now, with globalisation and technology the diversity and madness is impossible to escape – unless you are a complete Luddite (in case you’re confused this is used in the derogatory context – I know I’m getting old but I doubt even I have any readers who are workers from 1811-1816 who destroyed machinery which they believed was threatening their jobs, I mean to say that if you draw a line through that they would hardly be using a PC or smartphone would they, taking it a stage further they would be dead…so that’s killed a couple of minutes we will all never get back).
All I was doing was trying to communicate, but it would seem that beyond communicating at a basic level, or by text, Twitter or any other social media the name of which I inevitably will not know being a relative Luddite (…no we wont go there this time), there is little left as people walk into each other in the street, wait for the audible note to cross roads so as not to have to tear their eyes away from the screen for one moment, and even look at the things whilst they are driving (for which body parts should be removed).
Getting older in an ever-changing world is no fun at times, I stand in my kitchen, sharp knife a-flashing across the cutting boards listening to my portal to the world (radio 5 live) and after fifty-two years of toil, battling through life, the problems, the challenges, the love, the joy, the disappointments, the obsessions, the…well you get the idea,( if this was ‘Just a minute’ I’d have been buzzed on ‘thes’ a couple in), the point is, I still have not got a clue.
I’m not sure that’s a bad thing or a good thing, it just is.
All a bit deep and not the the sort of shallow, fatuous cobblers you usually trot out Tone I can almost hear you ejaculate, but there it is.
I recently learned that there are 72 categories of gender if you want to register on Facebook.
One of the things that has improved in my lifetime is the understanding and acceptance of differences be they racial, religious, political or sexual but I am sorry I really cannot see beyond Male, Female or Other and no amount of PC lecturing or moue-lipped posturing from anyone will convince me otherwise. Few things from school stuck in this tiny brain…hold on…like poles repel, unlike poles attract (thank you Mr Surridge and your iron filings) but even I remember biology.
Many things have changed since that time of course and we learn new things every day but when we are confronted with stuff like this I look towards the sky and in a bubble above my head Danny Kaye skips around singing ‘The King is in the Altogether’, a bit like Reggie Perrin’s Hippopotamus when he thought about his mother-in-law.
Please do not think that I am making a joke about people with gender issues, I am just stating my confusion and utter disbelief at the world I find myself in and mores to the point the abject derision/disgust one is held in if stating a contrary view.
At the risk of trivialising real issues, I am seriously considering seeking a platform to discuss the trauma caused by my being referred (directly and indirectly) to as a ‘short’ (initially), ‘short fat’ (fairly soon into adolescence) and ‘short, fat, bald’ (from about 28) with the charming word ‘bastard’ generally added as if some kind of automatic suffix, with the first ‘a’ pronounced as a flat vowel for some unknown reason!
This platform needs to be established sooner rather than later as I am concerned that something called, and you may have heard this term bandied around, Brexit, may affect my ability to claim in the European Court of Human Rights for compensation.
As part of my case I would like to state that my phobic fear of ginger hair and tartan has been triggered by this constant stream of abuse throughout my life, not helped by accusations by several people that I may have given them a cold, which I find shortist, fatist, baldist and racist (all races get and pass on colds) and with regards to being a bastard (flat vowel first ‘a’ if you please) I can actually prove that I am not (well literally at least, as a derogatory metaphor it’s pretty accurate to be honest). Anyway, being a literal bastard is of no consequence (one of those good changes) in 2017.
Alternatively I might not bother you know, as I was lucky enough to be born male, have both actual and literal balls, and just get on with life, in spite of my hideous afflictions and the way that kind people, even perfect strangers, so generously point them out to me (what the hell does ‘Perfect Stranger’ mean?…and with that I am now thinking too much and must bid thee farewell).
I hope to post again, many times, just so long as my short legs have not prevented me from mounting a kerb and I have got runover, my hideous gut has not put too much strain on my heart or clotted my blood, and my shaved, bald head has not offended anyone to the extent of feeling compelled to beat me to a pulp.
I am sorry to report that I will almost definitely remain a metaphorical bastard.