Dublin

I spent last weekend in Dublin visiting my friend Lisa and had a great time. On saturday we visited various shops and bars and on sunday we saw Ian Brown play the Big Top in beautiful Phoenix Park. And what a big top the Big Top is! Certainly the biggest top I've ever seen, let alone been in. And what a lot of wankers there were in the Big Top! When you're standing near the back of any arena you're entitled to feel that you're unlikely to get jumped on or barged over by those young men whose idea of gig-etiquette involves throwing themselves at, and rubbing themselves against, each other in a very poorly concealed display of homosexual yearning. But that's what happened to us each time that Brown played one of their favourites. Any nearby women were pushed to the margins for fear of being struck by flailing limbs and this all affected the enjoyment of the evening, in my group at least.

You know what to expect from Ian Brown. He'll do that funny little dance where he jogs on the spot and points to the tambourine that he's shaking above his head. He'll play a few Stone Roses songs and each of these will be celebrated by the crowd in pretty much the same way that goals are celebrated on football terraces. He'll play F.E.A.R. and this will be as rapturously received as the Stone Roses songs. He'll play a bunch of other songs that are utterly pointless in comparison. He'll sing every song with what must surely be the worst voice in popular music. And he'll be worshipped by some of the most adoring fans there are. All of these things happened and, apart from during the Big Songs, I was pretty bored. I don't think I'll be seeing him again unless he goes on a nostalgia tour with the rest of the 'Roses some time in the 2020s.

The first unusual thing I noticed about Dublin was the amount of people out in the city centre when I arrived there on saturday afternoon. Grafton Street was full of more shoppers than I'd ever seen in one place. And these shoppers weren't picking up bargains, they were just desperate to buy stuff. There didn't appear to be any sales on. Every shop was packed, and each time you left a shop you were carried down the street by a ceaseless tide of people. There's clearly a lot of money in Dublin right now, a point further illustrated by the bar prices. It's an expensive city, probably even more so than London. It's also more fun than London and I met some lovely people.

There were, however, also some people who weren't as friendly. I'm talking about those who gave my friends and I the finger as we were driving around because we were in a car with British plates. It could be that they don't like Renault Clios or the French in general but I'm more inclined to the view that it was the number plates that were objectionable. There were also unfriendly bar staff to contend with. There seemed to be a generational correlation to these attitudes - the older you are the more likely you are to not serve a polite Englishman with a smile. The youngsters and the Polish, of which there are many, were also fine. But the older Irish bar staff were definitely less friendly to me than when they were when they were serving other Irish. I watched Liverpool V Arsenal on my own in a lovely pub on sunday afternoon but was actually scared to go to the bar, such were the looks I was getting from the staff when I ordered and betrayed my heritage with my guttural West London lilt. I took a record amount of time drinking each pint because of this. Eventually I decided that enough was enough. I marched to the bar and addressed the haughtier of the two men serving there:

"Listen, my friend. I'm really sorry about Bloody Sunday. And what we did during the Famine and whatever else your country has had to put up with from us lot over the centuries. But I had nothing to do with it and neither did anyone I know. Now, while I'm standing here paying five euros for the privilege of buying a pint of piss-weak lager from you could you please pull your bigoted head from your arse and serve me with something approaching common courtesy? Thank-you."

That's exactly what I said. In my head, anyway. In reality what happened was that I went to the bar and asked for what I wanted as clearly but also as quietly as I could so that I could slink back to my chair having brought as little attention to myself as possible. What a man I am, eh?

That last paragraph was going to be the last one but I don't want to end on a sour note. Dublin's lovely and I can't wait to go back. The End.

Something To Do

Last night, for the second time in a week, I got so drunk that I was unable to take the time to undress myself before I fell into unconsciousness on my bed. Should I be worried? No. Not yet anyway. I do, however, desperately need something to take the place of alcohol in my life. In the last couple of months I've been drinking quite a lot on my own. Not because I have a desire to get drunk or, more accurately, to lose sobriety, but because I have nothing better to do. I don't know what this says about me but whatever it is it isn't healthy. I need a project, something to occupy my free time. It will help when I finally get online at home but I feel that will only be taking away the symptoms of whatever my malaise is rather than addressing the underlying cause.

Here follows a list of some of the things that I could do with my spare time:

- Charity work
- Get fit
- DIY
- Write a book
- Build model airplanes
- Get a girlfriend
- Write a song

All worthy suggestions, yes? But even as I typed them I was thinking of reasons not to do the very things I was suggesting to myself. Some were good reasons. For example, it's pointless me trying to write a song as there are loads of other people out there doing it who are far better than me which kind of makes it a bit pointless from where I'm sitting. And I don't find model airplane building or DIY even remotely alluring.

These points ignore the main reason I have for not doing stuff and that reason is that doing stuff requires effort and application, two things that I lack. I just find it very difficult to convince myself that doing anything is a good idea. Why would I, for example, want to write a story when I have hundreds of other stories sitting on my bookshelves written by very talented people? What is the attraction in making something when I can buy that very same thing cheaply in a shop?

There seems to be, in people other than me, satisfaction to be had in just doing stuff. A sense of achievement when a project is followed through to its completion. A feeling of self-worth to be gained from applying the skills that have been learned in life to doing something that makes our environment that little bit more bearable. Not for me. I can't remember the last time I felt a sense of achievement after having challenged myself to do something, although I imagine it might be when I was about eight years old and had just managed a hundred keep ups, or something like that. I really doubt whether there is much out there that I could do that would make me feel happy with myself or with life in general. This doesn't include spending time with my friends and family or listening to music or reading a good book. These things make me very happy but they're just recreation. They're not things that present me with a problem that needs me to resolve it. They're not situations that require my intervention to make them better.

All this makes for quite depressing reading, doesn't it? Is it a problem just with me or do many people feel like this? I really have no idea. Maybe I should write a book about it. Now, that would be something. But I bet someone else has done it already.

35

My birthday celebrations were thoroughly enjoyable. Loads of people turned up to get drunk with me and Lucy and we all had an excellent time. It was also extremely gratifying to get as many cards and presents as I did, more than I've received since I was about half my current age. Maybe these things don't mean a great deal and maybe I'm just easily pleased but I felt quite humbled to see that so many people had gone to the trouble of going a little out of their way for me.

My impending descent into old age and obsolescence has caused a few minor changes in my life. I've started exercising again, playing football on mondays and doing a cursory workout when I get out of bed in the morning if I'm not too tired. I feel stronger already and haven't let myself down too badly at football either so that's all going quite well. I've counter-balanced this fitness regime with taking up smoking again when I'm drinking. I'm not proud but I'm blaming the stressful August that I had, which is when I started again. Only smoking when I drink wouldn't be so bad were it not for the fact that I'm doing a passable impression of someone attempting to break into the All-England Drinking Team. My weekends have, for the past couple of months, been disappearing into a cycle of drink-hangover-drink-hangover-drink-work/hangover. The weekend just gone was supposed to be when I broke the cycle since my social diary was free of drinking obligations. But on my own I actually drunk more than I normally would if I was in company. The next three weekends have the following in store: England football and rugby matches, a wedding, a weekend in Dublin....the drinking won't be slowing down for a while just yet.

In other news, I'm downloading Radiohead's new album tomorrow. I chose to pay £5 for it. I think that's a fair price. I could have paid a penny but I appreciate the gesture from the band and I also appreciate that they've provided me with much happiness over the years. My friend Alex thinks I'm an idiot for paying that much when I could have got it for nothing but then he doesn't ever pay for any music. I'm guessing that I've paid slightly above the mean average and I'll will be interested to see whether statistics back this up. I'll also be interested to see whether Radiohead will be touring again soon 'cos they're wonderful.

Birthday

Tomorrow I will be precisely halfway towards my allotted three score years and ten. It's probably routine behaviour to use a landmark birthday such as this to reflect on what's gone on so far in one's life, to take stock of one's achievements and get thoroughly depressed at the lack thereof. So, what is there for me to look back on? Not a great deal.


My list of achievements is quite pathetic. I'm alive, yes. I've actually made it this far without doing myself in. What else? God, I'm struggling to find something, I really am. I've had lots of fun but not as much as I could have. I've not slept with nearly enough women but I do have lots of friends and my circle of friends seems to be growing, which is very pleasing. I have a decent social life. I'm still quite good at football. None of these are achievements really, are they?

When it comes down to it I have to concede that I've achieved nothing. When my parents were my age they were bringing up two kids. My dad had a decent-paying-job (that he hated) in the City. They were halfway to paying of their mortgage. I can't even think about a mortgage as I have no money. I don't enjoy my job and I don't even have the consolation of being well paid.

I'm going to stop this now as I'm in danger of giving the impression that I pity myself or that I have a crap life. Any shortfalls in my life are entirely of my own creation, I know that. I have a great time and I'm a very lucky man. I'm just not very good at pursuing that which makes me happy or even working out what it is that might make me happy. Apart from this: Tomorrow night some friends and I will convene in a local pub where we will proceed to get drunk and have a good time in celebration of my birthday. On Saturday I'm having a joint birthday party in another pub where loads more people will turn up and I will enjoy myself further, as will everyone else. That fact that I can do this makes me happy. And that's that.

Ballardian Dystopia

Life in my village is definitely a little less genteel than I thought it might be. The two pubs nearest my home still look a little too threatening for me to want to enter, and on saturday morning I was greeted by the sight of a burnt out car as I left the flat. My flatmate reckons that the car might have had an electrical problem (common in Renaults, apparently) but I think he's in denial because he doesn't want to think of himself as living in an area that has burnt out cars. After all, it's his mortgage, not mine. I'm quite enamoured with the idea that the car was burnt deliberately as it lends a frisson of excitement to life in the area. Village life is dull.

My block of flats is three storeys high and almost cube-shaped. It sits between two other identical blocks, and all three of these spread out in front of you as you approach from the road. There is litter and a bit of grass and plenty of concrete around and it looks like Poland does in my head. Now, I've no idea what Poland really looks like but I reckon it's probably a bit like where I live. And before anyone thinks that I'm being terribly stereotypical and unfair (which I am) because Poland, like most other countries, features a varied landscape of mountains and lakes and open spaces as well as urban areas, just ask yourself whether you understand what I mean. You know you do. This doesn't, of course, apply to any of my Polish friends or anyone who has actually been to Poland because they are far more knowledgeable and therefore less bigoted about Poland than I am.

My point is that where I live isn't very interesting and that burnt cars are. Living near a burnt out car also lends me an air of urban authenticity. I am Street! I may wear bookish (but very geek-chic) glasses and read The Guardian among many other things but I live in Urban Hell! I don't, however, destroy rock and roll (for any Manic Street Preachers fans out there). I even have a tattoo! I am Man, hear me roar!

The other thing I've noticed about my village in the eighteen days that I've lived there is that there aren't many teenagers. I've seen less than ten and even some of those may be repeat sightings because they all look the same when you get to my age. There is a corresponding lack of graffiti and intimidating groups on street corners that is quite welcome. But it feels a little wrong. The population here seems to be spread over two main groups: under-ten year olds and twenty-five to forty year olds. There don't appear to be many exceptions to this. Where is everyone? I've concluded that the old people don't want to live out their days under a flightpath and that the lack of teenagers is down to the fact that there isn't a school for them.

All of this demographic information is quite boring but I think about it quite a lot and for this I blame JG Ballard. I've read a few of his books lately and am looking at the world quite differently as a result. It helps that he generally writes about real towns and areas that I'm very familiar with and am able to picture accurately (unlike Poland). So, the very specific village demographic takes on a sinister air (I found out recently that the word sinister is derived from the Latin for left-handed. The world's against us...). Maybe there are older people but they retain a younger look by somehow assimilating the teenager's youth. Maybe they kill them or suck their blood or something. Also, in Ballardian society the burnt out car takes on a greater significance. His books often feature characters and communities that turn to violence and crime in general to escape or enervate their boring lives and it's probably this that I'm considering when I have a little smile to myself when walking past that ex-Renault Scenic.

Happiness!

I've been waiting to write this post for some time. I just needed something to happen. Now that thing has happened I can now write:

I'm walking a few inches taller this morning. The deposit that I've been expecting back from my ex-flatmate had appeared in my bank account. I've been looking forward to this moment for nearly two months: I need never deal with that hateful, frigid bitch ever again and it feels fantastic.

Just in case anyone's wondering, I mean the word frigid not in the sense that she wouldn't sleep with me (perish the fucking thought!), rather that she exhibited absolutely no warmth of feeling ever and appeared to possess not even so much as a tiny bit of sensitivity to the feelings of other people. That's not to say, however, that she isn't sensitive. She's acutely sensitive when it comes to the treatment of those things that she owns. You best treat her things good Bubba or you is in trouble! God forbid you should use the wrong rings on the hob or fill the dishwasher incorrectly!

Here's an anecdote, my favourite from my time living with her, that illustrates pretty much all anyone needs to know:

I arrive home from work. I prepare and eat my evening meal. I wash the frying pan, saucepan, plate and cutlery whilst still chewing my last mouthful as I do every day because I'm scared of her seeing that I've left things out unwashed. She arrives home from work shortly afterwards and I tense up as normal - what will she find today? She goes into the kitchen:

- Oh my God! What's that on the cooker?!

I put my head in my hands - what could I have done? Did I leave a dead rat out? Maybe I inadvertently wiped my arse on a tea towel (An aside: I'm not allowed to use tea towels to dry things after washing up. They carry germs. WHY FUCKING HAVE THEM THEN?!). I walk to the kitchen to survey the carnage.

- What's up?

- There (points at cooker). What's that?

I look at the cooker. I see nothing untoward. Is the problem so big that I need to stand back in order to properly take in its awfulness?

- I can't see anything.

- There (points closer to cooker)!

Then I see it, the source of her outrage. Why, how could I have missed such a thing? There in the corner of the ceramic hob I see four or five dots of what looks like cooking oil. The kind of spots that spit out of the pan when you're cooking. I hadn't cleaned the hob. I only finished my meal fifteen minutes previously.

That is what I had to deal with, and what I was partly referring to in this previous post when I mentioned that this last month has been unhappy. I spent every day at work hoping that time would go more slowly so I could delay going home. I spent entire evenings on edge waiting to see for which particular transgression I'd be rebuked on that particular day. I rarely escaped. One evening I texted my girlfriend at about 10pm to tell her that I hadn't yet been told off. She told me to go to bed right away. That's what I did. I lay in bed and toasted my small victory. But the victory would have been short lived. I don't know what happened the next day but I would definitely have been told off for something. I didn't ever go two days without being told off. There are far worse horrors in the world than this but for someone who is always anxious and eager to please it was fucking terrible.

She's now out of my life forever. I might bump into her in town one day whilst out socialising but I doubt it. You see, she doesn't have many friends and doesn't get out much. The already small circle that she fraternises with is dwindling and will soon disappear. She knows the reason for this, of course. She told me. It's because those friends she loses are jealous of her. Of course! The woman's lack of self-awareness is quite astonishing, like those people who audition for X Factor yet display the musical talents of a drunk, tone-deaf banshee. She really has no idea of her awfulness. Maybe one day she'll learn and save herself from the sad, lonely dotage that surely awaits.

I'm happy right now. She's out of my life, my new flat is nice and so's my new flatmate. Life is good, once again, after a temporary glitch.

The Mercury Music Prize

I thought Bat For Lashes or Maps or Amy Winehouse would win but this year it goes to the hugely over-rated Klaxons. Singer Jamie Reynolds told us why his band deserved to beat Winehouse to the prize:

(She made a) retro record and we've made the most forward-thinking record.

So when, apart from in 1989, did sounding like Jesus Jones constitute "forward-thinking" music? I must have missed that announcement. Maybe I had my head up my own arse or something.