Still Lazy

My God, I'm a lazy shit!

When I first started this blog there was pretty much nothing going on in my life, yet I still found loads to write about. Now that my life is a little bit interesting I write bugger all. Go figure. Maybe the two are connected. Maybe I'm busy living, hence my reluctance to write about living. Maybe, and this is by far the more likely of these two options, I'm just a lazy shit.

Having a girlfriend who has five kids should give me much to write about. And it does. It's just that I'd rather not write it here. It's personal, y'know? I'm not really comfortable writing about other people anyway. They might not like it. And writing about the kids would just be wrong, I feel. Am I being over-sensitive here? Possibly, but this way I can be sure that I'm not offending anyone. That's important. One of the things that characterises my life is that I don't offend people. I just don't do it. Not people I like, anyway.

Here's a couple of things I can write about:

- I took my girlfriend to meet my parents for the first time. She was apprehensive but really seemed to enjoy herself. My parents are lovely people who will go out of their way to make anyone feel welcome.I'm very lucky to have them.

The visit alone is newsworthy enough since I've not introduced a girlfriend to my parents for over fifteen years, but there's also something else about that weekend. My girlfriend hired an Aston Martin DB9 for me. How about that? James Bond's car, all mine for a whole weekend, a car that cost more than the flat I live in! It was wonderful. I'm not gonna go all Jeremy Clarkson here and start talking in ridiculous metaphors, barely disguising the fact that I actually want to have sex with the car (which I don't). I'm just going to say that it was a fantastic experience, a slice of luxury that I would otherwise never have experienced if my lovely lady hadn't done such a lovely thing for me. The other thing?

- We spent last weekend in Iceland, and what an incredible place that is! God was clearly having fun when he created that place! That's the water spurting from the ground and the pols of hot, milky blue water I'm on about there. Not the stunning landscape, that isn't funny, just astonishingly beautiful. There are a few obvious adjectives that I'll be using here and I'd like to get them out of the way now: desolate, savage, barren, you know what I mean. And the nightlife and people of Reykjavik were great. A lovely, lovely place to which I'd be very happy to return.

You see? I'm a lazy shit. I've driven 350 miles in a DB9 and been to Iceland and can barely be bothered to write about it. This is gold, gold I tells ya! It's inspirational stuff yet I'm inspired only to take pictures and talk to my friends about it, not write. Except I am writing about it, aren't I? Ooh, I'm full of contradictions, me. That's something else I could write about. At a later date though. I've done quite enough for one day.

I'm A Lazy Git

Not a great deal of time and effort is required in order to complete a post here on Blogger yet this is my first effort for two months. True, my life is a whirlwind of showbiz parties and high level business meetings, foreign travel and loose women, not to mention a quite debilitating drug habit, but if Lily Allen can manage her blog then I don't see why I shouldn't be able to. There are reasons for my blogging dormancy though. None of them particularly good, but reasons nonetheless.

I may or may not have written before about my need to be a bit unhappy in order to want to write anything or, in fact, do anything creative. Unhappiness begets introspection and introspection begets blog posts. This means that I normally have a whole load of things I'm happy to write about since I'm generally a melancholy soul (melancholy soul, miserable sod - what's the difference?). It creates a little bit of a problem for me though. I had a really good idea for a book a few months ago but if I'm miserable it will come out all maudlin and self-indulgent. Yet if I'm happy I can't be bothered to write. It's a conundrum that may yet deprive the World of a major literary talent. Or, then again, maybe not.

These last couple of months, however, I've been (whisper it).....happy. Yes! Me, happy! And it's because I've fallen in love. My God, I'm a soppy so and so! If someone had told me a few years ago that I would ever write that line in a public forum, even a forum like this that no-one actually reads, I would have said Shut up Mum, you're embarrassing me again! But there it is for all to see, for ever.

It will come as little surprise to anyone who knows me as a perpetual singleton, a bachelor, a man who bears little responsibility towards himself or anyone else, a man whose lifestyle has barely changed since his student days, that I've fallen for a woman who has five children. Funny huh? My friends think it's funny. I suppose it is really when you look at it from afar. It doesn't feel funny to me. It just feels like I have a great time with my girlfriend and a great time with her kids. There's never a dull moment. I love it.

That's all I'm going to write about this right now. There's enough sentimentality in this post already to guarantee I'll cringe terribly if I ever read it in the future so I'll finish here with this simple conclusion: Life is good.

Movember

I’ve occasionally wondered what I’d look like with facial hair, mainly because I’ve never had any. I wouldn’t have to wonder if I’d seen how it looks before, would I? I did go through a short and an ill-advised period of stubble a few years back. I’d been somewhere that had deprived me of the use of a razor for a week and quite liked the result. It made my gaunt face look a bit fuller. The only problem was that the hair on my face barely qualified for the title stubble. Downy fluff would be more accurate. It was too light and too soft. Put it this way, there was no way I was going to be able to ignite a match on it like hard men do in Westerns unless I doused myself in petrol first. And then sat under a magnifying glass in the midday sun. In the Sahara.

This has never been a problem. It would be nice to have the ability to grow stubble but I’m happy without it. Especially since those men who can grow stubble often have to deal with excess hair all over the place. I’m talking primarily about the back and shoulders. I won’t ever need to wax my shoulders and I’m happy about that. The only excess hair I’ll ever have to deal with is ear and nose hair if I ever become an old man and I certainly won’t worry about that. I’ll be too busy writing to the Daily Mail to complain about teenagers and the decline of British society in general to take any care in my appearance. Besides, my old man smell will probably be more of an issue.

A few weeks ago I received an invitation to a Facebook group called Movember, the aim being for members to grow a moustache throughout November and pay £5 to a Prostate Cancer charity whilst doing so. Well, why not? I joined up and waited for my ‘tache to arrive. Then I waited some more. And then some more….

It took a long time but after a couple of weeks it became apparent, to me at least, that I hadn’t just let myself go but was, in fact, growing a ‘tache. It didn’t look good. I looked like the kind of man that mothers might warn their children to stay away from, or those men, often called Kevin, who have left school but hang around the gates in their Vauxhall Novas trying to impress the schoolgirls. The average ten year old Indian boy has facial hair more impressive than mine was at that time. Never mind. Given another week my moustache would surely begin to assume the body and gravitas of, say, Stalin’s effort.

I was wrong. It actually got worse. On a night out with friends I was introduced to someone thus: “This is Ian. He’s doing that for charity”. I started doing this myself, informing anyone that I hadn’t seen for a while that the ‘tache was for a good cause and certainly not for aesthetic purposes. This explanation invariably drew a comment like “Oh, I see!” and an expression which showed that a particularly puzzling issue had just been resolved.

By the end of the month, however, I had become quite attached to my mo. I felt that, having spent a month growing it, it would be a shame to get rid of it, regardless of how silly I looked. I took the rather nonsensical view that I had suffered to get this far and maybe I should keep it. Just for a while.

The day before the end of the month was a Saturday and I spent the evening with a bunch of close friends I’ve known most of my life, none of whom had ever seen me with facial hair. They ridiculed me mercilessly all night. I didn’t mind this. I’m quite used to it. One single episode, though, was quite traumatising. I made a flirtatious comment to a barmaid. She made a flirtatious comment in return. I was just about to continue this brief dalliance when I realised that I was wearing a look that put a good eight years on me. I clammed up completely. The ‘tache had drained me of my confidence. The mo definitely had to go.

I’m now back to my old self. The mo is no more and won’t return. If it ever does then I’ll know that I have finally let myself go for good.

Bob

I don't generally feel the need to answer the door if the doorbell goes. The chances are it will be someone conducting a survey or trying to sell me something. Or, at this time of year, kids doing Halloween stuff. I don't answer the door in the evening in October. And gone are the days when people just wander round to their friend's place and knock on the door like my friends and I did when we were children. Such behaviour now is seen as slightly desperate, even a little bit deviant.

Now I look back on it I find it unusual that I decided to answer the door at 10.45 yesterday morning, a Saturday. I was greeted by a man wearing a three quarter length wool coat and a Fedora who introduced himself as Bob. He looked to be in his mid to late forties and was accompanied by his son, who was smartly dressed in black. I observed these details after I realised that I was being doorstepped by Jehovah's Witnesses. You just know, don't you? They come in all shapes and sizes, and probably colours, but you always know instantly. Except for my Grandmother, who once kept a couple of poor unsuspecting Witnesses in tea and biscuits for a couple of hours whilst they talked to her about Jehovah. I wonder how long it took them to realise they were dealing with an Alzheimer's case and how long they would have remained had the home care not turned up!

When confronted by Jehovah's Witnesses one's instinct is to formulate a plan of escape. For some this comes easy. My dad has a stock response: "The only saving I'm interested in is the saves the Spurs goalie makes on a Saturday!". I believe he thinks it's witty. Others probably have no problem in closing the door in their face. I can't do this. My mum brought me up to show other people more respect than I show myself. So I let them speak and hope that an opportunity for me to end the conversation politely presents itself.

Bob began by asking me whether I was worried about the future of our planet. I replied that I was, or rather that I was concerned for the future of mankind. The planet will always be here whereas we are but dust. Bob liked this. He proceeded to read from the Book of Isaiah, telling me of Isaiah's prophecies. Isaiah got loads of stuff right, apparently, so we should listen when he says that "The earth will be completely laid waste and totally plundered". Unless, of course, we turn to God.

Bob kept asking me questions. By now I was quite enjoying our conversation. Bob seemed like a nice guy but, more importantly, he was teaching me about the Bible. I don't care what anyone says, it's an interesting book for more reasons than I have the time and inclination to go into here. I mean to read it but keep getting waylaid by other books and TV and the internet. Anyway, each answer I gave to Bob's questions prompted him to dig out another section of the Bible. It was uncanny. Bob was able to relate everything I said to the Bible. We went back to Genesis and talked about the creation and Adam and Eve. Then he related Adam and Eve's temptation to Christ's death. I found it all very interesting. I knew the stories but had never before had the symbolism explained to me. I was enjoying myself and had completely forgotten that I was supposed to make something up to explain why I had to shoo Bob and his son from my door.

I should contextualise all this - I've been quite depressed lately. It's not related to any particular event or prompted by trauma but rather that I've been questioning just about everything. Nothing seems to make much sense to me right now, especially when I seek to justify my own place on this earth. I fall woefully short of justifying my place. Someone else could do a much better job of being me than I do. I'm in quite a vulnerable place right now.

Also, I've long believed that there is a fundamentalist in me just dying to get out (I should point out that I don't believe Jehovah's Witnesses to be religious fundamentalists. Well, maybe only a little bit). I'd love to just belong to something and have that something give me guidance. I just can't take organised religion seriously due to what I perceive as over-reliance upon a book. I can't do blind faith. It is this that will always prevent me from following a religion. I like science and evidence too much.

So, Bob and I are getting on famously. I'm pleased that someone is teaching me something and Bob pleased that I haven't told him to get lost. But then Bob ruins it. He had to because he's an evangelist. But I'd started losing interest when he began talking talking about the the day of judgement being near. I'm not interested in that. I just wanted to hear Bible stories and have their significance explained to me. I told him that I had to get to the bank before it closed, which was true, and said goodbye after thanking him for an interesting chat and wishing him a good day. By the time I got to shut the door he'd shaken my hand three times and given me his mobile number. I think he was genuinely happy. I hadn't told him where to go and was interested in what he had to say. Not interested enough to become one of the 144000 souls who will be saved on Judgement Day but interested nonetheless.

Poor Ashley Cole

There seems to be an awful lot of fuss about the booing of Ashley Cole by some of the England fans during last night's win against Kazakhstan at Wembley. Sky Sports News is full of little else right now, reporting the comments by other players, journalists, managers, various pundits and the ever insightful views of the general public.

I'm going to be terribly non-committal here. I don't like Ashley but have never booed anyone at a football match and can't imagine ever doing so. Sure, I've shouted abuse at one or more of my team's players. It was probably the most fun thing about being a Fulham fan in the mid nineties. I've never booed though. But I can understand why people did at Ashley last night. Here are some reasons that people have come out with to explain why he was booed. They are all wrong:

- Because he made a mistake. This is wrong because loads of players make mistakes and are not booed.

- Because he plays for Chelsea. This is wrong because not every Chelsea player would have been booed after making the same mistake as Ashley. Can anyone imagine JT or Joe Cole getting booed after making a mistake like Ashley did? It wouldn't happen. Lampard? Hmmm, maybe...

- Because England fans are morons. This one has an ounce of truth in it because many England fans are morons. But even morons have a modus operandi. They don't just do things for the hell of it. They do things for a reason.

So why was Ashley booed? Here is some information that might help to explain:

- When I heard Jonathan (Barnett) repeat the figure of £55k, I nearly swerved off the road. “He is taking the piss, Jonathan!” I yelled down the phone. I was so incensed. I was trembling with anger. I couldn’t believe what I’d heard. I suppose it all started to fall apart for me from then on. I’d trusted Mr Dein to push the deal through. (Ashley on his miserly £55k per week contract offer from Arsenal)

- The deal he offered was a £10,000-a-week increase to £35,000. A hell of a lot of money. But, when taken in the context of football wages and his own estimated value of me of £20 million, and when placed next to those other Arsenal wages of between £80,000 and £100,000 a week, his offer was a p*ss-take. It was a slap in the face, not a pat on the back. (Ashley on some other contract offer)

- Cheryl Cole told friends today she does not know if her marriage can survive a series of new claims about her husband's affairs. The Girls Aloud singer is "shocked and upset" that a hairdresser who had a one-night stand with Ashley Cole was offered money to have an abortion. (Daily Mail, January 14th 2008, on Ashley's very popular and not at all racist or nasty wife)

- His disgraceful behaviour in the match against Spurs last season.

- And loads of other stuff that I can't think of right now.

The reaction of a small section of the Wembley crowd last night wasn't just aimed at a man who had made a mistake on a football pitch. It was a spontaneous collective outburst aimed as much at what Ashley represents as the man himself. Those who pay an awful lot to watch football matches are rarely treated with anything approaching respect yet they still keep on coming. Acutely aware that those men on the pitch live a quality of life unimaginable to them they demand certain standards, on the pitch and off it. Ashley doesn't meet those standards. Not content with having a dream job, a beautiful pop star wife and more money than he could hope to spend he still moans, still behaves like a spoilt child, still appears to believe that the world owes him something. He may as well be spitting on those of us who pay his wages. And that is why he was booed yesterday.

Stevie Wonder leaves me dumbstruck...

I've just spent the last hour trying to write a review of the Stevie Wonder gig I attended a few days ago. I've just given up, whatever I wrote seemed far too prosaic to convey how great he was and how happy I was. I just don't have the words. It was very special and I won't ever forget it. There, I don't even need to write about it as it's captured in my head forever.

Middle Age

I was flicking through the channels the other day in a vain attempt to find something interesting on television when I came across an old episode of Top Gear. Jeremy Clarkson introduced a piece: I want to talk about middle aged men. You're 35, maybe 40, and you have a bit of spare cash.... I forget the rest of the introduction as, well, I didn't actually hear it through the verbal abuse that was being hurled towards the TV. By me. Notwithstanding the fact that I would sooner value the opinion of a lobotomised baboon than the incredibly obnoxious Clarkson, but from where did he get the idea that 35 is middle aged? Is it? Have I missed something? Bugger. It was my birthday two days ago. Apparently I have been middle aged for precisely one year and two days. Wikipedia defines middle age thus:

Middle-aged adults often show visible signs of aging such as loss of skin elasticity and greying of the hair. Physical fitness usually wanes, with a 5-10 kg accumulation of body fat, reduction in aerobic performance and a decrease in maximal heart rate. Strength and flexibility also decrease throughout middle age.

Jesus Christ! Kill me now someone! I would do it myself but I probably wouldn't have the strength to lift the scalpel or the endurance to persevere with the lid on the bottle of paracetamol! Is this really what I am now? Well, no actually. I don't think I'm showing any of those symptoms, apart from a few grey hairs and I don't mind that. It is, after all, the only way I'm ever going to be able to give the impression that I'm wealthy and distinguished. I aim to look like George Hamilton by the time I'm 55.

My birthday celebrations weren't any more or less drunken than they normally are, so that's good. Shows that I'm not really getting older. My mum sent me sweets in the post. Do middle aged men eat Haribo? I think not. I went to the pub last night. The barmaid looked shocked - shocked, I tells ya! - When I told her how old I was. These are all good things. I'm not going into how much, or rather, how little I've done with my life in my 36 years. That just makes me depressed and, besides, I did that last year. Just for the record - I have a great life. It's just a bit pointless, that's all.

In addition to my big day a couple of days back comes an even bigger day today, the occasion of my finally getting to see Stevie Wonder play live. A report will be forthcoming shortly. That's if I'm not completely overwhelmed by being in the same (albeit very, very big) room as my musical hero, making me unable to remember anything.

One last thing - Whilst researching the opening paragraph to find exactly what it was that Clarkson said about middle age, I encountered a pleasing phenomenon. When you type "Jeremy Clarkson git" into Google you get 11,100 results. Take that, twat.