17 Feb 2013

Post 383: Haven’t we all already had enough of 2013?

Usually, I have an annual gripe about the awfulness that is the commercial construct that is Valentines day – and I’m afraid this year is going to be no different in that regard – at least kids enjoy Christmas. I’m having the annual (well actually it’s daily) ‘what’s the f*cking point?’ existential wrestle and I look around me and I see lots of people (my friends, my parents, my carers, my neighbours, the bloody Sopranos even) who seem to innately know their purpose and that is: To make their families happy, successful and secure. Now this is all very well but what happens when you have had that chance taken away? It’s a tricky bugger... it may seem obvious, and I’m pretty sure I do it already, I try as hard as I can to make the people closest to me happy, namely my parents, my carers and my best friends. It’s vicarious living.
This is a pretty good substitute but it can never quite make up for the strength of love you have to give to a partner or your own child (from anecdotal evidence). This explains why I have been trying so hard to meet someone since I’ve been out of hospital but having what it takes is not what I’ve got anymore (if I ever had it) it seems! Not having much physical appeal and ability seems to be my #1 problem, and the disjoint in my head is that I’ve still got a type which is way out of the league of a bloke in a wheelchair and I get continually chided for having and airing this view but ‘I CAN’T HELP IT’ – I’m sorry if that makes me a shallow hypocrite. A friend obviously took exception to something I wrote in my last post, here’s her thoughts on facebook starting the kind of discussion that is pleasant, ie not one with nasty unwritten undertones:

"Sadly the next comedienne on was a ginger American girl with a selection of jokes about her experience at Weightwatchers and being a ‘bit of a slut’ in London. I’m sorry but if I’d ever woken up next to a ‘fifteen pinter’ like her I’d have chewed my arm off to get out, I know that sounds harsh but it’s the bloody truth!"
I've always found this an interesting premise - that certain guys will happily shag someone because they can get their end away, and they get to chalk it up to "wahay, lads, yeah - look what I did, fnarr fnarr..." whereas the women involved are classified as dirty/ugly sluts for being that 'end away'. Then she said 'guys' will happily & publicly trash that girl for not being up to a certain physical par - hello, hypocrisy! The old "One rule for me, one rule for them" . Also, gingers are lovely. The End.
Some gingers are indeed lovely –This was my reply:

I grew out of being a dirty man-whore when I left the city and found myself in a deeply emotional complicated long term on-off relationship. I can't speak for all men but I always had exemplary standards, I certainly have regrets, god, do I have them now(!) but at the time I pretty much stuck to a code of conduct that wasn't out of order. There was certainly no "One rule for me, one rule for them" shit. People who behave like that are dicks. Of course some gingers rule Fi:). Not the girl the other night though. She was a rotter.

I judge people on all sorts of things, no-one has the time to go –:‘but hang on, have I taken everything into account? They might have had a difficult childhood. People, who aren’t dicks do try, and sometimes they realize ‘it’s for a blog/facebook community that isn’t widely read and in the grand scheme of things probably doesn’t matter – get it down! argument over I hope. I think since I have been out of hospital I have tried a few times to put my heart out there and each time I have not been up to scratch and had it handed back to me metaphorically discarded and in pieces which is a bit sh*t.
The only way I can get through life is by maintaining a sense of humour. For example, my carer the other day ‘for a joke’ decided not to put the clothes I’d picked out the night before on my bed. It meant that after my morning shower I had no clothes to change into. I could have got annoyed but instead I chose to let it go because I’m not in the habit of creating conflict with a person I rely on and am supremely grateful to. I’m simply not that much of a dick. I’m not brilliant at defusing conflict, I’d sooner win an argument than agree to disagree, I’m not a fighter in the violent sense, as the cliché goes I’m a lover, not a fighter, and if you think that makes me sound like a twat, come on then!
Speaking of twats, there were one or two on Friday night at the Albert Hall, especially the perfectly fine woman who thought she’d just skip the queue for the Ladies and use the disabled. I don’t know why this winds me up so much but it does. I think it’s just the ‘f*ck everyone else’ attitude that sticks in my craw.
Anyway the reason I was there was to see diminutive 80s/90s rebel Sinead O’Connor, I wouldn’t call myself a big fan but ‘Nothing Compares to you’ was a massive tune and from memory she had a pretty good voice and my policy towards going to see this sort of stuff is ‘why not?’
It was a complete coincidence the mate who took me, Ched, is bald, this wasn’t some kind of planned tribute! It ended up being really rather good, in the Elgar room, a rather more intimate space than the main arena which Miss O’Connor could doubtless have filled and last night I went to see comedian Alan Davies Hammersmith show. This was the second time I had seen his show, the last time had been in December last year and seeing this sort of thing twice is better than staying at home, plus I knew my ‘good Samaritan’ friend Jo would be up for it as she hails from Essex and for some reason people love it when someone lightly takes the piss out of you. It’s the British Way don’t you know?!

Even though I’m not the biggest Andy Parsons fan he makes a good point. As I said earlier it is vital to see the funny/silly side of almost everything. It is probably the only way to make life the ‘joy’ it’s supposed to be. I also want to make an apology to Jo for my slight sense of humour failure when we got lost on the way back from the Apollo last night. When I’m that tired I shouldn’t speak – at least, unlike a small child I can acknowledge that!

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