Category Archives: Personal

Miscellany, Personal

Shopping

I hate shopping. Really; you have no idea. The only time I really enjoy shopping is (a) if I have an unlimited budget (it’s never happened) or (b) if I’m helping a beautiful woman choose a beautiful dress, and they’re trying lots of adventurous items on and need my view on them (“you don’t think this is too slutty?” “no, never fear”, say I).

The rest of the time, it’s dull, frustrating, crowded and tiring.

That said, the last two weekends I’ve needed to go and buy clothes. Once for a black tie dinner that I’m going to on Monday (my agency has been nominated as “best consultancy”), the other just because I needed to broaden my work wardrobe (which has consisted entirely of variations on about 4 differents trousers and jackets and a number of shirts).

And I’ve got to say, much as our piggish gender mocks the fairer sex for their love of the field sport of shopping, its much more pleasant going with a lady than without. Buying the DJ (tuxedo for you transatlantics out there) by myself was difficult: the shop (Moss Bros) had disappointingly few mirrors, so while I had the impression that the costume fit me, every time I wandered out of the changing room to examine myself in their sparse collection of mirrors (in a manner of speaking), I grew increasingly paranoid that someone would run in and nab the tatty pair of trousers I’d been wearing along with my wallet and mobile phone.

Yesterday, the lovely Maya (my effervescent and wonderful mother), who’s visiting with my gregarious and eminently bearded father, insisted on accompanying me on a short escapade which was infinitely more efficient, enjoyable and successful than my previous excursion.

Some might mock a grown man for shopping with his mother; I, for one, recommend it. Mum’s presence provided an arbiter of taste, a holder of mobile phones, a foil for my frustration, and a broad and proud grin every time I found something that suited me. Also (and I’m not rationalising here, I’d shop with Mum anyway) given that I see her for about 3 weeks a year, I like to spend as much time as possible with her (well, with both my folks).

The whole thing reminds me of an entertaining amateur poet I heard at tha ABCTales event that my brother performed at: Eddie Gibbons performed a piece called “Shopping Forecast”, which I recommend anyone reading if they can only find it on the interweb (I can’t).

Personal

Graduation

Fresh back from my brother’s graduation ceremony (long, but proud of the shaggy-haired one) and about to pop off for dinner. Feel the vicarious triumph and sadness of a good thing coming to a good end.

Off to the graduation dinner now. Gravy-tastic. Have a good weekend, y’all.

Books, Media & Marketing, Personal

Luton Bungalow

On Wednesday I went to see my brother perform at the Bloomsbury festival, as part of an ABCTales promoting-affair, which saw a couple of other ABCTalers reading their work, as well as the luminescent performance poet Zena Edwards, the amusing and quirky former resident of the Bronx Michale Donaghy (who recited a wonderful poem called “Black Ice and Rain” and inexplicably played the flute at us), and they hysterically entertaining John Hegley, on stage with all his vibrant humour, his ukelele, and his tales of his Luton Bungalow.

Arvind was fantastic; dressed in his Lex Luthor jacket he presented his very emotive story “Her London Bed”, and while his Indian/Malaysian accent didn’t hold entirely, he moved the audience, including me, despite having heard/read the story a number of times before.

[Listening to: Did You – Hoobastank – Spiderman 2 OST (03:19)]
Personal

Weakend/Strong beginning

It’s been a good weekend; the exact kind that leaves a man in the long dark tea-time of the soul on Sunday evening, and in the recently blogged-up age, he finds himself pontificating on the Internet rather than re-reading the papers.

Friday was an attempt at drinking with the pagans on Primrose Hill; sadly, though, it seems that the pagans are actually waiting for the Solstice on Monday rather than celebrating early on the Friday (evidently pagans don’t have an issue with a Tuesday morning hangover). Still, Gemma was on stirling form and coaxed and cajoled us all into night time frisbee, and we polished off a bottle of Pimms and adventured home through the park; a very satisfactory evening.

Saturday saw Matt and Damian warming their house; another great evening, this one characterised by cold grolsch being poured on my head (SHTOP! I’m not ready yet!) and ice-cold sambuca from frozen shot glasses. And Darby being a bad influence (Do me a favour – we go way back – what kind of a friend are you – sss s sss sss sss).

Sunday, Lisa did us proud by getting 13 of us a table at a great Dim Sum restaraunt (Phoenix Palace), where we had one of the best lunches I’ve had in recent memory for the very affordable eight-fitty each. I wish I spoke Chinese sometimes…

Now, I’ve blogged myself to exhaustion and am going to collapse and dream of pale blue scrubs…

[Listening to: Your house – Alanis Morissette (03:03)]
Current affairs, Personal

Ideology

Ok, I feel the need to demonstrate that I’m not just wallowing in self-pity musing on the shape my life is taking, so I’m going to write about Ideologues and Activists, something that the last election drew my attention to and this argument made me think about.

I’m what I’d like to call a pragmatic ideologue (in political, and moral terms). That is to say; I have ideals, but I’m incredibly aware of my limitations, and (to a lesser degree) am slightly cynical about the mechanisms in place to preserve my morals/politics.

I didn’t vote in the last elections. I wanted to, but essentially it was a hectic work week and voting got dragged to a low priority; even if I’d managed to make it to the polling station before it closed, I would have had no idea who I was voting for. I mean, I would never vote BNP or UKIP; there’s limited need for hesitation there; I am at least that liberal. Beyond that, I would have had no information.

In the argument I link to above, Chris, who I think of as a slightly idealistic activist, is accused, essentially, of letting his middle class sympathies (re; the War in Iraq) take control over his rationality in his view of the Labour Party, and their man Tony.

I say, even if this is true (and while I do think that Chris would have been slightly emotional about it, that there is a core of reason and evidence sitting somewhere that sustains his position quite rationally): so what? I’m completely aware that my ideal world is occasionally unsustainable, internally inconsistent or simply impossible. I’m aware of my mental state, which like me is “affluent but left wing”, but I don’t think that politics is predicated on pure rationality in any case.

I think I’m beginning to lose the thread somewhat; the point I wanted to make was simply this: ideology and political activism (even if its just democracy) are often incompatible, and irreconcilable. I think being a wishy-washy ideologue is absolutely fine because part of the politician’s job is to get you feeling that they’re doing the right thing, as well as doing it themselves.

But maybe that’s just an excuse for my general apathy. Who knows?

[Listening to: All along a watchtower – Jimmy Hendrix – (04:01)]
Media & Marketing, Personal

Alienation (part II): musings on Kryptonopolis

Another thought, on the same subject, but slightly distinct, that might go someway to further describing my state of mind, would be to draw an analogy, and given the exact type of Gareth Ian Michael Peter that I am, I’m going to do that by reference to that last son of Krypton we all know and love; Clark Kent/Kal-El.

Now, Superman, as the Crash Test Dummies observed, never made any money whilst saving the world from Solomon Grundy. But that’s really neither here nor there.

One of Superman’s most genuine dilemmas, as explored by the TV-series Smallville and a couple of the comic lines (although not recently) is the conflict between his homeworld and his adopted planet. In many ways, Jerry Siegel and Joe Schuster (Kal’s creators) had a pretty good feel that nurture won out in the n/n debate. Kryptonians were self-centred, soul-less and emotionless creatures; although Kal’s parents are generally depicted as anomalous, they were products of an entirely alien civilisation.

So what should Clark feel? Sure, a loving upbringing, good education, super-powers – but did he ever feel he belonged? Like Peter Parker, and so many other heroes (these are amongst the observations my brother made recently made in a paper he wrote on Superhero mythology, not currently available online, but go read Joseph Cambell’s Heroes with a Thousand Faces for an indication of where he’s going with it), Clark never belonged anywhere; not at school, not at the Daily Planet, only just with the Justice League… (ok, I sense I’m taking this too far, but you get my point).

I don’t think my current state of mind is particularly different or special from anything that anyone goes through, but there are obvious parallels (although my genetic heritage is kinder than Kal’s – except in the super-powers department, obviously). Born with so many cultures attached that I’m incapable of sustaining a single accent, have absolutely no idea who to support in the football (or any other sports), and can never say “we” when referring to a nationality or people. All I have is a general sense of obligation to the greater good, my family and my friends.

So, in a lot of ways, I really am Superman.

Sorry this is all a little weird. I should probably have got a little more sleep this weekend.

[Listening to: Queen of New Orleans – Bon Jovi – (04:28)]
Media & Marketing, Personal, Television

Scrubs (a lot of spoilers, both about television and my psyche, below)

I’ve been suffering a little lately from thinking too much and writing too little. And obviously a complete inability to express any of my feelings or frustrations to real people (well, this isn’t usually a problem, but I only really like doing it when I’m in a good mood). So its time for a vent, and, well, a return to the good old form, so I’m going talk about me for a while.

At least part of the result of my recent pent-upness was my nearly breaking down while watching the finale of Scrubs tonight. I always joke when I talk about my reactions to watching films; saying that the last time I was genuinely moved [to tears] while watching a film was when I was six and Optimus Prime died in Transformers: the Movie. Not wanting to denigrate the poignancy of that moment (I’ll never forget the passing of the Matrix to Ultra Magnus), but truth be told, particularly recently, a number of books and films and television programs have had a disproportionate effect on me. Or maybe I’m just getting soft in my middle-middle-age.

But (and most of these I’ve blogged about recently), the MASH finale, the Friends finale (least of these), Kavalier and Clay, and tonight, the season finale of Scrubs, all drove me far further into emotional exposition than I’ve gone in a while.

I don’t really know what the specific causes of my sudden empathy is; there are specific aspects of each that struck a very powerful chord with me; with the MASH finale it was Hawkeye’s breakdown; with Friends it was the fantastical closing of the Ross/Rachel deal (tired, but I was touched), and with Scrubs it was the much more real and much more tragic failure of JD and Elliot to normalise their friendship after the love yous/love you nots came out uneven. With Kavalier and Clay it was the travesty that Sammy Clay’s life became (at least as I read it).

The common thread, and it may sound tenuous, but I guess that’s why this is about me, is the sense of alienation that surrounds each of the narrators (other than Friends, which I just don’t rate highly enough to attribute depth of character to any of the six. Except maybe Chandler). Hawkeye, JD, Sam Clay; despite the friends, teams and family that surround each of them, the stories are theirs: they are at the centre, their struggles are our struggles and ultimately they are alone.

I guess this mirrors a sense of isolation I’ve been feeling lately. It’s kind of hard to explain; despite living with my brother and having a (large) set of generally incredibly supportive friends and a job which provides both intellectual and social stimulation and continuing sense of affirmation, I’ve been feeling increasingly… well, just, separate. Distinct.

It’s a bizarre sensation. I am getting a lot more mileage out of my fiction, but it’s damn tiring. Methinks a thought-free vacation is called for.

[Listening to: Perfect Love Song – Blak Twang & Lynden David Hall – (04:40)]
Personal, Technology

Posting frequency

I’m afraid I’m going through that phase of my life that every young adult goes through where the excitement of work coupled by a visceral need to not miss out on any of the weekend antics of my friends is leaving me little time for sleep, much less blogging, so readers enamoured of my self-involved, luke-warm egoistic writing style will be left frustrated by the frequency of my posts.

I’ve said this before, but normal program will resume.

Incidentally, I have a Gmail invite remaining, and if one of my more regular readers would be interested in it, I’d be more than happy to supply it.

[Listening to: Fighting for My Love – Nil Lara – Scrubs Soundtrack (04:08)]
Personal

The best game ever

Returned last night from a very pleasant couple of days down at Damian’s beach house. Had a great time, and indubitably more posting will follow on the mores of middle management, the merits and pitfalls of observational comedy, and the splendour of the Southern coast of the UK on a sunny day. For now, however, I will quickly relate some of the best fun had for free:

The rock game:

(1) Place empty can of some description, preferably a recently consumed beer tin, in plain sight 10 meters or so away from your base position
(2) At your base position, which is hopefully the top of a slope of pebbly beach, select yourself a handful of well-rounded and weighted stones, with a number of friends/competitors
(3) Throw like the be-jeezus and try to knock the can over.

When somene hits the can, it is their responsibility to right it in a new location, and head up the slope and begin again as quickly as possible, because his/her opponents will not give them much time to get clear.

We considered various permutations of the game – handful of rock throws (un-good), the can placed futher away, and on a wave break (sometimes known as a groin). Parabolic throws are good, as is pegging it sideways on, a technique that proved good for Mr. Csmith. We also considered an Xbox live implementation of the game, which may simply have been inspired by the sunshine and the alcohol we had consumed. Still, it is some of the best fun that can be had for free, I think, if you have an ample supply of rocks, beer, and preferably a beach.

[Listening to: Piano Man – Billy Joel – Greatest Hits, Vols. 1 & 2 (1973-1985) Disc 1 (05:37)]
Miscellany, Personal

Dating theories

I was talking to Gemma about dating the other day, and the high risk game that it was. Gemma works in HR, so knew exactly what I meant when I suggested that making them take a belbin profiling test wouldn’t be the worst of ideas. You’d find out if they were leaders or folllowers, axe-murderers or team-players, and all the rest of it.

Unfotunately, and Gemma agreed, it might prove untenable to persuade potential datees to take a written test prior to a first date; however, Friends (and before it, no doubt, teenagers at summer camp) provided the answer by means of the ‘either or’ game, in which you present your date with a series of either-or questions, and demand instant responses.

For example:
   Red or blue?
   Jam or marmalade?
   Fight or follow?
   Axe or teaspoon?
   Right or left?

Or some more subtle collection of questions. Suggestions on a postcard (or a comment) if you can think of some good questions to ask, that will reveal your date for the psychopath or the angel that they are. (Please note again, I don’t believe these are the only two options. I have faith that they aren’t).

[Listening to: Johnny, Kick A Hole In The Sky – Red Hot Chili Peppers – Mother’s Milk (05:12)]