Blog... blog changes everything

All aboard the Blogstar Galactica,


I feel I owe you all an apology. No sooner had I found an outlet to give my spleen a proper airing, namely on this blog, then I go get all philosophical and preachy on you. Suddenly I have shifted from an armchair enthusiast (hobbies include: flower arranging, bell ringing and hitting people wearing skinny jeans on the head with a brick) into a black eyeballed, brow furrowed, hand ringing demagogue rattling my fist at you from my electricotronical pulpit and threatening you with a broom whenever any one of you so much as upgrades a phone, gets slightly older or watches Glee. Go ahead, watch it... if prescribed medicine doesn't cure your insomnia then surely a gaggle of festering, white toothed Yankee doodle, post-ironic, yodeling Dawsonites will do the job, without the added burden to the NHS.


There I go again, getting agitated by the prospect of someone doing something slightly different, then getting all giddy about it. No wonder tension knots up my back and curves my spine like an alcoholic street clown twisting a balloon into the shape of a puppy. This week I am determined to look towards the cheerful and the mundane rather than literally everything else. The fact that I equate cheerful with mundane says it all really. Yet, I persist.


Sometimes it's the small and beautiful things that brighten my day - a child giggling uncontrollably when hearing the word 'poo', Back in Black coming on the radio unexpectedly, putting a spoon through the foil on an unopened jar of coffee, those bits where the telly goes wrong and a continuity announcer has to step in and apologise. Those are the things that brighten my day when prescribed and obvious joys stop taking you by surprise. Of course, the real and lasting pleasures in life are expected and grow over time; you seek them out, you crave them, you adore them. But it's those added extras that can really make you smile, the little bits you didn't expect, or that awaken a forgotten memory. Like an elderly relative at a wedding, they're unexpected, they're bizarre, they're delightful and we forget them almost as soon as they're gone.


One day, I think I'd love to watch a highlight reel of everything I did that day so I can relive some of those little forgotten moments like, say, when I get to drive unobstructed on a fast bit of road, or I get an email from someone I didn't expect (and it's not an opportunity to invest in a Nigerian gold mining corporation) or the notice from the Police informing me that they couldn't identify the smell in my basement, leaving me free to go back and dig up the corpse at a later date.


I can't say I always go after those moments of thrill seeking pleasure. Some people are like that, constantly 'hanging ten' on murderous, expensive water skiing gadgets, or shuffling cards around a dimly lit table for hundreds of pounds at a time. Some people like to live on the edge of a precipice, finding their kicks from not knowing, and then telling you at great length over dinner all about how cheap thrills have become part of their daily routine, as you try to stave off the boredom by picking the meniscus from your eyeball with a fork.


I guess I'm jealous of people with the energy to push the boundaries of enjoyment, but sometimes I do wonder if they find no pleasure at all in the smaller things. To me, what would be a fun break from the eyebrow crinkling monotony of life may, for someone constantly gadding about with their party pants on, be normal, tedious, even pitiful. I don't know what to make of it. The cynic sits at home writing a blog, whilst the person who embraces life becomes the cynic. Oh irony, you are such a cad.


I always find it's best to stay out of such affairs, my good man, and let people get their kicks how and when they please; 'I want to go to an all night rave inside a tiger enclosure and get high, sniffing toilet duck?' Go for it. 'I want to tease an owl?' Sure thing. 'I want to bury cheeses in a wood?' Of course. 'I want pudding.' No. No more pudding. That would be disgusting, fatso. Now go get me an after dinner mint and stop being weird.


In the meantime, I'll stick to my own little heavens; finding pound coins, having a bath and listening to the nasal voiced man reading football results, watching people who look confused trying to find their way round a busy town centre while a gaggle of chavs eye them up for sellable kidneys and, of course, rum.


Ahh. Rum. A worthy alternative to thinking since 1846.


So, there you go. I think I've turned a corner. Suddenly I feel at peace with the world, and I really feel I've touched my inner pleasures (don't worry, I washed my hands afterwards). Perhaps writing this little missive every week is one of those pleasures? Or perhaps I should stop thinking about it and get back to eye gouging fury. Now that is something that always makes me happy.


Dontforgetyourbootiescusitscoldoutside. xx