I promised myself I’d write something today. Actually I promised myself I’d write something yesterday but as I sat down in front of the laptop last night I went blank. Like properly blank. If I’m being honest I’m blank now too.
That’s why I’ve started with this little rambling piece. Its kind of like taking a run up. Or to put it another way its like I’m teaching this blog to ride a bike and I’m currently holding on to the seat as it frantically peddles and when I let go its either going to glide off into the distance screaming “I’m doing it, I’m doing it” or else it’ll just end up in a heap with its leg grazed and tears rolling down its face and its chin wobbling like your Nan when she sits on the dryer.
So, it’s been a weird week. I’ve basically reverted back to childhood. There have been emotions, I’ve thrown a bit of a strop, made a prize twat of myself, become more anxious about naff all and I’ve soiled myself twice.
Like many of us I’ve never enjoyed work. I’ve always had a slight fear of it. The people, the environment, the taking part. Its not for me. I think people who work in suits are the devils work and, most likely, if you stripped them off it’d be like that bit in Scrooged where Frank Cross opens up Deaths cloak to find he’s full of demons. Do you see what I mean? And I’m supposed to be one of them.
Now, the irony here is I would actually love it to be like the 1930’s where blokes used to wear suits casually with a nice waistcoat and trilby hat. Ah, you’d take your hat off as a lady or a hearse went by or even a lady in a hearse. You wouldn’t wear it indoors either so that would be great for the makers of hat stands and would give an all-round gee up for the economy. I’d happily start doing it myself but I once wore a silver suit on a night out in Bath and was soundly mocked. Didn’t help I got smashed and fell asleep in the corner of the dancefloor of some club, followed by a shop doorway (I’m a very sleepy drunk).
Back to what I was saying, I’ve been in a new job for about 8 months now and I quite like it. I have a great package (tee hee) and sooo much freedom it’s unreal. But the problem is I’m not very good at it. At all!
I’m supposed to sell stuff but I’m not selling much. I visit customers have a bit of a chat and move on. Any success will be down to personality because I have no idea about the product. My thinking is if they like me they’ll buy from me. Like I said they aren’t buying much.
This means that, on the inside at least, I’ve become the 8 year old me. The me that used to miss a lot of school because it terrified me and used to get me so anxious that I’d be inconsolable either the night before or the morning of. I would only calm down if my Mum told me I didn’t have to go. Looking back this must’ve put her in a right old situation or, at the very least, a bit of a pickle, because I don’t know if you’re aware of this but the authorities don’t like it if you keep your kids home when they should be playing Grannys Garden on the old beige BBC Micro in class. Anyway the important thing is she stayed out of the clink and there were no long lasting effects on me..
The thing is now I can’t sob uncontrollably. I’m a big man (ish) with big man responsibilities. I can’t stay home. So what do I do instead? I take to Twitter. I interact with people, I get involved with taking the mick out of people who preach about religion (if there’s a God why did I stop growing at 14?), I make up daft games and stupid pictures for the masses and thrive of every last crumb of attention it may bring. Its become a drug. Twitter has found its way into my head and into my bathroom cabinet and I have become dependent upon it. Not only on it but certain people within it. They’d never say it but I’m oozing neediness recently. I try to leave it alone, purposely not make contact with people in the hope that they’ll contact me because then it’s all on them. It wasn’t me going round their house begging for money to buy drugs, its them finding me in a cardboard box outside an abandoned Poundland with a Christmas stocking full of meth.
So what happens when your safe haven becomes the cause of stress?
I heard a comedian say recently that he had to go to therapy because of his addiction to Facebook. He would check it constantly day and night to see if he’d had any new followers, some likes or shares. And that’s what I’ve become. But when you’re not a famous comedian your interactions are few and far between. You look at your phone literally 44 seconds after putting it down because you’re certain that tweet has legs only to see that nobody has touched it. Not only that but with each passing minute its slipping further down peoples feeds never to be heard of again. So whereas Mr Comedychops is checking his phone regularly at least he was getting the buzz from the electronic love flowing over him like semen on a digestive. I’m checking it regularly just to get smacked in the mouth with a tumbleweed.
Richard Ashcroft once sang “The drugs don’t work” and I think he must’ve been on about this particular platform of social media a full nine years before it was created. He could probably see the future because he was off his tits on ecstasy.
Consequently I turned my phone off about two hours ago. I might leave it off all day now. I hope someone notices or what a kick in the Jimmy that’s gonna be.
Being a bit childlike isn’t all bad though. I’ve taken to ignoring the wife when she shouts up the stairs for me to get up like I used to with my Mum. I’ve also started letting the kids watch Cbeebies when we get up so we don’t have to hear all the bad things going on in the world on GMB.
Say what you like but I’d much rather watch two episodes of Hey Duggee before a day in purgatory than have Piers pissing Morgan tell me how another teenager was stabbed in Tottenham last night.
It’s felt good to write this. A good friend once described writing as therapy.
I might do it again later.