Fuck.

The amount of work I’ve suddenly had to do has made me turn to writing for a little procrastination. The deadlines coming up, the endless barrage of shifts serving drinks to terrible people and most recently – and most unexpectedly – romance coming at me from all sides. I’ve got a to-do list bigger than the Brexit bill and my way of dealing with it so far has been as improvisational and as random as David Davis’ negotiation style.

Maybe it’s just an inadvertent play act of Californication where I, in this strange moment, am Hank Moody, ‘drowning in a sea of pointless pussy’ much to the dismay and disgust of myself and peers. A massive exaggeration perhaps with that quote yet it’s the only way to describe it. Perhaps the solution is a case of pick someone or none of them and learn to love them or the decision. Being alone or without company for a long time develops a strange status quo and now this peaceful lake has a great big fucking turd floating across its waters. All options lead to compromise and as Hank Moody would attest to, quite simply, the word ‘fuck’. Like David Davis, I’m going to make it all up as I go along and when it turns out shit yet bearable or simply bearable, I’ll climb to atop Clifford’s Tower and proclaim: ‘aha! This was my plan all along’ and hope it sounds convincing, at least for myself.

It’s so draining, the lot of it. The long nights at the bar; the fun yet ultimately expensive nights out and, work – the actual reason I came to university in the first place. Is this just what to expect at second year of university? A delicate act of keeping a torrent of shit at bay with a flimsy umbrella made from the skin off your back, all the while shouting, ‘this is fine, it’s all fine, I’m fine’. Or is that just life itself rather than simply university? It doesn’t help that every project that we seem to create – if you can call what we do on this course creating – ends up like The Room and without all the charm of The Disaster Artist. Professional dissatisfaction behind the bar and camera, and then again in the romantic life. Fuck, not even twenty and I’m crashing against the ceiling that my dad is hitting now at forty-five.

Time is the enemy now more than ever as there’s never enough of it, not enough for sleep or half decent decision making. I keep finding myself saying to people that I’m surprised there hasn’t been more investment into time travel research; like pull your fucking finger out, Elon Musk, I need at least a week to work out what I’d prefer to spend my time around: a vegan fringe, stumpy thumbs or a Geordie accent. A sentiment that probably makes no sense whatsoever to anyone existing outside the soap opera of my life right now, but strangely despite the even more strange context of this clusterfuck, the wind is blowing towards the vegan fringe.

In any case: I need to drop a memo to Elon Musk, I hear he’s quite responsive on Twitter.

Fuck.

Catching Up/Shark Bait

The last few weeks have perhaps been the busiest in a long time. Which, to be honest, isn’t saying much considering that in the last month I’ve seemed to have lived more life than I have in a year. At long last, I got a job: bartending at a dive bar in York. While it is perhaps not the best place for someone with an already very limited faith in humanity and an addictive personality to boot, it’s been surprisingly one of the best things I’ve done. So far being the ‘Shark Bait’, I’ve been referenced to as the ‘otter’ and as of yet, I can’t seem to work out if it’s in reference to my love of smooth pebbles – if it is, I have no idea how my work mates would know about it – or, it’s just I’m too short and skinny to be a bear.

It’s going rather well, as a way to meet new people, learn how to make drinks and most importantly, get out of the fucking house. That last part is becoming a problem considering tonight and the last are the first two where I have been absent from the bar since I started working there, on or off shift. A part of me feels like it’s a rite of passage for everyone who works at a bar to become a little addicted to the atmosphere or at least any place where you enjoy working. As someone who has only ever been a prefect or a pot-washer for six weeks, its strangely refreshing, terrifying and brilliant. It seems that every shift is like a slide at a water park: lots of build up; an uneasy gut before the rush; bemused life guards who know what you’re in for and then, wham. A torrent of drunk customers needing ID checks, cocktails, jaeger-bombs and a quick exit to throw up.  One thing is for sure: there are a lot of absolute wanker customers.

I took a break from the action last week and took a day trip to Leeds which I was told was the heart of sophisticated Yorkshire and I know now, to never trust a single lying word that comes out of that person’s mouth again. Despite the grandeur of the metropolitan city; the bustle reinforced by the difficulty getting an Uber to the station; and the endless fucking Starbucks outlets, the Wagamamas there does a real shitty job of a teriyaki soba. I’ve spoken about greener grass before and how in fact there is no such thing as greener grass and it’s all a self-serving fallacy, something wholly reinforced by how disillusioned I was with the place. While my friends claim that ‘it’s the best for a night out’, I don’t think you can beat a familiar gin and tonic in the bar you work at with people you can actually talk to.

While I have been busy and am set to be busier with university work, I hope to get more involved in writing. Every day that has passed and I haven’t exposed my whiny bullshit to the world, I feel like a bad Catholic guiltily glancing at the confessional booth. Which ironically, as an agnostic in a spiritual if not Catholic family, hopping from one existential crisis to the next, is exactly me. On the positive, the time I no longer have is being filled by actual real life not just festering in my room getting angry at things I have no control over.  Still, I can’t pull a good pint to save my life – all froth no ale. Also, did I just coin a new idiom? I’ll be throwing that one about the bar that’s for sure.

‘Shark Bait’ for the win.

Catching Up/Shark Bait

Home

I’ve returned to York which, while something not wholly interesting, is a personal standout for me considering the strange conclusion that I’ve come to revolving around one word: home. I was walking just last night through the mish-mash of medieval architecture, and overtly pretentious restaurants and realised that it’s for me. Despite the fucking hipsters and old people fighting for dominance on the high street, I’ve come to see it as my patch. It’s also a self-declaration that that last thing I want to do, is go back to my old world that Nigel Farage lovingly donned a slum. He was making a comment in particular about the EU migrant influx but if you ignore that context and look at the large city and the entirety of its population, he’s not far off right.

On the down side, my new housemates just accosted me in the living room, demanding I pay money towards a sound bar that I didn’t want or need. The bastards woke me up this morning as they played ‘Misty Mountains’ from The Hobbit on full blast. While I may be living with a bunch of fucking nerds making me continue to consider my connection to reality as whole, the realisation of stability is weirdly comforting.

Recently, I’ve been writing less considering I tend to only write when something has really irritated me or somewhat given me pause to think about how while things are good, something is irritating me. Maybe they’ll come a time where my passion for ranting and aversion to healthy clinical therapy will fade away like tacky shot transition in the Star Wars prequels.

And just like that, the dream is shattered.

There’s an abundance of noise from downstairs. My housemate is doing impressions with a bike helmet. I miss the days of loneliness when no one was here for six weeks and the house was silent and I wasn’t bitched at about paying a tenner for an unwanted sound bar. While it may have been a fucking deal down from two-hundred pounds to sixty, Irritating Flatmate No. 4, it was still sixty fucking pounds! When we all signed the contract, it was decided the house would function on consensus and now I feel more left out than a quadriplegic at Go Ape.

I, like many, am hopeful that things won’t get any worse yet remain realistic about lack of improvement. The dream of a tranquil home is shattered and as I type someone I banging on my door and shouting: ‘you’re quiet, are you dead?’. Fuck me.

Home

Taxi

For the past few days I’ve been entertaining family who stayed here in York. Out of that time, the stand out moment was when a taxi driver expressed his dismay at another driver not moving when the traffic light turned green. His words were ‘you couldn’t make it up’, ‘you couldn’t write this’, ‘this is something absolutely unbelievable’ and my personal favourite, ‘from being a taxi driver for twenty years, I’m still stunned at how incredible drivers can be’. My take-away from his apparent level of shock was: Christ, you must have a really boring fucking life.

It was depressing it really was and that became so ‘incredible’ that I forgot about the initial annoyance I felt from having to wait for the driver in front to move. Moments like that remind me of why I came to university in the first place. It wasn’t to get a meaningful degree or to make some kind of impassioned difference in the world, it was to make sure that I had somewhere to go that wasn’t working a similar nine-to-five where some prick driver becomes something ‘you couldn’t write’. I’m up to my neck in debt and I think it’s a fair trade off because otherwise I’d be stuck in a dead-end town that Nigel Farage called a slum, working with my mother and step-father in a regional based vending machine company – quite possibly coming home every day complaining about how much of a bitch Carol is like they have for fifteen years.

I haven’t been writing as much as I would have liked recently perhaps waiting for some sort of inspiration without realising that I always have something to write about. That being every time I walk down the street, sit down in lecture, hell, buy an overpriced hot chocolate from Costa, I’m reminded that I’m not back home. It’s not being stuck in a purgatory made normality. Understandably, it makes me sound like a prick with a superiority complex the size of the US national deficit, but is that not the whole point of ambition whether it be to win The Apprentice or just to be able to live a life of one’s own choosing?

My mother keeps telling me to remember where I come from like every other clichéd escapist story who has left home to find pastures new. Yet I like every other cliché will be eating my words the day the debt accumulated by that ambition will land me in a nine-to-five. To be fair, from what I hear, Carol is a massive pain in the arse.

Taxi

The Waiting Room

I was in a hospital waiting room today and while I’m ever grateful for free healthcare, the hospital and people in it, made me feel like John Simm in Life on Mars. For someone who struggles with being grounded in reality at the best of times, it was a real struggle not to feel like Walter Mitty. It was also, in another sense, totally grounding – being faced with the lump that at the time could also be my own mortality. Now I know it’s just a blocked saliva gland and I was panicking for months over nothing, but the point still stands.

Those grounding moments that we all have put things into perspective like never before from appreciating the little things to the big things. It sounds wholly cheesy but for me, sat in that boiling waiting room with the world’s largest collection of elderly Northerners, I began to put things into perspective. I’m less stressed about looking for a job brought about by my realisation that maybe I’m overthinking it and overselling it like the bloody lump. Or perhaps my own job hunt was just a personal distraction from what I need and what I need is something to alleviate the boredom. It’s true that idle hands to the devil’s work because in my case it’s chewing my nails to shreds and the beds really need time to recuperate if I decide to hold on to my dignity and not go to the nail bar.

Just looking around in the waiting room with all the people and their loved ones made me think about the future and that dreaded horrible realisation that maybe I do want someone. I’m disgusted with myself, taking pride in independence – emotional or otherwise -, solitude and existing in a strange aura of ambiguity that I’ve been told I have. Problem is, I like perhaps millions in this situation, have no idea what I actually want from that. Maybe it’s an underlying problem with our own ideals of perfection within relationships and companionship that can never truly be lived up to. Or maybe perhaps, most of us are too willing to compromise rather than do the braver, selfish thing of saying no to compromise. As a partial-subscriber to libertarian beliefs, the latter makes way more sense. Lets’ consider for a moment the people who seem to get through marriages like toilet paper; are they happy? Fuck no.

It’s all one big journey and when it comes down to it, we all need to learn to read a fucking map. We may all look at the roads in different ways but in the end, they all end up the same way: a coffin (or an urn but that’s less dramatic). I’m not judging what people do with their time but when constantly faced with death’s door, like the fossils in that waiting room, why not inject some fucking spontaneity. Take a risk, take a road not travelled because why not? I’m sure I’ve definitely said something like this before but perhaps the repetition is the universe trying to tell me something. So, if I want to effectively tell my friend of eight years that she looks hot in her new Facebook profile picture in a weird cryptic way to not totally look like a creep, dammit, that’s what I’ll do. As long as it’s not hurting or bothering anyone else, where’s the harm in getting up and doing what the hell you want to do?

There’s my new mantra and perhaps one for us all: ‘why the fuck not?’.

The Waiting Room

Ouija Boards

I’ve been tested today and I’m continuing to be tested and it seems no matter how much I try to help people, there will always be doubt surrounding my motives. As I’ve said before, that’s fine because human beings are fundamentally distrusting beings. Yet we endure, don’t we? We deal with it and move on always, like lions searching for a new pride on a never-ending journey through the savannah of literal shit. Right now, I’m at a crossroads being asked to choose either a friend’s happiness or my own. If it was any other person asking me I would say ‘fuck you,’ but it’s not. There’s no running from this and the choice is mine alone to make but the repercussions will perhaps ruin one-third of the valued relationships I hold.

Life being shit, is not a TellTale video game where you can reload and overwrite the save file if the outcome isn’t what’s wanted. The scenario is entirely reflective of the Doctor Who episode title ‘Truth and Consequence’ that being the truth is being confronted by my own selfish nature versus the consequences of making a friend feel trapped or marginalised or both. There are people out there who make careers out of being martyrs yet throwing myself on the sword is less appealing than anything I’ve ever known. Does that make me a coward? Does it make anyone in a similar situation? You could argue that not sacrificing yourself and living with the consequences is the braver choice having to see the face of a friend you know that you would have fucked over.

I was told by someone today that I’m not alone and that I’m valued by people more than I realise but here I am, pouring over the outcome of a situation that makes me feel more isolated than ever before. Maybe that’s another fundamental truth about human existence is that sacrifice is by-the-by when it comes to keeping hold of the things we have. All I have is those few friends and twice today it’s been called into contention over what I can only describe as territorial, relationship intrigue.

For the first time, I’ve left a post unfinished and went for a walk to think about it.

Now, some two hours on, I’ve come to realise that this one tiny event is microcosmic. It’s totally representative of my entire existence since I’ve been here, in this place, again and again. A constant reminder to why I don’t expose my feelings. Every damn time we open that door, we don’t know who will come in with our guest. My mother always told me not to play with a Ouija board because we don’t know what we’ll let in our house but you’re never told, as a child, to have the same policy with opening up to other human beings – with being close to someone. It just invites in disappointment and shitty situations again and again.

Fuck it.

I should get an actual Ouija board not just an analogical one. Maybe it’ll be far easier to wrestle with those unwanted guests than those who have already made themselves very fucking comfortable on my analogical sofa.

Ouija Boards

London Film and Comic Con, 2017

I was at comic con at the weekend in London and learnt two things in particular: I never want to live there and that conventions are quite literally impulse-buy markets. Seriously, I spent so much money on things that I neither really want or need. The most telling part of this is the fact that you have to pay for the privilege of meeting another human being. Don’t get me wrong I’m sure Natalie Dormer is a lovely person but no-one’s that nice that a donation of sixty-pounds is necessary for her to write some hollow bullshit on a picture of herself.

In the aftermath, I am making the mistake of analysing the day and my purchases which is slowly ruining the memory considering it was over a fiver for a very mediocre hotdog. As I glance over to the fifteen-pounds bobble head I panic a little over the money I have and don’t have. Yet despite the obvious financial costs, comic con is worth it just for the sense of atmosphere and a strange unity that you might get from being at a football match, for instance. Everyone there had come to show support for something or someone whether it be a celebrity or an anime. Of course, if the words ‘I think Game of Thrones is over-hyped’ slips your lips then expect swift and righteous crucifixion.

Oddly enough, like a football match, I witnessed a small fight break out between a man running a stall and an oblivious selfie-taker. There was a large bust of Arnold Schwarzenegger that someone had touched and it all took a sour turn which was quickly dealt with by security. Yet unlike in normal circumstances, people turned away and made a point to avoid the confrontation rather than actively spectate. Maybe it highlights the fallacy of comic con: being absorbed in the fiction all around, actively trying to avoid the reality. Much like buying for the sake of buying, we do it because it’s all a part of the comic con experience and deviation is totally avoided. Just spent seventy-five-pounds to get a picture with Mads Mikkelsen? Worth every penny, pal.

The best moments from my experience this year came not from spending money at all but from – for lack of a better phrase – sitcom humour. It started around eleven in the morning when my friend bought some naturally overpriced nachos and a cola which ended up down him and the floor when he held back a sneeze. Honestly, I have never cried from laughter until that moment and his panicked words ‘what do I do?’ made it even worse. The whole frame of the somewhat stunned nineteen-year-old standing atop a mess of salsa and Pepsi, while the workers at the food cart all muttered ‘what the fuck’, was perhaps better than the last four seasons of The Big Bang Theory.

The second was perhaps the best and it happened some time later while we were sat waiting for another friend to get his picture taken with Natalie Dormer – again sixty-pounds is definitely worth it, why would anyone question if it was a waste? We were there for a long time and the only free element of the day being the Wi-Fi was spotty at best and required a field of personal details to be filled in, odd for ‘free’ connection. It was my same salsa-stained friend who, to pass the time, began singing ‘Take Me Home, Country Roads’ by John Denver and began to rock to the tune. At the very same time, the person that he wanted to meet the most of all the guests there, Alyson Hannigan walked past. The face she pulled was similar to that of the food sellers – ‘what the fuck’ – and so, confused by his performance she quickly moved on by. My friend let out a little whimper and seemed to die.

Naturally I pulled out the classic: ‘it’s just nacho day’.

London Film and Comic Con, 2017