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