gibbon-arsed ramblings of a hopeless underachiever
|
|
| bandhag gibbon-arsed ramblings of a hopeless underachiever |
|
|
Friday, December 27, 2002 Christmas - the only person to phone me at all has been my sister (the elder of the two), from Melbourne. Twice. Bless her heart, she's the other side of the world, the phones were all fucked up (I know, because I tried to phone her loads of times too and couldn't ever get through), her special 'make calls abroad cheap' card had fucked up, and she STILL managed it. It means a hell of a lot that she made that effort. When I spoke to her today, we agreed that we'd have our own Christmas when she gets back. It'll be great - we can put up decorations and the works. Christmas TV this year has been utterly SHIT. No films on really, to speak of. Other than Harvey, which I fell asleep in the middle of anyway, so that doesn't really count. *And* I missed most of the Derek and Clive thing last night because I accidentally watched French and Saunders instead. D'oh. And also GAH. My cat has restarted her habit of chasing her tail for a good half hour or so every day. I expect I'll need to get her exorcised or something. The thing is, it's so fucking FUNNY watching her. Until the point where I thought "No, wait, this is probably bad. There's probably something wrong with her, and I should take her to the vets, and grown-up responsible stuff like that". And then I feel like a bad, bad person. posted by bandhag | 12/27/2002 02:31:00 AM Monday, December 23, 2002 Good Lord, has it been that long? I have many things to talk about today. Perhaps I'll have to split it into bits and say some at a time, over the next couple of days. First, then: Christmas. I'm spending it alone this year. Just me and the cat. It's not quite how I'd envisaged things, though I think there might be some ok bits about it - getting to spend the whole day in my pyjamas, watching TV and not having to try not to get into arguments with people, for example... I spent my birthday alone this year too. A conspiracy of events - people away/busy/forgot/couldn't make it/etc - meant that on the day itself I just sat around getting drunk and watching TV. The problem was that at the back of my mind, I kept thinking that maybe it was all a set-up and that at some point someone was going to ring me up on some pretext to get me to a pub where everyone would be, or that a bunch of them - or even one - would turn up at the door and "Surprise!". But it didn't happen, because life is *not* a film or a TV programme or a book. And it's not going to happen this time either. I feel glad for putting the words in black and white, because now maybe it'll be easier for me *not* to torture myself with that crap this time. I need to get used to the fact that things have changed for me - I don't have any parents now, and I live alone. I'll spend Christmas alone this year, and I'll do my best to make sure it doesn't have to happen again - it's down to me, I guess. Pff. This is a bit confessional, innit? Bet you wish I was back talking about Popstars: the Rivals again, eh diary? Meh, the rest can wait - Sopranos is on and I want to lay on the sofa and smoke for a while, cos that's just the kinda crazy kid I am. posted by bandhag | 12/23/2002 02:01:00 AM Thursday, December 12, 2002 An emotional rollercoaster of days, none of which I want to deeply get into. Suffice it to say, it wasn't the best of times... it was the worst of times. Aaanyway. So, Popstars the Rivals is over, and the songs are released. I'm voting on the girls. The boys have released a facking dreadful and instantly-forgettable ballad. I can at least just about remember the girls garage-derivative twaddle, and can bring to mind a couple of scenes from their video. Possibly means I am officially "on the turn". Who knows. It's disappointing that all of their voices are so over-produced you can't tell one from the other, but there you go - that's business, I guess. Works night out tonight. Why is it these things are such hard work? I get all these crappy questions, when people are drunk, about where my name comes from (which fucking NONE of them bother to try to get right. I wonder how they would react if I got their fucking western names wrong and when corrected said "that's what I said, isn't it?"), or what the other secretaries think of the fact I'm working towards a Masters. "We don't talk about it", I truthfully answer. I'm no different to the other secretaries - I don't have airs and graces, I don't think I'm better than them - our pay's the same, and the *job*. Is. The. Same. If anything, I'm lower than them because I only work evenings. But others seem to want there to be some friction, some fucking class struggle or something. Hello? I grew up on a council estate - I've done the stuff I've done because I was fucking lucky enough to be born with brains enough and gumption enough to do them, not because I think I'm oh-so-better-than-everyone-else. How do they expect me to answer when they ask such questions, I wonder? Do they expect me to say I'm really miserable and all the other secretaries hate me because I'm just so DAMNED superior? Maybe they do, because it's never the secretaries that ask me this. Perhaps the others want me to reinforce the 'Them and Us' ideas they have - that there's something intrinsically different between those who went to uni, and those who didn't. Truth of the matter is, given the chance, I'd pack it all in and be a sound engineer or some equally shit-paid job that I'd love. I only do what I do because I need the money. People can be such fucking wankers sometimes. posted by bandhag | 12/12/2002 12:15:00 AM Wednesday, December 04, 2002 I just watched Faking It - the one with the games tester being a Formula Renault driver. Usually I love Faking It, but watching tonight's - or more specifically, the bloke on it tonight - filled me with the kind of desire for violence that can normally only be sparked off by conversations with my youngest sister, or by over-posh students bellowing in an overbearing 'look at me' fashion in pubs. Arrogant, xenophobic, scrawny little gobshite with a personality bypass. He did nothing to dispell the image that all gamers are utterly mistaken in the belief that they have the skills to live life as a normal human being just because they've spent their entire young adult lives in a darkened room wanking with a control pad. "I fragged a million baddies, I can fire REAL guns, like in a war or something - and I finished Gran Turismo in 3 days straight: I ARE RACING DRIVER!". To which I would say: No, dear, you are a deluded social cripple and if you'd spent a little less time getting Lara Croft to climb up walls at a certain angle so you could look up her tiny shorts, you might be able to a) take instructions from other human beings without attacking them every verse end and b) hold an entire conversation without exposing yourself as an ignorant little tosser every third word. I just hope this is a warning to them all and it'll get them to go out, go for a walk, or a pint, have a conversation, perhaps even a little sex. With another person. Aaaaaand breathe. In no way is this outburst of bile prompted by spending five years with someone who was surgically joined to his playstation, ohhh no. And y'know, now I've written all that I realise that games-testing/racer man didn't really anger me that much at all, he just vaguely irritated me. But sometimes it's just so NICE to rip into someone who's a total wanker, isn't it? I'm a bad, bad person. posted by bandhag | 12/04/2002 10:27:00 PM Monday, December 02, 2002 Fan-fucking-tastic night on Friday. You know those friends you have, the ones that you can go for ages without seeing, yet you still think of them as one of your best friends? I got back in touch with my one of those a little while back, and we finally managed to catch up and get off our faces. It was fucking GREAT. I had assumed it might be a bit awkward, at least at first, but it wasn't at all at any point. The initial catching-up and exclaiming about how long it had been (three years! Good Lord) only temporarily interrupted the same kinds of conversation we've always had - swinging from deep and intellectual to absolute lowest common denominator filth and childishness. We talked and we drank, all night in the pub and then into the morning back at his house. At some point in the night I *drooled* on myself. Now, I know I made too much of this, but it wasn't because I was really *that* embarrassed (too drunk to care too much) but I was just really taken aback - how drunk was I that I couldn't even tell a big gob of saliva was about to plop out of my mouth onto my arm, for seemingly no other reason than the fact I tipped my head down a bit? I didn't feel that drunk. Perhaps it's a sign of old age, and it'll only be a couple of weeks before I'm pissing my jeans while I'm walking round the Co-Op buying faggots in gravy or whatever it is old folk eat... The hangover was a BITCH, though. He's talented, my friend. He's started writing, and he's really *good*, though naturally he doesn't see it - think he lacks the yutzpah to do the things he wants. He doesn't. So far, he's lacked the opportunity. He has the balls, he just doesn't see them yet. [See, that was meant to be sincere, but I've just realised I made it sound like he's some sumo-esque type who can't see his own genitals. Arf. SOOOO far from the truth] And blow me if I didn't come home and write something myself. A fragment, but a complete fragment, that started and ended - I even had more ideas about how I should develop it. And tonight, a poem. Probably both utter shit, but I can't tell you how surprised I was with myself not to get an idea and run out of it half-way through trying to capture it. Urgh, which I'm honestly not doing now, but it's gone 4:30 and I'm going to goddam bed. Motherfucker. posted by bandhag | 12/02/2002 04:39:00 AM |
|
|
|
|
|||||||||||||
|
 |
||||||||||||||||
|
|||||||||||||||||
