Category: Nonsense

Waiting Like A Waiter

Recently I posted the following tweet on Twitter

The reason I wrote such a thought was not because of a linguistic question.  It was because right now I am waiting on a number of things.  My waiting list is longer than an Orangutan’s arms.  I hope the waiting ends soon so I can shout from the rooftops.  Instead I am just bubbling with frustration.

This waiting experience, made me think about waiting in general.  As I turned on my computer and waited for it to load, and then waited for chrome to open, and then waited for the webpage to load  and then waited for the words to form in my brain and waited for my fingers to get to work I realised that waiting is unavoidable.  We wait for thousands of different things each and every day.  Whether it be traffic lights, phone calls, food to cook, dogs to crap, snow to melt, to get paid and to get laid.  It is impossible to go twenty-four hours without having to wait for anything.

The veracity of this truth is unyielding.  And yet when people show the tiniest hint of impatience, rather than sympathize, we throw meaningless expressions at them.  We push this fantasy that a man of action can do anything he wants.  Carpe diem unless someone is walking on the pedestrian crossing, or they have to pick up the kids from school, or if it’s the day before payday.  Time and tide wait for no man, but man waits for just about everything else.

The cold truth of the matter is that destiny is not in our hands.  Destiny is the result of many other factors.  I challenge each and every one of you to time how long you spend waiting for things for a whole day.  Or even count the number of times you will find yourself waiting for something.  You will be unpleasantly surprised.  Next time someone says to you that patience is the virtue of a saint, punch them in the face.  Or if you are not of violent disposition lean close to them and whisper ‘Merda taurorum animas conturbit’.

A Traditional Christmas Post

Today is the last day of the Christmas trilogy, otherwise known as Boxing Day.  For you Continentals not familiar with island practices, tradition dictates that on Boxing Day you must have a boxing match with the first person you see after leaving the house.  This morning was quite unfortunate for my Mum’s elderly 84-year-old neighbour, Alice.  However I am pleased to report that I knocked her out late in the seventh round.

I know what some of you may be thinking.  What an absurd tradition!  And you would indeed be right.  By and large traditions are absolute nonsense, and what makes them even more amusing is the fact that some people still cling onto them.  Christmas Day is a fine example.  If you ask people what we celebrate on Christmas Day, most of them will point to the fact that it’s the day Jesus Christ was born.  And they would be completely correct in their thinking if it wasn’t for the fact that they are completely and utterly wrong.  Jesus was actually born in April.  Historically December 25th is actually a Pagan holiday.

This year I spent the 25th searching for the spirit of Christmas.  What I can safely say,  is that it was definitely not Tequila, Vodka, Whisky or Brandy.  If the television is to be believed, the spirit of Christmas is ‘giving’.  Sadly the vast majority of people believe that ‘giving’ is the responsibility of  Santa Claus.  And they would be completely correct in their thinking if it wasn’t for the fact that they are wrong.  On my home island it’s about a visit from Father Christmas, and believe it or not, they are not the same person.

The point I am trying to make is that tradition is whatever you decide it is.  If you want to spend every New Years Eve naked, standing in a cardboard box, wearing a lampshade on your head whilst singing ‘Yellow Polka Dot Bikini’ that is a matter for you, and you only.  Just don’t expect anyone else to join you, after all, one man’s tradition is another man’s laughing matter.

Notes From My Deathbed

Having spent about a week on my deathbed, suffering from some kind of bastard infection, I have had some time to ruminate upon a number of matters.  The first and most obvious is that a person’s deathbed is a pressure filled environment for the deathee.  The deathee, or the resident of the deathbed must have something ghastly sounding enough to garner sympathy from visiting strangers, or co-habiting loved ones n.b. If you are a man trying to induce sympathy from a woman, the only way to do it is to hack off your left arm with a rusty spoon, any other method has been scientifically proven as a waste of time.

Sympathy is not the only issue for the prospective deathee.  The second problem is your last words.  Imagine if you cough your lungs up, and mutter ‘bloody bollocks’ and then dropped dead.  Those will be the last words you will ever utter.  That is precisely what loved ones will remember you for.  Therefore you must make sure that everything you say on your deathbed is incredibly poignant, so poignant that your words would make a left-handed lesser spotted australian tree frog sob with tears of regret for the sins which they themselves have committed.  This in turn means that expressions such as ‘oi darling can you chuck me the paper’ are out the window completely.  Instead you could perhaps wax lyrically about how looking at your reflection in your cup of tea is like looking at life itself, or how the only way to be truly happy is to…  Just make sure you do actually die at the end of the last one or it won’t have half as much impact.

Another unique deathbed experience has been my first fever in adult memory.  It reminded me of visiting elderly people in hospital near the end, when they are barely coherent and everyone assumes that they have lost their marbles.  It was surprisingly hard not to utter random squeaks and groans whilst boiling like a squashed snake on desert sand.  The most disappointing fact of all was that I expected a fever to be a somewhat more pleasant experience.  The only adult connection I had in my mind was with the song ‘Fever’ which is about a woman getting a ‘fever’ via the medium of lust and is sung in a deeply suggestive manner.  Having experienced a real fever if I ever meet anyone in my life that gives me a fever I will punch them in the tits and tell them where to go.

And there end my notes from my deathbed, as I have to get back to the business of dying.  It’s not easy mind you.  Some of us spend our whole lives doing it.  Till next time.

How To Accept Compliments

Some people take theirs with a pinch of salt.  Others take theirs after their morning constitutional.  What no one knows for sure is how exactly they should be taken to maximise their efficiency.  And therein lies the problem.

Science has managed to prove that 5 of just about anything a day is unquestionably good for the human body.  Unless that 5 includes bullets, cyanide pills or episodes of X Factor.  However with regards to compliments, too many are clearly bad for you and too few too.  So what exactly is the precise amount of praise which leads to a general feeling of wellbeing? As opposed to the feeling too much can give you, which may lead you to feeling just a little bit French.

Taken before bed, they can keep you awake all night.  Take them too early in the morning and you are bound to fall down.  Compliments are absolute buggers.  Research has shown that compliments are best taken like crack cocaine: when you are in need of a five-minute buzz.  When accepting this as fact it becomes much easier to deploy compliments at vital moments of your life, such as: before job interviews, sexual encounters and the regional semi-finals of the World Beard and Moustache Championships.

The problem when taken too often is that compliments can lead to addiction.  Addicts often complain about no one understanding them and everything being shit.  This often leads them to getting dangerously pointy haircuts and appearing on reality tv talent shows in hope of another fix.  Sadly, Simon Cowell has failed to introduce mandatory executions for talent show failures.

Which brings us to our conclusion.  Our planet is by and large, populated by compliment chasing zombies shuffling through the streets.  These zombies aren’t dangerous, mostly.  Until someone takes this problem to the United Nations, UNESCO, the World Wildlife Fund or the Dead Poet’s Society, this human tragedy is likely to overshadow mankind’s greatest achievements.  That’s why I’d like to nominate me for ‘Saviour of Mankind’.  After all I am pretty special.  That’s what most people tell me.

Mass Debates And Mass Debaters

Some of the greatest, most pointless debates known to man have taken place within a group of semi-drunk heathens.  Almost always the subject is as banal as the afterlife, the meaning of life, the meaning of apple or the end of the world.  It’s much easier to attribute blame and lay it at someone’s doorstep after several beers and a few whiskeys, usually because alcohol lowers the barriers which we surround ourselves with.  From time to time drunken debates can go wrong, they can become too personal and heated, thankfully we can then blame alcohol rather than ourselves.

The first mistake people often make, is to misunderstand the point of such discussions.  The purpose of such deliberations is not to try to bully and harangue the other person into agreeing with you.  There is no winner or loser.  The reason to enter such debates is to exchange ideas.  From the process alone you can often learn something as long as you are receptive to others opinions.  In times long past philosophers would use debates as a public forum to test their own ideas, and when necessary to refine them.  And it’s for this reason alone that I love these verbal jousting matches.

Recently I was dragged into a discussion about Warsaw.  I said in passing that ‘Warsaw as a city, has no personality.’  Rightfully so I was challenged by friends and my better half to spell out exactly what I meant.  In hindsight I can say that I failed.  For whatever reason I was unable to clearly explain exactly what I meant.  It didn’t, nor does it anger me.  It only frustrates me.  And it is that frustration which keeps the topic floating in the back of my mind.

The question itself is two-fold.  The first regards whether a city can actually have a personality.  In my mind’s eye I see a man surrounded by people at a party.  As he tells stories and leads the conversation like a conductor before an orchestra you can see something radiating off of him.  He is like the Queen Bee.  He is magnetic.  That thing which ensures people return to converse with him is his personality.  On Monday when these people go to work they are going to tell anecdotes to their colleagues about their meeting with this man.  These people have been affected, some stronger than others.  Perhaps even inspired.  These people at the party have been changed.  Even if it is a temporary change.  The thing which has done this is personality.

A city with personality inspires awe.  People write books, make films and sing songs in its name.  The people there are proud to be there.  People are drawn to it, after one visit they want to live there.  The believe in its power to improve their lives.  It changes them.  People tell stories about the wonderful things they experienced there.  There is even more pressure if you are a capital city.  That charismatic person at the party becomes a famous celebrity.  They cannot just be typical or normal.  You expect personality from this person and your disappointment is infinitely higher if they fail.

What did I learn?  That a sense of pride can be found in the most unlikely of places.  That I only enjoy leaving and never arriving.  And that Warsaw is the only European capital built with its back to the river.  Is it shy?  I don’t know.  Maybe that’s why I am not mesmerised by its charm.  Or maybe, just maybe it’s because I am a Mass Debater.