London Calling…

Thats probably an over-dramatic title actually. It means that I am in San Francisco, hours away from the intrepid desert adventure. Preparations are almost complete, all has gone (mostly) to plan, and my adrenalin is fucking sky high. For anyone who does not know what the intrepid desert adventure is, more to follow when I get back and make a proper update.

In summary, if I’m not back in 2 weeks, avenge my death. Or at least have a really big bonfire of some kind and burn things in a symbolic fashion.

Last Will and Testament (lest I perish in the wilderness):

Stereo system and all music goes to my brother the pseudo-yank, anything pink and all clothes go to my sister the pseudo-barbie-doll. Computers to my dad, weapons to diamond, and juggling stuff to bigbro. The bastard :)

My mom gets everything not mentioned above, and my dad gets to knock down the wall to my room and make his room the size of a basketball court.

I’m off to the desert now, to dance with fire and hear the voice of the world. Bye for now :)

Several days ago, I received a note from Royal Mail, stating that they had attempted to deliver a package, but I had been out/not answering the door/eaten by wolves, and that therefore they could not leave it, as it required a signature/blood sample/cortical scan.

I was mildly surprised, as I had not been expecting a package, and this morning dragged myself out of bed early in order to go and collect it. I was still quite mystified when I collected it, as it was not the shape of anything I could instantly identify. My curiousity overcame me on the tube when the Central Line stopped dead in a tunnel due to an “incident” at Holborn, and I got the package open with the aid of a pen.

Of all the possibilities that had flickered through my mind of what it could be, I must admit that I had never considered that it might be a 5 inch long model of a London bus. Which indeed it turned out to be. At that point I had one of those wonderful photogenic moments where you just stare quizzically at something that is entirely inexplicable, and wonder if someone is in fact filming you.

So I am now the proud posessor of a “Husky 5″ London Tour Bus”. No-one could be more surprised by this than I am.

Generally speaking, I am unimpressed by suicide. I don’t care how bad you feel. I really, really don’t. I’m leaving out the question of whether its actually morally wrong or not, because I’m not sure what the answer should be. I will happily argue however, in favour of it being selfish, stupid, and incredibly cowardly.

It is not a brave venture into the unknown, it is not a resolution of your own destiny by your own hand. Its fucking retarded. It an admission of weakness beyond any other, you are saying that you cannot handle _living_, the most basic and simple of functions in modern society. It the easy way out of the worst situation, and it is the ultimate shirking of responsibility. It is fucking pathetic to take your own life in an overwhelming majority of circumstances.

But by all means, if thats your decision, feel free to do as you choose. Your life is not subject to any rule dictated by myself, your life belongs to you and you alone, to dispose of as you see fit. But for the love of fucking anything at all, please do not fucking kill yourself by jumping on the tracks of the London fucking Underground. You fucking stupid asshole. Have I used enough expletives to communicate my rage? A resounding maybe!

There must be a million ways to kill yourself in this golden age of humanity. Heroin overdose, hanging, bullet in the brain, sleeping pills, falling on your fucking sword, walking into a chav pub and asking for tea and biscuits, becoming a security guard in Iraq, to name but a few. So why the fuck would anyone choose to forego all of these convenient and readily available deaths just to be crushed by a filthy train?

First off, the only place you have access to the track is the platform. By the time the train gets to the platform, it is now going much more slowly than normal. So instead of dying a quick squishy death as you are splatted like a bug on the front windscreen of a speeding monster, you are slowly crushed to an agonising end as a circle of slack-jawed gawkers slowly gathers for some human/trainwreck traditionalism. Frankly, it makes no sense.

Unless you consider the fact that by flinging yourself underneath a tube you are not only ending your crappy existence in this world, you are also fucking up everyone else’s day. Is that the dying wish of these morons? “The world is too much for me, so I will take my life while simultaneously annoying several hundred thousand people”. Is it a cry for attention? “My life is hell, so I will make everyone else’s just that little bit worse, maybe then they’ll realise how miserable I was”

Do us all a favour and ritually disembowel yourself instead.

At least thats my question about it. The word itself pretty much explains the nature of it. Something designed to engender terror. Someone asked me today if the current state of affairs in London ever made me worry about being there or avoid using the tube. The answer is “absolutely never”. I suspect a similiar response would come from most people who live here, too.

London has a different attitude to these things than many other cities. I suppose the best example recently of a city shitting itself in terror was NY after the World Trade Centre attacks. Not that those attacks weren’t serious, they involved huge loss of life, but the blow to the american ego and sense of self-righteous and safe superiority was much more severe than the blow to the headcount.

London has been bombed multiple times, for years on end. It has been a centre of violence, intrigue and conspiracy, has survived angry mobs, the great fire of 1666, and the black plague, amongst other disasters.

I will happily concede I was around for none of these events or circumstances, and that neither was anyone else living there today. But living memory is not necessary, the city has its own memory. The way things are built, and the way the police work, the lack of bins on city streets, the reaction to someone leaving a bag unattended on the tube. That is the memory of a society, of a place, the structure which shapes the future and offers an insight into the past.

When the London suicide bombings happened last year, everyone still went to work that day. Within 24 hours the tube was running again. Transport For London did not grind to a screeching halt, nor did everyday life. It was a tragedy, and no-one denied that. But to let everything come to a standstill is to be beaten. The Americans may have come back with guns as well as a major personality disorder, but they did have to run crying to their rooms first. They may win the war on whatever underdeveloped nation they choose, but the war on terror is the one they have already lost. They are afraid.

Perhaps I grossly generalise. I was not in NY then. I have never been there. All I have to go by is news and the speeches made by idiotic politicians. But I am here, and London is not afraid. Apathetic, indifferent, maybe slightly paranoid. But not afraid. The point of all of this is fear and intimidation. By the fuckwits who bomb the tube or by the government who looks to take advantage of public apprehension, its all the same.

I treat the thought of dying from a bomb on the tube the same way I treat the thought of being hit by a double-decker bus. Except that I’m fairly certain the odds of the bus are substantially higher. Those fuckers are dangerous.

So no, I’m not afraid, and neither are most people I know here. Yes, I value my life, and the only thing I value more than it is how I live it. I value it too much to ever live in a way I do not choose, and I do not choose to be afraid of an intangible threat. Though admittedly most tangible ones have trouble penetrating the thick layer of arrogance too.

But I’d rather be an arrogant bitch than soil myself every time I watch the news.

Discoveries of the week: 

• Crystal Reports and horse manure have several traits in common

• I do not really like drinking all that much

• Other people’s relationships can be just as fucked up as mine generally are

• If I keep changing my life everytime I change my mind, I will never have one

I think I’ve realised why blogs are whiny streaks of birdshit on the windscreen of the internet. I swore to myself when I started this thing that it would never contain an expression of emotion, but the temptation to break that rule is pretty strong. It was pointed out to me recently that anyone who writes something on a public forum must desire it to be read, despite any vehement denials to the contrary. Perhaps I am just looking for attention.

I suppose the answer to that one is “so fucking what?� Is it some sort of victory for the human race that I’d sometimes like to actually express what I think instead of just running it through my head? Does it make me weaker to want someone to hear me sometime? Or just to be able to should they ever feel like it? I will freely admit to wanting to be heard, but I will also point out the difference between that and wanting to be listened to.

I don’t expect anyone to agree with me, or like me. The point of this is that it makes it possible for someone to know whether they do or not. The web-based publication of my ranting and my philosophical nonsense makes it possible, however astronomically unlikely, for someone to give a damn. Perhaps I’m more of an optimist than I would like to think.