London Calling…

This post is to say that I’m alive, and have returned to civilisation. Or at least to america, which is an approximation of civilisation, but has better food. Some of which I feel strongly compelled to eat right now, having just spent a week on a diet of things that come in tins, and an appalling lack of both meat and cheese. Posts about what I have just experienced will follow when I am back in London, and no longer starving, dirty, spaced out, boiling hot, freezing cold, or drunk. I have been at least one of these at any given moment for the last week, and it has been the best fucking holiday of my life.

Later kids, I’m off to Haight-Ashbury for pancakes…

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.

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.

Sweden kicks massive, hippopotamus-sized ass, as I must say did my sojourn there for 8 fabulous days. I’m not sure I could describe my holiday without going on for approximately 10 pages, so I will attempt to summarise with some brief accounts of what I learned, in loosely chronological order. With the additional comment that sadly, I did not see an elk, but happily, I purchased a swedish childrens book about poo. 

The following things were discovered:

• It is unwise to lose track of where a fire poi is, even if it has gone out, and even, and I stress this, if one’s trousers are on fire at the time. Even poi that are not lit are still very very hot, and forgetting about one just because you are trying to extinguish some dramatic looking trouser flames is a recipe for sustaining some relatively painful burn marks. Which, granted, you will probably not notice until much later. Also, it is not that difficult to put out aforementioned fire and still retain at least one lit poi for the continuation of spinning, as long as you do not panic.
• Balloon animals often explode without warning.
• Sometimes I forget how much I like certain people.
• White water rafting is an exceptionally fun thing to do, and it is not that hard to stay in the boat, despite the fact that you are perched on the side and held in by just a strip of rubber around your foot. It is important not to wear clothes under the wetsuit, because although they keep you very warm they do not keep you dry. It is also crucial to bear in mind that no-one around you can row properly either, but everyone has a large wooden club to hand.
• Two people cannot simultaneously drive a 1950s Chevvy pickup.
• If it does not get dark, you do not get tired properly. Umea had about 4 hours of semi-dark per night while I was there, a recipe for complete madness and continuous partying, drinking, singing, dancing etc.
• Cheesy pop music is incredibly popular in sweden
• Reindeer meat is quite tasty.
• It is a perfectly normal thing in Umea to cycle to the pub, drink, and cycle home. So normal that no-one bothered to tell me about this until we actually stepped outside and I was pointed at a bicycle. I love learning curves of 30 seconds or less.
• Swedish people are crazy.
• Because drinking is expensive, swedes often go to each others houses to drink instead of niteclubs. So it is entirely acceptable to invite complete strangers to your home for an “afterparty”, and also perfectly fine for everyone to fall asleep everywhere.
• I always manage to meet the one person in the pub who likes comic books and Marilyn Manson :)
• Swimming in lakes is much more fun than swimming in the sea, and swimming at night is much more fun than swimming during the day, even if the water is bloody freezing.
• There is a swedish word “fart”, and it roughly transates to “going from a small narrow road onto a wide, spacious one”. This amused me. As did frequent signs saying “infart” and “utfart”.
• It is fucking brilliant to be Irish, everyone loves you.
• Swedish spoken with an irish accent is (apparently) sexy. (Warning: may not be true)

In summary, with the eternal exception of interrailing for a month, this was the best holiday ever. Special thanks go out to several people: my very good friend the swedish chick here in London; the long-haired good-for-nothing hippy who remains one of the best friends I have ever had; and the swedish boy who wants to be irish and is far far too nice in general. Usually.

Rather, it generally tends to be indicative of having a life. Though really that is probably a gross exaggeration. I work too much to have a life. But yes, to anyone who expressed an interest, I am in fact still alive, and have not yet been killed and/or eaten by anyone. Go me.

Recent discoveries include the fact that surfing is fun, that I have no upper body strength left, and that I am temporarily bored of alcohol. So I have decided to try surfing again at some point, start weight training, and give up drinking for a few weeks and see how it goes.

……

I wrote this 4 weeks ago, and had no time to post it. So far, I have been off alcohol for a month, training every couple of days, and fit into my old trousers. And I may actually have some muscles again. More on this when I can be arsed writing it. Also, I have now paid for my holidays, my credit card bill, and have no discernible debt. Just glowing dollar signs in my eyes. I need some contact lenses.

Last weekend, I went out friday night with the princess, one of my esteemed housemates, and celebrated her birthday. As usual, she spent a short time encouraging me to talk to men, which as always was a spectacular disappointment on her part.

Last week also heralded the return of Sofie, the hot french chick mentioned in my first London posts. She has returned with the following goals in mind, find a a job, find a place to live, find a man. If she finds the correct man, apparently all 3 may be accomplished simultaneously. On the job front, should the basic plan of seeking a millionaire fall through somehow, she has decided to become a stripper. I eagerly await development of this storyline, and will doubtless be fascinated by the results of her first few weeks here.

In other news, I have decided to go to sweden for a week in July, for an adventure, and next monday I am being sent to dublin for work. Oh, and at the end of the month I will be in Lahinch, learning to surf. I am nursing a vague hope that surfing and longboarding will have enough skills in common to prevent me from actually drowning. Is this truly the case? If I cease posting after May 29th, then you will know that the answer is a resounding “no”

What a self-congratulatory cheerful pile of wank that post was. I can see how blogging appears to automatically insert people’s heads into their rectums. I feel like vomiting all over that last entry. Seeing as I disapprove of censorship though, I suppose I’ll leave it there. It is a notable example of what happens to me on my birthday, suddenly I become the centre of the universe and behave accordingly. *rolls eyes*. Not that I am not the centre of the universe at all times, of course. Hah.

Work is currently being heaped upon me like big steaming piles of turd. I don’t mind that so much, though it does put a bit of a damper on sleeping, drinking and juggling, seeing as I don’t have that much time. Disappointingly I don’t get to go to Sweden, but perhaps I’ll be sent some other time. I may be sent to Dublin soon, which would be sort of handy.

Little to report really, this weekend I am going to a party in a crypt, I have taken up contact juggling, and my birthday last weekend was a fantastic series of events, the highlight of which was attendance by several notable personages all the way from Ireland.

Yes, I make a big deal out of my birthday. I enjoy it immensely. It tends to spread over at least a weekend, or a couple of days. It’s not because I particularly crave the attention, though maybe that’s a part of it. It’s because I’m celebrating the fact that I’m still alive, which is a fact I happen to be quite fond of. Not that I was expecting to be dead, but that’s entirely beside the point. Life should be celebrated. I dearly love being alive, and I have no problems showing it.

I don’t understand people who ignore their birthdays,. So what if you’re older? Pretending a year hasn’t gone by won’t make you any younger. It’s not an admission that time is passing you by kids, it’s a joyful victory over a tough world that you continue to exist in. Living for another year should be an achievement, not an embarrassment. I look back over the last year, and I’m amazed by what I’ve done, and how far I’ve come. Maybe that’s obnoxious, maybe not. I couldn’t care less either way.

Since my last birthday, I’ve moved home twice, moved jobs twice, been through the worst emotional ordeal of my life, left my country, my family, and my friends behind, and still survived, still managed. Still been who I want to be, been that person more so than ever in fact.  Independence which once would have impressed me I now assume without thinking. I’ve realised what I want, and what’s important to me, with a clarity that I have never really had before. I am happier than I’ve ever been and I know it even at the times when I’m temporarily miserable.

I completely disagree with the theory that people throw parties to get presents. I don’t want presents. Sure if you want to give me something I’ll be as pleased and surprised as I would be at any other time. But if you ask me what I want I haven’t a notion, and it would never occur to me to expect something. The gift is the fact that I’m still here, and I’m still me, and that my life is still changing, still fun, and still an experience worth having. Maybe if a year passes in which I haven’t done anything I valued or enjoyed then I won’t like marking the passage of time, but I don’t plan on ever allowing that to happen.

Thanks to everyone who wished me a Happy Birthday today, in whatever form it took, irc, card, text, phone call, some were even in person. Yes, I see human beings every day. Thanks to all of you, and I’m glad you’re still alive too :) Most of you anyway.