That would be an ecumenical matter!

Дайте не над thy душой к скорбе; и afflict не thyself в thy собственном консультанте. Gladness сердца жизнь человека и joyfulness человека длина дней.

A book about a film never made, written by a man who never existed, discovered a man who was equally fictitious, edited by a fabricated authority which in turn was edited by real Editors all put together to screw with your head. It

. .

took me just over . . .

two months of perseverance, but this mighty 700 page novel, with footnotes and footnotes in footnotes and at least two stories at any one time running, I finally finished. It’s nothing short of amazing. Forgetting the parallel stories,

the num - . . erous appendices, the three of four page long footnotes, the obscure text layout and the erratic timeline, this

book is st - ill a
. . good old fashioned, scary book

. . . and
nothing
.
. . short of amazing.

Once again, much like here, some

. people disagreed with me

that it’s any good, . . but unless you read the book, you can’t judge it. So read it. Then

judge it. It’s rather good. That‘s why it has

huge cult following - something that I‘ve managed to

avoid

until after finishing the book.

I have a chip on my shoulder. I hate so many things. Often about London. Often just stuff in general. I try to let it go. I try to be positive. Truth is, sometimes I like to hate things. Other times these things, or people make me want to break down and weep. The careerist London twats. CLTs. (Look I coined a phrase. People will be quoting me in no time.) I can’t even say who these people are exactly. I think they’re symbolic people in my head that don’t actually exist. Convenient stereotypes to rage about that represents everything wrong with this city. Maybe it’s symptomatic of not knowing a person enough and sticking them in one generic group, the wine drinking, “apartment living”, couscous eating CUNTS. But there you go.

These people include the people who drink in All Bar One out of choice. The people who talk about jobs at parties. The people who go to Tiger Tiger without realising it’s shit. The people who read Time Out to decide where to eat. The people who have music tastes dictated to them by the radio. The people who get bankrolled by their parents from a satellite town in Hertfordshire and then talk about the problem of London gang culture at a dinner party. The people who think that the West End is fabulous and not some soulless money grabbing tourist trap, showing endless bastardisations of films and music in a theatre format. The people who think they’re a better person than their neighbour because they eat from Waitrose rather and Asda. The people who talk down to other people constantly (there’s millions of you!) The people who judge others because of their accent, background or dress sense. The people who wear fucking boat shoes when they’re not on boats. The people who talk about shares or the stock market as if it’s important. The people who use hands free but hold their mobile with one hand and the mic with the other. The people who think it’s sophisticated and chic to get drunk on cocktails in a place called Ma-fucknut-ti or whatever but sitting in an old man pub drinking Fosters with some good mates is apparently sad. The people who aspire to be a job title. The people who look down upon others for staying friends with mates, even if they don’t fit their new dynamic lifestyle. People who talk about the urgent need to get on the property ladder. The people who have had saving accounts since they turned 18. The people who don’t eat chicken because of Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s programme but will gladly order fois gras in an expensive restaurant. The people who have credit cards “just in case”. The people who think Snow Patrol is “grown up music” and assume that everyone forms a band to be on Top of the Pops. The people who listen to Radio One because it’s really “rather funny in the mornings”. The people who vote Conservative (yeah see what I just wrote there). The people who have been told all their lives what to do and somehow think that the fact they’re actually doing it is just coincidence. The people who aspire to own a model of car. The people who look up to businessmen. The people who still bloody think it’s rebellious to take drugs and will endlessly tell you about it. The people who tell you that you “must go to Glastonbury” as if it’s some kind of answer to something. The people who think that if you’re on Facebook your identity will be stolen. In fact, the people who worry about identity theft. The people who refuse to tell you their wage. The people who don’t want to be seen condemning prices in poncy places if they’re ludicrously unreasonable as they somehow feel worthy for paying the extra. And you know what. The people who cocking well moan about everything. And hate mongers. Their twats too.

Check it. Like looking in a mirror. Deep. Still it’s my blog so I’ll do what I want. (What’s this bit going on about? Didn’t think that through did I?)

Boat Shoes: What the fuck is that about?

Or so it seems. I haven’t written on here for some time. The pressure of my consistently longer, more complex (well not that complex) posts weigh heavy on my shoulders. Indeed, the pressure to come up with some worthwhile contemplation that didn’t yet again involve rallying against conformity and work and blah blah blah has become a formidable challenge. Having a blog is an exercise in who you are or what you really think - if you wish to treat it so. Therefore do I think the only thing I’ve got to say is about rebelling against the norm? I hope not. I don’t know what I think about anything. I don’t think you’re ever meant to know what you think. If you did, there wouldn’t be much point in anything.

Still, a pretentious thought did occur that I might change the name of this blog to ‘That Would be an Existential Matter’ - Take that philosophy. Over 2000 years of modern thought shat upon by a rambling twat who resents his cushy job. In your face Socrates. Up yours Plato. What the fuck are you looking at Nietzsche? (No, I can’t think of any other philosophers). Anyway, that idea’s been shelved as the current name still fits and let’s face it, this blog is disappearing up it’s own arse already. I mean, compare this early post to this post a few months ago. I feel a little narcissistic referencing my own blog, but the mere act of having a blog is partly an exercise in having a toss in front of a mirror. As it were.

Still (I’m about to do it again) after this muse a few years ago, I think I’ve kinda found a purpose for this site. Let what I think spew forth in an unregulated stream of consciousness onto thy blog. Or something. Edited and censored for public consumption of course. Which in a way defeats the object. Which leads me to think there is no purpose. In fact, I’d like some comments from people who do have blogs to tell me why. Is this gonna happen? Is anyone gonna read this far down? Of course not!

I don’t even know what I’m talking about really so I’ll wrap this post up… Ok, noticing that passing off mere links as a substitute for blog posts is somehow becoming acceptable, (why write anything when you can just direct everyone to someone else’s efforts eh? This is the literary equivalent of pointing at books in the library and taking credit for them) I’ve decided to jump on the bandwagon. “It’s an update” you think whilst posting a link to a story about a pigeon living in a lady’s hat. Well two can play at that unsubstantial and lazy game sunshine. Here’s my two cents two pigeons in their respective hats:

Credit to Will, I’ve recently got into Band of Horses. View a rather good song by them here.

Credit to Tim, I’ve recently discovered this excellent song by the Tindersticks. View here.

People who move home to be closer to work, rather than work closer to home: Twats.

“God is a Concept by which we measure our pain”. Or so said John Lennon. And my Facebook update today like. This is from Lennon’s song God. Dunno how I hadn’t heard it before. You think you know something about a topic and the older you get the more you realise you know nothing about anything… which kinda makes me think that if we all live to old age we end up realising life is one big fallacy. The longest joke you’ll ever get to hear. It’s all bollocks really isn’t it? Just 6 billion lost souls wandering around trying to rationalise existence and consciousness through self inflicted external sources, whatever that might mean. OMG yea!!1111111 lolz11 Still, it kinda ties into the song lyrics. Give it a listen you gypsies. It’s rather good.

Here we go again, it’s another rant. Over the last six months I‘ve complained about the work fetish of modern society, the empty promises of career, the soullessness of conformity and you know what, it’s all fair enough. It’s my blog and I’ll cry if I want to - Sucker. Questioning the reality to which you’re presented is the responsibility of every living person on the planet. I don’t mean question whether or not you agree with the congestion charge, I mean question everything. Why live in a house? Why sleep at night and be active in the day? Why abide by the laws of the land? Why resist the urge to punch slow walking people in the back of the head? “Why”, (they deserve it) that’s the key question.

I’m not here to attack or belittle anyone’s choices. The best part of living is your ability to choose. If that choice is to play the money chasing game because you like the materialistic benefits then fine. Keep on rockin’ in the free world. But I do wonder as a society how much we question anything. I constantly debate this issue with people. I argue that they’re wage slaves, playing what they perceive to be the only game in town. They argue that it’s all their well thought out choices, a magnificent example of their free will and… as I’m basically a wage slave also, I’m clearly a gobshite of the highest order, which to be frank is only a half truth.

Still, I protest. Isn’t it the most incredible coincidence that what is expected of you from the moment you are born happens to be what 99% of us do? It’s the easy option. It’s the predictable path. It’s the no brainer. Work. Financial security. Investment. Mortgage. Pension. Car. You don’t have to think about it. You can coast along, ticking the boxes as you go. You could do it with your eyes closed. Most of us do. It’s not just the ease, it’s the intoxication of these life choices being smothered in affiliation, status and peer approval. Family will applaud your growth from boy to man. Friends will envy and marvel at your financial achievements, the opposite sex will swoon at your resources and society will deem you worthy. Alain de Botton says something about this in his book Status Anxiety:

Increasingly since 1776, status in the West has been awarded in relation to financial achievement. The consequences of high status are pleasant. They include resources, freedom, space, comfort, time and, as importantly perhaps, a sense of being cared for and being thought valuable–conveyed through invitations, flattery, laughter (even when the joke lacked bite), deference and attention. High status is thought by many (but freely admitted by few) to be one of the finest of earthly goods.

For this reason, we worry whenever we are in danger of failing to conform to the ideals of success laid down by our society. We worry that we may be stripped of dignity and respect, we worry that we are currently occupying too modest a rung or are about to fall to a lower one.

(I got that bit from the publishers book description. I haven’t read it yet). The point is that even if we convince ourselves that we’ve freely come to the conclusion that the optimum model of living is being a wage slave, it’s fairly likely we didn’t. You’ve been brainwashed, just like me and the rest of us. The money fetish that I’ve banged on about in previous posts is only part of the bigger picture – Everything is tuned towards conforming and chasing the dollar. It’s inescapable. We worship the business men, the Alan Sugar-ites, the CEOs and the money makers. We actively belittle “crusties”, alternative livers, or even those with a low wage, the cleaners, the check out attendants and the manual labourers without for a moment questioning whether their happy in their life and money isn’t on their radar.

To me, the conventional wage slave route is lazy. It’s dumb, predictable and most of all, it’s boring. If it were a band it’d be the Kaiser Chiefs: Obvious, pre approved shit for the masses, momentarily gratifying, sucking you in before realising it’s a crock of shite. Too late, you’ve bought the album. But at least you didn’t have to think about it. As good old Tom Hodkinson puts it:

Quitting your job, refusing to vote, not taking pharmaceutical drugs: these are not acts of apathy but of a radical re-engagement with society and with your own self. It is, in actual fact, lazy and apathetic to be employed, to vote and to take Prozac, because in doing these things we are handing control of our lives to others and implicitly accepting that we are more or less useless unless we contort our very selves to conform to a pre-planned model of how we should act. These are acts of giving up.

I berate myself daily for walking the wage slave path. The honest truth is I’m too scared to deviate from the path in case I look a fool. What if I fail? What if I end up homeless? What if I can’t afford a mobile or watch TV? We’re all attached to our materialistic goods. What we own, owns us. We’re all attached to our need for acceptance, we all crave status. We’re imprisoned by the manacles of our brainwashed minds. Sometimes I think feel I couldn’t be free no matter how hard I tried.

So where now? More moaning, more bottling? The longer the clock ticks, the longer I look like a buffoon. “You sir, are a buffoon” someone might write as a comment. Well, it’s not all doom and gloom. Life is great and choice is great. Just make sure it’s your own. Hey, even money is great, possessions are great, excellent gadgets are great, it’s just realising that ‘one’ doesn’t need them to be great. Yet dropping out is almost impossible. I’ve talked about this before. So, logically that leaves attitudinal shift. Everyone is free in their deepest thoughts and self. So I guess it’s little victories and small steps. This is the only way I can envisage. Don’t try to be something, try to do something. Surely we should all strive to make our life our art.

Here

So I’ve got loads more gear recently. Excited? Thought so. Of course, by loads I actually mean two different items but nonetheless, my wallet’s still been relieved of a good £300 plus, leaving me with literally jack all money, Jack. Still, such is the lot of the pedal obsessed, talent-barren guitarist.

First off we have the stylish Electo Harmonix POG. A sexy little silver number that promises to create more octaves through it’s sheer polyphonic generating ability than a predictable punchline at the end of a sentence. (I’m not sure what that means, I wrote some of this post really late at night). That’s right. Look above, there’s a picture. I haven’t really got to grips with this so far to be honest. There’s a fine line between crystal clear chimes and oninous bass heavy octaves to stepping firmly into the I-sound-someone’s-leaning-on-a-cheap-Casio-by-accident area, so I need a bit of time tweaking it.

Second on tonight’s gearograpahy rundown is my new, swanky pedal board. Unlike this beast here, it’s made by Diago (possibly the best manufacturers of guitar accessories ever) and is a called a ‘Showman’. It’s great. Really well made, light, robust, all of that… except it’s well heavy when full. Carrtable but heavy. Majorly heavy. But brilliant. And heavy. Did I mention it was heavy? Although it’s the lightest board I’m going to get for it’s quality and it’s only my lack of car and huge pedals (look at that Russian Big Muff, it’s 99% lead) that’s the issue, not the equipment. And it’s still 4000 times lighter than my Fender twin. Still, definately investing in one of these in the near future.