14 August 2008

Restaurant in a West End town, Call the police, there's a madman around...Running down underground to a dive bar, In a West End town...

I learned a couple of important lessons this past week: 1) trust what you feel (or don't feel, as the case may be). We don't have to justify what we feel in our hearts, we don't have to conform to an ideal, what's in our hearts belongs to us. And 2) having Olympic fever in this country really sucks cos England are only any good at the posh sports so every time you switch on the tele all you see is badminton and sailing and equestrian. Although I did manage to catch a few rotations of the women's gymnastics (pwoawesome!) which, as a 16 year old dude, was an erotic wonderland. As a 37 year old dude watching 16 year old nymphettes caper about just makes me feel tired.

I went to a Tiki bar in Kennington with Dr Phil and Yosemite Laurie and the rest of the gang last Friday night which was a real hoot. Plenty of fab cocktails and swinging lounge music from the 50's and 60's, and GASP! even dancing, albeit in a parodic and self-effacing way...plus I was drunk.
There's even photos on Facebook, eekk! Saturday was spent in hangover recovery mode and Sunday I rode up to Epping Forest again to explore some more of the trails that the local mountain bike club maintain. There's some some super curvy downhill runs and the rain the previous day made things nice and slippery and icky.

I went to the moofies on Sunday night to see Elite Squad about the police special forces unit, BOPE in Rio. It was surprisingly good, very gritty and tense and a real eye-opener in to the rampant crime and corruption in Brazil as a result of the drug trade, and the ever-present violence it begets. It was interesting to compare it to the Hollywood abortion Wanted as both were hyper-violent but whereas the Americans glamorise violence, Elite Squad focuses on the consequences of violence and the pain that filters through to affect so many lives. Suffice it to say, I've no plans to holiday in Rio any time soon. I'm not suggesting it's a violent place but let's just say there's a good reason the cops all have their blood type sewn into their name tags.

I'm often accused of being immature, to which my standard response is, "Your FACE is immature!". Why does the word 'immature' have to have negative connotations? The inference being that you're acting like a child. I think it's an admirable quality, quite frankly, and would most likely consider it a compliment if I didn't know the patronising pusillanimous prick making the accusation was trying to insult me. Maturity is subjective: it can only be measured on someone else's scale, and if you don't like/care about that person then why care what they think of you? Whom of us is in any position to judge another? There's a huge difference between being immature and being irresponsible...saying, "I don't care what you think" is very different from "I don't give a fuck." Not that I necessarily care what anyone else thinks, but I freely admit to being immature...I like being immature. If more people stopped worrying about conforming to norms of behaviour they don't understand and just gave in to impulsiveness occasionally the world would be a much more relaxed and fun place in which to live.

Maturity isn't what differentiates children from grown-ups; what differentiates them is regret. Grown-ups, responsible grown-ups, play both sides of the responsibility see-saw - cause and effect, action and reaction, you reap what you sow, and all that. Accepting responsibility for your actions means accepting responsibility for the consequences those actions might cause. We can't always make the right decision...I don't even think there is such as thing as THE right decision...we just do the best we can with what we've got at the time, and always atone for your mistakes. Pride can be a seductive whisper in the ear of your Ego. Despite what people say, sometimes it can be too late to say "I'm sorry", but some of us just have to live with that.

I've stumbled upon something big...something so big it will change everything you thought you ever knew about men and women. Us men today have not been around very long; we are not the men who evolved from our cro magnon ancestors, we're like men v2.0. Many years ago women discovered that they didn't need men to reproduce so they killed all the men and only kept stores of jizz for making more girls. Things went pretty good for a while, everyone was nice to each other, the place was clean, everyone was making out with everyone else, it was hot! But then, women being women, they started turning on each other and getting bitchy cos they no longer had any men to whinge and nag at and they started killing each other off. This meant potential doom for womankind so they were forced to clone men but they made sure to modify us genetically just enough so that we would forever be under their control without even realising it. They control us with their mindgames and their perfumes and their vaginas, dudes! How's THAT for a conspiracy theory? Explains a lot, though. I reckon somewhere in the world, deep in a bunker, in the command centre of some secret chick cabal, on the desk of the top chick, a red warning light is going off...

I've got two weeks holiday starting later this week and was initially looking forward to some serious bludging and growing a sweet Porno Joe moe. But even I can't justify wasting that much time with idle slacking and self-abuse, so I'm making travel plans. First up I'm off to Dublin for a few days to catch up with some friends and replenish my Guinness levels. After that it's a weekend in Paris; I bought non-refundable train tickets for American Girlflen and I but obviously she's not going to want to come along now and it would be too much of a betrayal to take anyone else (Dr Phil had already booked a trip to Brussels, the selfish prick). So I figure I'll go le petits hobo and check it out by myself. I'm not sure Paris is the best place in the world to get over a breakup, but if nothing else I'll get to do my Edith Piaf impersonation in the one place in the world where someone might appreciate it. Plus I can hang out in the cafe where Hemingway and Jim Morrison used to get pissed and write their stuff.

In the new year I'm proposing a road trip of epic proportions. Brace yourself...Vegas. That's right, the city that, just like your mommas, is always open. Plus, Vegas is an anagram of 'vages'. Los Vages in Las Vegas '09. Who's with me, men?

1 comment:

virago princess said...

Dickhead...anyway if we cloned men they would all be slight variations on Colin Farrell.

Make sure you spit on some frenchies from the tower. Oh and I want cheesy postcard from every arty farty spot you visit.