Tag Archives: Beyonce

How the Daddy Long-Legs Will Save Scotland After the Referendum…

Today the Scottish people will go the polling stations but, whatever they choose, and whatever the outcome when the votes are counted, the undeniable fact is that, come tomorrow, there will be 2.5 million pissed off Scottish people. The vote is split 50/50; there is no happy ending to be had. One side winning will not end the debate, so while I, an Englishman, do not have a real solid opinion on Scottish independence (on the one hand, fuck Westminster, fuck Cameron and fuck Empire. On the other hand, the pound? The NHS? The deficit?), I would like to suggest a solution the problem that will definitely arise in a few days’ time; how do we reunite the now rivalling people of Scotland?

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Free Irn-Bru?

Last night, when I should have been kept awake by the possibility that the UK may soon be headless and how that excites/upsets me (still undecided remember?), I was kept awake by the fluttering of a daddy long legs fecklessly arsing about between my curtains, around my radiator and, inevitably, near my face. When the tiny insect approached me, I did what any rational person would do; I calmly batted it away… Did I say ‘calmly batted it away’? Sorry, that was a typo. What I meant to write was that I completely lost my fucking shit and exploded into a murderous and terrified rage with my unfinished paperback copy of ‘The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn’ as a weapon. And when I eventually smashed the bastard against the wall, seething with hatred, I surprised myself with the fact that I hit him a few more times, for good measure.

I didn’t realise I was capable of such anger, but it occurred to me that, for some reason, we all hate daddy-long legs. It’s not simply the act of intrusion; if a baby-penguin, a kitty, or Beyonce Knowles were to have wandered into my room, I probably wouldn’t have beat them to death with a classic American novel.

I’d like to beat her to death with a classic American novel – if you know what I mean? Oh, you don’t know what I mean. Neither do I.

There is something ‘other’ about the daddy-long legs which we don’t like and it probably explains, in some small way, how and why people are racist. When something, or someone, is that different from you, you don’t like it. Baby penguins are much more similar to baby humans than baby daddy long legs. Penguins have two arms and two legs and can dance and can be voiced by Robin Williams and… Actually, I think that was a film.

Pictured: The Punchline.

Pictured: The Punchline.

The point is that all humans dislike daddy-long legs (which is literally racist seeing as they are a race in the genuine sense of the word; all humans, remember, are part of the human race) for no real reason. We even use racial slurs, as they are not ‘daddy long-legs’ they are actually several different types of fly and or spider which we have lazily generalised about in the way racists tend to lazily generalise.

Scottish people, last time I checked, are all human. Regardless of what side of the independence debate they are on, they are all human. And nothing bonds humans like a common enemy. Gordon Brown, in his ‘No Thanks’ campaigning, made a somewhat over-the-top call to arms for British identity (both camps, for the record, are fiercely and annoyingly nationalist in their own ridiculous way), and in doing so he mentioned the graves where soldiers lie, not as English, Scottish, Welsh or Irish, but as British. Ignoring the fact that this morbid guilt-trip tactic somewhat ignores the fact that many Irish people have some pretty strong things to say about fighting in British wars, and that using war to stoke up nationalist pride stinks a little of the ‘old lie’ (‘dulce et decorum est pro patria mori’), it is very clever. Because, like I said, nothing unites a group of people like a common enemy.

Taking Ireland as an example, seeing as we were just talking about them, their identity is largely forged by a common agreement that they are not British. The United States identity was also largely forged by a common agreement that they were not British. And so, whatever the outcome of the vote, Scottish people need to be united by their common enemy and, as humans, their enemy is the daddy-long legs.

Tomorrow, Scotland may be divided among itself but, whatever the result, they need to remember that they are all still Scottish, they are all still human, and they all fucking hate six-legged arachnids flying into their rooms in the middle of the night.

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‘Easier for God to Micro Manage’: Thoughts on More Eye Surgery, not Going to Vietnam and Temporary Insomnia

I’ve woken up at 4am after a shaky four hours’ sleep. I’m wearing the same shirt I wore on a Saturday night out in Clapham; it is now Tuesday and the blessed thing still smells of wine, sweat and takeaway pizza. I found it in a pile with all my other clothes which now means, clean or otherwise, the shirt’s unique aroma has now bled into all of my outfit choices. Wearing it is a statement: today I will smell.

BODY-INSPECDTOR

Wearing this is a statement too. It says, ‘I’m a prick’.

It is not the best way to start any morning but, of course, it’s not the worst either. Realising that is called perspective, and perspective brings me neatly to my topic: vision.

I am not talking about vision in the metaphorical sense; (metaphorical vision is much like perspective which is something I will mention again later) I am talking about my literal vision. About three weeks’ ago I had surgery on my detached retina. The surgery has not worked and the doctors are now considering giving me another, more serious, operation that I could take six months to recover from. I had planned on travelling to Vietnam with my girlfriend, but I also plan on not going blind and so recovery takes priority.

Hence we go from vision back to perspective, from literal vision to metaphorical vision, from motif to theme. Recovery from the last surgery meant cancelling a trip to Zante with three close friends and the possibility of this surgery has meant cancelling a trip to Vietnam. I say trip. My girlfriend and I planned to move there, work in hostels and generally live a bohemian, new-aged lifestyle for the foreseeable (no pun intended) future. Perhaps we are being punished for our idea’s lack of originality. God felt that there were too many twenty-somethings out there, swanning around the Amazon, growing beards, not showering and generally just being a nuisance. I’m not sure if I believe that God exists. However, if she did, I should imagine that it would be an awful lot easier to micro-manage people if they stopped fucking off to different countries and riding around in rickshaws. Or if they just stopped being busy in general.

'Could you all just stay fucking still?'

‘Could you all just stay fucking still?’

What does all of this have to do with perspective? Even though both cancellations have been made at a fairly large expense to my wallet, I do not care. I mean, I do care, of course I do, but not all that much. This is not because I am some kind of laissez-faire, hard-ass who is willing to let the chips simply fall where they may. It is because the money is not what worries me. When I tell people about my detached retina, and the inconvenience it has caused, I usually talk about money because people can empathise with that. People understand losing money and, generally, it is a fairly light conversation. However my real worries, the two that have lead me to wake up at 4am, are that I my eye is fucked and that I now have no idea what I want to do with my life.

Having no idea what you want to do with your life is sometimes described as the quarter-life crisis. It is when people in their twenties realise that they are no-longer the all-knowing lords of the universe that they were when they were apathetic, not-giving-a-fuck, responsibility-less teenagers. Instead, they now have to put a modicum of thought into the shape of their future. I say ‘they’ – I am 23 years old myself. Though I suppose the reason I say ‘they’ is because the whole notion of a quarter-life crisis is the most ridiculous fucking thing I have ever heard of… Of course that doesn’t stop it from being the very thing that is currently giving me temporary insomnia.

Fuck you clock.

Fuck you clock.

That I have no idea what I want to do with my life makes me no different from pretty much every other person on the planet. That my eye is completely fucked makes me wonderfully unique in a way that I would rather not be. The former is a vague worry, an uneasiness in the stomach, that all people feel as they scroll down their Facebook feed and spend their lunch breaks comparing their lives with someone else’s. The latter is an actual situation that I actually have to do something about. Namely, I have to recover.

But there’s a kind of cycle created here; recovery is boring because it means resting. It means relaxing. It means not doing things. And not doing things is exactly what causes 20-somethings like myself to panic about the monotony of their unlived lives. On other hand, if I did do things, exciting things that stopped me from worrying about my position in the world and caused me to fall in love with life again, then I stunt my recovery and make my eye worse. I have two problems; the cure to either would make the other worse. My solution to this paradox has been to live vicariously.

Headshot

Rich Tosser: using complicated adverbs since 2014.

Because I had planned this trip with my girlfriend and, quite frankly, there is no reason why she shouldn’t still go. When she first heard the news, she acted selflessly and immediately said that she would stay in Bristol with me. But that would just mean that there would be two people stuck living back with their parents (having just quit their respective jobs and cancelled their respective contracts on their flats) rather than one. I have to move back in with Mum and Dad; I left my job to go travelling and now I can’t get a new one because I can’t work. But Helen does not. If she goes, she will be happy, much happier than she would have been if she was jobless, flatless and stuck in a maybe-we’ll-go-to-Vietnam-when-my-eye-gets-better induced limbo. If she is happy, then I am happy too. Not as happy as I would be had I been able to go myself. But like I keep saying, this is about perspective, which means compromising, making the best out of bad situation and realising how shit things could have been.

As for vision, so long as I have enough eyesight to see pictures of her happy, the screen of my Gameboy and the lager in front of my hand (because no-one likes pouring lager on their face), then perhaps recovery won’t be so bad after all. At the very least, I’ll be much easier for God to micro-manage.

...Well what do you think God looks like?

Side note: Beyonce is God.