The Blu In You
Fuck………OFF.
April 13, 2010
Ben
The Blank Generation
There was a period at some point on Saturday night where I stare out in front of me and couldn’t see anything. Not the people around me, not the busy pub surrounding I was slap bang in the middle of, not even two of my very best friends who had especially come up to see me this past weekend. Nothing.
Just a blur.
This wasn’t an issue with vision, beyond my own typical narrow minded bleakness of the sort that prevents me writing for lengthy periods of time due to sheer unwelcome self-loathing. This was my old friend, manic depression, making its self all too present and known – not just to me, but no doubt anybody around me who saw my suddenly no doubt sunken, haunted miserable fissog.
The day itself had started well – a glorious sunny day, my tidying all done by 11am, Liza Tarbuck and Adam Buxton entertaining me on Radio 2, my friends were en route and I even had a new Cookie Monster T-shirt to wear. And when people arrived, it was a lot of fun – banter, beer and burgers – the sort of thing people like me are easily sated by.
Some could blame the alcohol in question as an expedient on my depression and they may have a point although the blank, blind moment which opened this piece of self-aggrandizing prose misery came in a period I had given up on drinking in lieu of pop due to a rather sudden, pounding headache for which seemingly not one of the fifty or so human beings within the same space as me had any Paracetamol which they could lend.
The headaches have been more frequent this year. I’m led to believe it’s a side effect from thinking too much but you don’t have to be Dr Richard Donkey (from Shrek 2) to know this is a load of rubbish. Regardless, when I think of the medication I take for my depression, it’s always in terms of slowing down the endless thoughts that endlessly flitter through my brain rather than perking my mood up any.
There was a period between 2006 and 2007 where I wrote a lot of material. Several radio series, a blog, an aborted novel, sketches for other people’s radio programmes. Being a professional mental self-harmer, I don’t think that much to a deal of this work but none the less it seems to be a body of work that has defined who I am as a writer. My personal John Barrowman-obsessed The Catcher In The Rye by definition if not quality.
Ever since then, I seem to have been endlessly trying to catch up – or more specifically, bother myself to be interested enough in making more of it. Its why this blog died, why my most recent podcast series collapsed after three episodes and the real reason I didn’t bother contributing to the open door BBC7 show pretty much begging for the sort of jokes I was writing.
And this failure just produces more stress which in turn loops me back to the beginning for an endless spiral of nothingness which is occasionally redirected into useless blog posts like this one, which 95% of the 30 or so readers will have already given up on before they made as far as the Dr Richard Donkey line. The added fact that the man I would bounce my ideas off with wont even even answer an email from me now is just icing on an already ruined cake.
I panic even more that the high level of material I wrote was for the majority before I started getting treatment for the depression, which makes me think I should give up on it. I’m still depressed so why not just surf it on the off-chance I write something possibly useful? After all, I tell anyone asks that I’m a “writer”, not a “mentally ill unemployed bum”. Or better still, “suicidal wreck”.
I’ve worked how I’ll do it though. Rope from the banister. I figure the wood’s bad enough that if I change my mind midway, I can probably just break it off. I think about all the books and DVDs I bought that I’ve not got round to yet. Are they worth the wait? Will my life be saved by “The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo”? Or finally bothering to watch Sam Raimi’s “Crimewave”?
I hate that feel so bloody lonely surrounded by people I know. Together alone. If anything, this weekend has reminded me with painful clarity how little I enjoy being on my own. I don’t like the company, for one.
This is what goes on my head when you see me staring into space.
The blur. The blur is everything.
And it’s killing me.
The Saucy Teen Revelations Of The Happiness Patrol
Its Happiness Patrol time again – a 30 minute mix of upbeat, happy nonsense that you may or may not have heard before. Thanks to everyone (and I mean ‘one’ – Christopher Bate, a gentleman as always) who gave feedback on the last one. Its been a lot of fun finding the tracks to put in. So download, play tonight before you go out – or maybe Monday on the gruelling trek to work – or Christmas Day as the kids open their meat hampers – and (hopefully) enjoy.
Tracklist as before in the comments box.
Download It Here
Spitting (Pig) Image
Things you don’t expect to see at the bottom of your road #813: A Hog Roast Machine
Apparently the pub just round the corner did a special hog roast raising money for Sport Relief on Saturday. Quite how eating mass amounts of roasted hog flesh is promoting the healthy values of the BBC’s third most boring extended telethon is beyond me but hey, at least its not fucking karaoke. Again…
Fantastic Visage
Picked up a copy of Stuart Maconie‘s “Adventures On The High Teas” today in ASDA for a rather oddly-priced £3.86 (Or 2 for £7 but the rest was dreary romantic fiction or stomach-churning grisly murders, both real and fictional. Oh and of course “Tragic Life Stories” such as “It Doesn’t Go In There Daddy”, “When Tickle Fights Go Wrong” and “We Need To Talk About Fingering”…) but was extremely bemused by the additional sticker added to the front cover…of Maconie‘s face.
~
“Hmm, its alright I suppose but what could we give it to push it just that little bit further?”
“How about a big not especially flattering photograph of Maconie’s face?”
“Brilliant! And put it over the quote too so no-one knows what he’s as wise as!”
“Is it Hitler, sir?”
“We’ll never know, underling. We’ll never know…”
~
Although for those interested, its actually “as wise as Sara Crowe”. Thanks..
The Return Of The Son Of The Monster Of The Ghost Of The Happiness Patrol
For those three and a half people concerned, I probably wont be doing any further Saturday Six compilations. It was supposed to be an easy posting for the weekend but I felt I needed to do each track justice with a good write-up – and I am rotten at reviewing things, especially things I like. What I have done though to fill the Ben pop gap in your souls is revived my old mix compilation “brand” The Happiness Patrol, which attempts to bring cheer for the week ahead with upbeat tunes you may or may not have heard of.
The very first of this new run is available right now!
Download It Here
(Tracklist in the comments box to try and reduce on spamming idiots. Feedback very welcome.)
Lowlife In A Northern Town
It would be fair to say that the town I live in is not the best. Well, actually that’s not fair as reworking the premise I could say that in fact my town *IS* the best…for junkie scumbags, rundown businesses and a spewing, punching nightlife bordering on endless self-parody.
Yesterday I was walking into town with my mum when we were approached by a balding bloke with a Staffordshire Bull Terrier, probably thirty or so and looking distressed. I knew exactly what was coming next having been pan-handled so many times before by similar losers, but there was something different in this encounter.
“’Scuse me mate can you –”, was as far as he got before my mum said “Sorry, Ive no money spare”. Clearly the man was prepared for this, looking more and more pained and on the verge of tears “Please. I’ve got a colostomy bag and bowel cancer and I need to get home”. Before either of us could say anything pulled up his shirt to reveal a fucking horrific gaping wound.
It’s a sight that will not leave me for some time, if at all and I was overcome with anger, pity and sheer resentment that this man would force his situation on complete strangers for effect, not least of all because my Grandad died of something very similar in 2001 which broke my heart.
Despite it all I managed to keep a calm head and merely said “Police station’s down that way, they’ll help you out”. It was at this point the tone significantly changed. “Huh, Police wont do fuck all for me”, he shouted. “What? And I will?”, I offered as rejoinder whilst already moving away from him to join my mum who sensibly begun to walk ahead.
“Oh fuck off then” he said as he stormed off – ironically, towards the police station, although I suspect that’s the last place he’d be interested in visiting. Naturally being an easily-miserable jerk, I felt, along with the anger, some sort of guilt for not helping my fellow man but it’s happened all too often before. And you don’t get to be the best without practice, do you?
Now all rise for our National colours…
Theme From Failure
Incidentally, you may notice I keep fannying around with the general look of this blog – mostly because it seems damn near impossible to find something decent and then tweak it without being advised to pay for a CSS Editing douffer. Pff, if I wanted to be bewildered by technology, I’d watch Max Headroom. All the same, anyone know any good themes (preferably not in the vein of “I Could Be So Could For You” or “I Got Me A Shoes (Love Theme From Porkpie)”, please), styles or tips for doing nice things with piss-poor blogs?
Taub be thankful.
Never Forget
The mini pin-board I keep in the living room to make sure I can track all my highly important sexual appointments and state dinners. Yeah. Look impressed…
