Another Christmas has been and gone, as hectic and uneventful as all those which proceeded it, the distraction of planning where to go on New Years Eve has passed, (we went to Thekla, and a fun, if slightly messy time was had by all) and here we are again, edging slowly, gloomily, through January. In an attempt to explain the conundrum I refer to as ‘The January Blues’ I will relay to you a misery inspiring top five of the mirthless topics of conversation I have been dragged into so far this week.
1. The weather. Numerous accounts of what terrible, cold, grey weather we are having has passed between myself, people at work, people on the bus, people in the newsagents where I buy my cigarettes (another resolution broken already), in fact between myself and people anywhere that warrants small talk. We English really do need something new to discuss.
2. Ahem, the weather. Again. An extension of point one really. The discussion of the terrible weather inevitably leads on to the discussion of the lack of sunlight, of useable hours in the day, and to getting up in the dark, and returning home in the dark. This leads to the assertion that you, I and everyone I speak to suspects they may in fact have that January specific illness, Seasonal Affective Disorder, complete with glib acronym, SAD.
3. Money. The amount of debt everyone has accumulated over the merry Christmas present buying period, which at the time of accumulation presented the dream of happy smiling faces Christmas morning, but that now looks totally different in the grey light of January. ‘Its not as if Christmas was that special anyway’. Every year.
4. Sickness. Everyone has either a cold, or more often (at least as they tell it) flu. People are ill. People have no energy. If you aren’t ill yet, you’re paranoid that you may get ill. There is no time for illness in January. You need to work all the hours you can to pay off all that Christmas debt after all. This leads to you sitting on the jam- packed bus on the way to work, next to some bloke coughing his guts up, covering your mouth with your jumper sleeve and praying you don’t inhale any of his germs.
5. Vital Statistics. The other conversations I have been begrudgingly involved in are those ‘informative’ ones, where someone has picked up apparently factual statistics, collated by no-one knows who, worked out for who knows what reason, and obtained, no-one knows where. Statistics this week have included; ‘did you know today is statistically the most depressing day of the year?’ ‘Did you know that statistically the most suicides occur on this date every year?’ ‘Did you know that most couples break up on this date every year? Really. And all in January. It’s apparently a very unlucky month.
So why must we be so morose about life at the start of every New Year? We need to fight back, slap January around its miserable grey face and think of all the positive aspects that this time of year can offer us. Right, having wracked my brains for at least five minutes, here are some positive things about January…
1. January sales. Although it is disturbingly hectic in town, and I had to practically physically fight for it in Debenhams, I picked up a beautiful new coat for a tenner! Also, although you know you probably won’t even attempt all that health and fitness related stuff you resolved to do, you can always ease you conscience the easy way and buy vitamins, which are also half price.
2. A clean slate. January is the best excuse to forget/ignore all the stupid and shameful things you did in the previous year. That bumbling, far from eloquent mess you personified last year has no bearing on the ‘new’ you. You have turned over a new leaf, and you can declare it to people. They might even believe you. You may even believe yourself.
3. Laziness. There are undeniably far fewer daylight hours, and baby it’s cold outside. So stay in. You have to wear bulky clothes, so you may as well eat as much junk as you like; no one is going to know (until summer) and the darkness means you can have lovely long lye-ins without the sun interrupting your slumber in the morning. Animals stock up on food and hibernate in the winter, and if nature dictates it, who are we to argue? You’re not wasting the day, after all, its only five hours long.
4. Being Grumpy. Even saints get bloody grumpy for no discernable reason sometimes. Those days where you just want to moan, put the world to rights, be arsy to clients at work, tell salespeople what you really think of them, start an argument with someone for the hell of it. Well, January is the best excuse in the world. Blame it on SAD. It’s a real illness. People may even feel sorry for you if you’re lucky.
So if you think about it, maybe January isn’t all that bad after all. It just depends on how you look at it, and while I have been writing this it has actually started to snow! Given the fact that it has up until now been raining all day, it probably wont stick, but looking out of my window Bristol really does look very beautiful, and snow, no matter what your age never fails to cheer people up. There are in fact lots of faces doing exactly what I am and looking out of their windows at the weather, and I just got a nod of mutual snow appreciation from a very cute bloke in a suit from the office window opposite. Hmm, could be the start of some beautiful January romance, after all, he’s probably single, it was ‘officially’ break up day at some point last week…
Tuesday, 5 January 2010
Monday, 4 January 2010
Show Hippies
I moved into a shared house in Bristol, because basically, the room was really cheap. I knew one of the blokes who lived there, and liked him a lot. And it was in this shared house that I met him. That modern day wonder, the show hippie. Not that he wanted to be known as a hippie of course. Having made the mistake of branding him as such, I was quickly corrected;
‘I hate it when people call me a hippie. I’m not a hippie’.
‘So what are you then?’ I had to ask.
‘Well… not a hippie. I just believe in being self sufficient. I hate the system… people get so caught up in the money and the materialism. They need to get back to their roots, to creating things for themselves, to live free from the man, maan’.
And this is how he talked. Nice idea right. I’m not a massive supporter of capitalism or anything, but there is nothing worse than a show hippie.
I got home from work n a Wednesday, another uneventful, long day in another indistinguishable admin job, to find show hippie sitting on the sofa, joint smoking lazily away in the ashtray, Xbox controller in hand, staring fixedly at the screen.
‘Good day?’ I enquired as I took my shoes off and put my bag down.
‘Yeah man. You?’ He asked without looking up.
‘Same old, I’m knackered’ I replied. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’
After a long pause, ‘Yeah’, he said, still not looking away from the things he was killing on screen.
So off I trundled, downstairs to put the kettle on. It took me ten minutes to locate the kettle and two mugs, and to rinse them in the small space between the pile of festering plates in the sink and the faucet, so feeling pretty pissed off, but not in the mood for a moan (I’m no one’s mum after all) I took the tea upstairs, got out a cigarette and sat down. But fragile peace was ruined as I took the first drag by the following comment;
‘It must get you down, yeah? Working for the man’?’
Fuck. Here we go again I thought. ‘The man’ The bloody man. I really was in no mood to get into this conversation, so I didn’t respond. Until came the next show hippie pearl of wisdom;
‘I couldn’t do it’.
Right, that was it. I was actively pissed off now.
‘So what have you done today?’ I asked. Intonation intended, but sadly overlooked.
‘Well, (big toke from his joint) I’ve been making these patchwork trousers’.
Right.
‘And I planted some more tomatoes’.
But no time to do any washing up. I thought silently to myself, and opted for the much less stressful option of not entering into any debate.
‘Cool’. I said, and left the room.
Thursday, I get home, and there he is, sitting on the sofa in his patchwork trousers. Attention glued to the Xbox again. Only today, I had a glass of wine after work, and when I got in I had poured myself another. In a paper cup left over from one of their house parties, because I really couldn’t face the kitchen.
‘Another day working for the man.’ He said.
And after another dope filled pause;
‘I couldn’t do it’.
Well, that was it. Today I had to get involved. Where does this lazy tosser get off (I thought) judging me whilst sitting on his arse, in his bloody patchwork creations playing Halo all day. Given all the weed he smokes, I’m amazed he can manage to be judgmental and shoot aliens at the same time!
‘So what would you like to do?’ I ask.
‘Well, (another big toke) I’ve never really found a job that suited me’.
‘What job do you think would suit you?’
‘One that helps sustain the planet. Where I’m not part of the system’. I just know I couldn’t work for the man’.
Argh! The man again.
‘So what would you do to sustain the planet?’ I ask, genuinely interested in what answer this lazy bum is going to come up with the save the world.
‘I don’t know. I grow things and I paint. I did a degree in art, but I got a 3rd because they didn’t understand my work.’
Tempted as I was, I managed to restrain myself from pointing out that you had to do a fair bit of work for an art degree, and that, rather than misunderstood genius, was much more likely to have been the key to his downfall.
Anyway, he continued, ‘I work at the health food shop on a Saturday, but I can’t do anymore hours because if I do, I don’t qualify for jobseekers anymore, and then they wont pay the rent and I haven’t found anywhere else to live yet’.
What? What? Jobseekers? What happened to hating the system? This little shit is getting his rent and his dope paid for, and I’m living in a cheap room and working in a job I hate so I can pay mine? So maybe he has a point. I’m starting to hate the man too. I put this point to him. And he says it’s a means to an end. What he would like to do is be self sufficient. Build his own home, grow his own veg, be one with the earth. Like an episode of the good life but out in the sticks, with felicity Kendal in dreadlocks and patchwork trousers, and really high on weed.
‘So why,’ I ask, ‘do you not follow this dream?’ ‘Why not move to the country and live out this master plan instead of signing on every week, playing computer games and growing the odd tomato plant in the centre of Bristol?’
And the following comment put an abrupt end to the conversation.
‘Because I like the music and drugs scene here, it’s more fun than the country’.
I got up and left, and calling behind me, show hippie shouts;
‘Any of that wine left?’
Buy your fucking own I think. But the little bugger has it right in some ways.
Yes, his morals are nonsensical and really he lacks the conviction and motivation to follow any of them through. Yes, he is in his late twenties, perfectly capable of finding a job, but opting to spend his days sitting on his lazy disillusioned ass anyway. But, he does have enough conviction to at least attempt to expound some morals. He also is perfectly right to condemn the system and damn the man.
However, what he has that I lack is the tenacity to ignore any social judgement and use the system to get his rent and living costs paid, to value himself, without any proof, as being above all the jobs that the rest of us take to get by. I know it’s a recession and jobs are bloody hard to come by, but while we’re all trying, some of these show hippies are apparently doing better than we are, without the feeling of hopelessness, tiredness and pessimism. And the cheeky little gits are judging us as lacking in moral fibre whilst doing it. Maybe I should just pack it all in, get down the social and take up patchwork.
‘I hate it when people call me a hippie. I’m not a hippie’.
‘So what are you then?’ I had to ask.
‘Well… not a hippie. I just believe in being self sufficient. I hate the system… people get so caught up in the money and the materialism. They need to get back to their roots, to creating things for themselves, to live free from the man, maan’.
And this is how he talked. Nice idea right. I’m not a massive supporter of capitalism or anything, but there is nothing worse than a show hippie.
I got home from work n a Wednesday, another uneventful, long day in another indistinguishable admin job, to find show hippie sitting on the sofa, joint smoking lazily away in the ashtray, Xbox controller in hand, staring fixedly at the screen.
‘Good day?’ I enquired as I took my shoes off and put my bag down.
‘Yeah man. You?’ He asked without looking up.
‘Same old, I’m knackered’ I replied. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’
After a long pause, ‘Yeah’, he said, still not looking away from the things he was killing on screen.
So off I trundled, downstairs to put the kettle on. It took me ten minutes to locate the kettle and two mugs, and to rinse them in the small space between the pile of festering plates in the sink and the faucet, so feeling pretty pissed off, but not in the mood for a moan (I’m no one’s mum after all) I took the tea upstairs, got out a cigarette and sat down. But fragile peace was ruined as I took the first drag by the following comment;
‘It must get you down, yeah? Working for the man’?’
Fuck. Here we go again I thought. ‘The man’ The bloody man. I really was in no mood to get into this conversation, so I didn’t respond. Until came the next show hippie pearl of wisdom;
‘I couldn’t do it’.
Right, that was it. I was actively pissed off now.
‘So what have you done today?’ I asked. Intonation intended, but sadly overlooked.
‘Well, (big toke from his joint) I’ve been making these patchwork trousers’.
Right.
‘And I planted some more tomatoes’.
But no time to do any washing up. I thought silently to myself, and opted for the much less stressful option of not entering into any debate.
‘Cool’. I said, and left the room.
Thursday, I get home, and there he is, sitting on the sofa in his patchwork trousers. Attention glued to the Xbox again. Only today, I had a glass of wine after work, and when I got in I had poured myself another. In a paper cup left over from one of their house parties, because I really couldn’t face the kitchen.
‘Another day working for the man.’ He said.
And after another dope filled pause;
‘I couldn’t do it’.
Well, that was it. Today I had to get involved. Where does this lazy tosser get off (I thought) judging me whilst sitting on his arse, in his bloody patchwork creations playing Halo all day. Given all the weed he smokes, I’m amazed he can manage to be judgmental and shoot aliens at the same time!
‘So what would you like to do?’ I ask.
‘Well, (another big toke) I’ve never really found a job that suited me’.
‘What job do you think would suit you?’
‘One that helps sustain the planet. Where I’m not part of the system’. I just know I couldn’t work for the man’.
Argh! The man again.
‘So what would you do to sustain the planet?’ I ask, genuinely interested in what answer this lazy bum is going to come up with the save the world.
‘I don’t know. I grow things and I paint. I did a degree in art, but I got a 3rd because they didn’t understand my work.’
Tempted as I was, I managed to restrain myself from pointing out that you had to do a fair bit of work for an art degree, and that, rather than misunderstood genius, was much more likely to have been the key to his downfall.
Anyway, he continued, ‘I work at the health food shop on a Saturday, but I can’t do anymore hours because if I do, I don’t qualify for jobseekers anymore, and then they wont pay the rent and I haven’t found anywhere else to live yet’.
What? What? Jobseekers? What happened to hating the system? This little shit is getting his rent and his dope paid for, and I’m living in a cheap room and working in a job I hate so I can pay mine? So maybe he has a point. I’m starting to hate the man too. I put this point to him. And he says it’s a means to an end. What he would like to do is be self sufficient. Build his own home, grow his own veg, be one with the earth. Like an episode of the good life but out in the sticks, with felicity Kendal in dreadlocks and patchwork trousers, and really high on weed.
‘So why,’ I ask, ‘do you not follow this dream?’ ‘Why not move to the country and live out this master plan instead of signing on every week, playing computer games and growing the odd tomato plant in the centre of Bristol?’
And the following comment put an abrupt end to the conversation.
‘Because I like the music and drugs scene here, it’s more fun than the country’.
I got up and left, and calling behind me, show hippie shouts;
‘Any of that wine left?’
Buy your fucking own I think. But the little bugger has it right in some ways.
Yes, his morals are nonsensical and really he lacks the conviction and motivation to follow any of them through. Yes, he is in his late twenties, perfectly capable of finding a job, but opting to spend his days sitting on his lazy disillusioned ass anyway. But, he does have enough conviction to at least attempt to expound some morals. He also is perfectly right to condemn the system and damn the man.
However, what he has that I lack is the tenacity to ignore any social judgement and use the system to get his rent and living costs paid, to value himself, without any proof, as being above all the jobs that the rest of us take to get by. I know it’s a recession and jobs are bloody hard to come by, but while we’re all trying, some of these show hippies are apparently doing better than we are, without the feeling of hopelessness, tiredness and pessimism. And the cheeky little gits are judging us as lacking in moral fibre whilst doing it. Maybe I should just pack it all in, get down the social and take up patchwork.
Monday, 7 December 2009
It's Chriiiistmas!
It’s Chriiistmas!
Well, I know there are many irritating things about Christmas… the expense, the cold, the god awful Christmas songs which play in every shop you enter from mid October onward, the bustling with millions of other shoppers begrudgingly buying stuff for people with the knowledge that not only would you rather spend the money on yourself, but whatever you’re purchasing will be half price in the sales in a week anyway. Aside from that, there’s the decorating, the enforced cheer, without which you are immediately accused of being a scrooge, the drunken shame following office Christmas parties, the social minefield of phrasing countless Christmas cards to people you don’t know (and often don’t like) in an acceptable manner, the prospect of spending an entire two or three days with your while family and trying to look happy about it, the cooking, the washing up after the cooking, the guilt at having out on half a stone after too many mince pies and Baileys, the guilt over the knowledge that you’ll swear to go to the gym in January to work it off, but will do no such thing, the guilt over the fact that you shouldn’t be feeling any of the above… the list goes on. However, I’m going to look to the positive. Play devils advocate, be the perpetrator of all things ‘in the spirit’- bearer of glad tidings and all that. Get ready people. Spirituality, economic sense and cynicism aside, here are all the things that are great about Christmas!
1. Acting like a child.
It is very rare in adult life that you get the opportunity to leap about, get openly excited without the fear that whatever it is you’re exited about (I’m thinking all the usual suspects here: promotions, bonuses, first dates going well, etc.) is not going to come about. Christmas, whether you like it or not, comes every year, so you may as well get into it. After all, your partner may buy you what you actually wanted this year, rather than a scarf/a blender/some socks.
2. Getting in the festive spirit.
And by festive spirit, I mean gin, rum, vodka, whisky… basically, whatever you fancy. Mulled wine is my particular favourite Christmas perk. But the festive spirit means you can drink too much, too often, and at a push, at whatever time of day you like. Wine at lunch? Champagne breakfast (on the day of course)? Mulled cider on your way home? Baileys in front of the telly when you get home? Port with some tasty cheese? Ah, go on, get in the festive spirit.
3. Getting away with stuff.
By this I mean playing the festive guilt card to get other people to do things for you. ‘Can I leave early today?’ ‘Shall we get dessert?’ ‘Can I borrow a tenner?’ All of these things can be agreed to, simply by adding the suffix ‘come on, it’s Christmas’. Thereby, even if whoever you are speaking to doesn’t really want to agree to whatever you’ve proposed, they know they will look like a miserly sod if they do not comply. Ha. Gotcha.
4. Twinkly lights.
Now, even if you hate Christmas, you have to admit, December is bloody miserable. You get up in the dark, you come home in the dark, it’s cold and it rains every other day. You have to arrive in work wearing twenty three layers of clothing, and race to get them off once you get into the heated office before you sweat like a pig and smell awful for the rest of the day. The world is either grey or black. Lots of people suffer from seasonal affective disorder in the winter months, and just think how much worse it would be without Christmas lights! There’s nothing nicer than getting home into the warm, and putting the tree lights on while you watch telly. It’s like a big Christmas hug. The wet freezing streets in town look much less ominous when the overhead twinklies are reflected in the rainy tarmac and you can’t see the drab December sky because of the multicoloured, star and snowflake shaped loveliness above your head. I know they’re tacky and they’re no good for the old carbon footprint, but the alternative, i.e. plan old gloomy December, is much worse.
5. Old friends.
Now this is closely linked with points one and two. Never is there a time of year when more old friends are in the same place at any one time. They all head homeward, they’re all happy to be off work. And the lot of you are more than ready to get into the festive spirit(s). And you’re all in the frame of mind that it’s perfectly acceptable act like children. At no other time of year can you meet old friends without a slight nervousness - what should you say? Are their lives going better than yours? Do you have the same things in common as you used to? Will there be awkward pauses in conversation? Should you meet for a nice lunch somewhere? Etc etc. However, at Christmas those concerns are put on the backburner. The whole mad bunch of you can meet in whatever dive of a pub you used frequent in your youth. You’re all in the mood to act like irresponsible kids, and by the second mulled wine, you’re all wrapped in tinsel, and the awkward conversational pauses were a hazy forethought. Just for one evening, it’s like you’re kids again, and everyone is simply happy to see everyone else. To be drunk and silly, to gossip and dance like twats, to forget all the money you’ve spent, the jobs you have, the worries at home, and to relive your teens. The fun, not the angst-ridden parts that is.
So there, you Christmas doubters, you scrooges and humbugs. Ignore the lack of cash, the fact that it’s often more capitalism than Christ nowadays. Yes you’ll be fat and poor and the twinkly lights will be gone come January, but sod all that, there’s lots of fun to be had in the mean time. It’s only two weeks away now… quick! Get in the festive spirit! And shout along with good old Noddy Holder! It’s Chriiistmas!
Well, I know there are many irritating things about Christmas… the expense, the cold, the god awful Christmas songs which play in every shop you enter from mid October onward, the bustling with millions of other shoppers begrudgingly buying stuff for people with the knowledge that not only would you rather spend the money on yourself, but whatever you’re purchasing will be half price in the sales in a week anyway. Aside from that, there’s the decorating, the enforced cheer, without which you are immediately accused of being a scrooge, the drunken shame following office Christmas parties, the social minefield of phrasing countless Christmas cards to people you don’t know (and often don’t like) in an acceptable manner, the prospect of spending an entire two or three days with your while family and trying to look happy about it, the cooking, the washing up after the cooking, the guilt at having out on half a stone after too many mince pies and Baileys, the guilt over the knowledge that you’ll swear to go to the gym in January to work it off, but will do no such thing, the guilt over the fact that you shouldn’t be feeling any of the above… the list goes on. However, I’m going to look to the positive. Play devils advocate, be the perpetrator of all things ‘in the spirit’- bearer of glad tidings and all that. Get ready people. Spirituality, economic sense and cynicism aside, here are all the things that are great about Christmas!
1. Acting like a child.
It is very rare in adult life that you get the opportunity to leap about, get openly excited without the fear that whatever it is you’re exited about (I’m thinking all the usual suspects here: promotions, bonuses, first dates going well, etc.) is not going to come about. Christmas, whether you like it or not, comes every year, so you may as well get into it. After all, your partner may buy you what you actually wanted this year, rather than a scarf/a blender/some socks.
2. Getting in the festive spirit.
And by festive spirit, I mean gin, rum, vodka, whisky… basically, whatever you fancy. Mulled wine is my particular favourite Christmas perk. But the festive spirit means you can drink too much, too often, and at a push, at whatever time of day you like. Wine at lunch? Champagne breakfast (on the day of course)? Mulled cider on your way home? Baileys in front of the telly when you get home? Port with some tasty cheese? Ah, go on, get in the festive spirit.
3. Getting away with stuff.
By this I mean playing the festive guilt card to get other people to do things for you. ‘Can I leave early today?’ ‘Shall we get dessert?’ ‘Can I borrow a tenner?’ All of these things can be agreed to, simply by adding the suffix ‘come on, it’s Christmas’. Thereby, even if whoever you are speaking to doesn’t really want to agree to whatever you’ve proposed, they know they will look like a miserly sod if they do not comply. Ha. Gotcha.
4. Twinkly lights.
Now, even if you hate Christmas, you have to admit, December is bloody miserable. You get up in the dark, you come home in the dark, it’s cold and it rains every other day. You have to arrive in work wearing twenty three layers of clothing, and race to get them off once you get into the heated office before you sweat like a pig and smell awful for the rest of the day. The world is either grey or black. Lots of people suffer from seasonal affective disorder in the winter months, and just think how much worse it would be without Christmas lights! There’s nothing nicer than getting home into the warm, and putting the tree lights on while you watch telly. It’s like a big Christmas hug. The wet freezing streets in town look much less ominous when the overhead twinklies are reflected in the rainy tarmac and you can’t see the drab December sky because of the multicoloured, star and snowflake shaped loveliness above your head. I know they’re tacky and they’re no good for the old carbon footprint, but the alternative, i.e. plan old gloomy December, is much worse.
5. Old friends.
Now this is closely linked with points one and two. Never is there a time of year when more old friends are in the same place at any one time. They all head homeward, they’re all happy to be off work. And the lot of you are more than ready to get into the festive spirit(s). And you’re all in the frame of mind that it’s perfectly acceptable act like children. At no other time of year can you meet old friends without a slight nervousness - what should you say? Are their lives going better than yours? Do you have the same things in common as you used to? Will there be awkward pauses in conversation? Should you meet for a nice lunch somewhere? Etc etc. However, at Christmas those concerns are put on the backburner. The whole mad bunch of you can meet in whatever dive of a pub you used frequent in your youth. You’re all in the mood to act like irresponsible kids, and by the second mulled wine, you’re all wrapped in tinsel, and the awkward conversational pauses were a hazy forethought. Just for one evening, it’s like you’re kids again, and everyone is simply happy to see everyone else. To be drunk and silly, to gossip and dance like twats, to forget all the money you’ve spent, the jobs you have, the worries at home, and to relive your teens. The fun, not the angst-ridden parts that is.
So there, you Christmas doubters, you scrooges and humbugs. Ignore the lack of cash, the fact that it’s often more capitalism than Christ nowadays. Yes you’ll be fat and poor and the twinkly lights will be gone come January, but sod all that, there’s lots of fun to be had in the mean time. It’s only two weeks away now… quick! Get in the festive spirit! And shout along with good old Noddy Holder! It’s Chriiistmas!
Thursday, 26 November 2009
An Almost Pleasant Pheasant
It’s not often in the city that you hear about people going hunting. It’s not often in the city that you see any wildlife, unless you count pigeons and raggedy-ass city foxes screaming in the middle of the night and knocking your bins all over your garden. So, I was quite excited when the chef at work announced his mate had been out shooting and had given him three pheasants, and that one was mine if I wanted it. So, in exchange for a shot of rum, I was handed a bin liner containing the bird. ‘You know what to do with this, right?’ he asked me.
‘Of course’, I replied.
‘And you’ll be alright with it? My wife won’t let me bring it in the house’.
‘I’m from Lincolnshire’ I replied. The implication being, of course, that I was a country girl. I’d encountered plenty of freshly shot game in my youth, I’d seen my mum pluck and gut birds when I was a kid, and excitedly helped her out. There’s nothing more exciting when you’re a kid than the prospect of mess, guts and gore, and really getting your hands dirty. And you assume, as you get older, you get more worldly wise, tougher, more able to cope with the events life throws at you. And in a way, you do. What people, myself included, forget, is that despite the city hardening you up in many ways, it also mollycoddles you, takes you away from anything natural, and hands you a whole lot of things on a plate - often a plate prepared, cooked, and then washed up by, someone else.
It was more my partners reaction that suddenly made me squeamish. I told him I’d brought home a pheasant from work, which was fine until he learned that the pheasant was currently in a bag, in the kitchen, still feathered, still with feet and beak attached. And the look of horror on his face both amused me and took me by surprise. Promptly, (and I know I’m far too old to behave in this manner, but it was too easy) I grabbed the bird from the bag and chased him around the lounge with it. And I don’t care what you think. It was worth it to see him hide in the corner, hands in front of face. Daft, I thought. This is how all our meat starts. What is there to be squeamish about? However, when I got the (literally) bloody thing out onto the chopping board, I have to admit (although, not to my partner of course) I changed my tune. Gone was the no nonsense Lincolnshire lass, and in her place was a city girl confronted by a horrible dead carcass, eyes white, and so many feathers! So what the hell happened? Anyone from back home would have laughed out loud. So, I decided, I had come this far. I wasn’t being defeated by a dead bird. Into a bucket of hot water poor Mr Pheasant went, and while he soaked, I poured myself a very large glass of wine, and put his poor sopping body on my chopping board. I took a very big swig, and started plucking.
Not so bad, I thought, as I put all my muscle into pulling out the feathers, and dropping them into the bucket on the floor. Not so bad until I got to the top, grabbed a big chunk of feathers at the breast, and the skin peeled away right up to the neck, revealing shiny blood covered tendons and veins. More wine. I looked at the poor bird, its little head still feathered and attached, but its skin hanging of around the base of it’s bloody neck. Head off I thought. So I took a second (and another large gulp of wine) and picked up the knife. I held its now bald body up, placed the knife on the lolling exposed neck, grimaced, and then cracked it. It came away pretty easily, and I quickly chucked it in the bucket, out of sight. My partner came in, poking his head tentatively round the door, obviously morbidly fascinated. That was the worst bit done, or so I thought, and I wasn’t going to let him see me being squeamish, so I chopped off the feet, and chucked the body in water in the sink.
By now, my bird was beginning to resemble something on a supermarket shelf, and with its sad little head out of sight, the pheasant torturing guilt had subsided. Only one job left to do. Just gut the thing. Not so bad right? Well, I’ll spare the details, but Christ, the smell! As soon as it hit me, I remembered it from when I’d helped my mother as a kid, but, as a grown up, I’m sure it was worse. Also, as a kid, it wasn’t my kitchen, so I had no responsibility to clean guts out of the sink. That smell stuck in my nose for the rest of the evening. I felt like Macbeth, with blood forever on his hands, guilt tormenting his soul about what he had done. I’d killed that poor creature! Well. I hadn’t actually. But I’d stopped it resting in peace!
Anyway, I’m over it now, and the moral to this story, if you can call it that, is as follows. My kitchen is now clean, and you’d never know the horrors that took place there. The gory remains have been safely disposed of*. Mr Pheasant, when cooked, looked just as appetising as anything in the butchers, and much more appetising than anything in the supermarket, and, it tasted bloody lush. So, city dwellers, lets get our hands dirty. Take away is great, but nothing is as satisfying as doing it yourself, short of shooting the damn thing and really being responsible for the whole process. And, a thought possibly more horrifying than any of the afore mentioned process – maybe Gordon Ramsay had a point when he butchered his kids pet chickens in front of them. Or maybe not. I’m undecided!
*N.B. Another note to city dwellers: When I said ‘safely disposed of’, I may have lied a little. May I advise if you are attempting anything similar, to weigh down your bin lid. Bloody foxes have left a right feathery mess, right across my garden! Damn wildlife!
‘Of course’, I replied.
‘And you’ll be alright with it? My wife won’t let me bring it in the house’.
‘I’m from Lincolnshire’ I replied. The implication being, of course, that I was a country girl. I’d encountered plenty of freshly shot game in my youth, I’d seen my mum pluck and gut birds when I was a kid, and excitedly helped her out. There’s nothing more exciting when you’re a kid than the prospect of mess, guts and gore, and really getting your hands dirty. And you assume, as you get older, you get more worldly wise, tougher, more able to cope with the events life throws at you. And in a way, you do. What people, myself included, forget, is that despite the city hardening you up in many ways, it also mollycoddles you, takes you away from anything natural, and hands you a whole lot of things on a plate - often a plate prepared, cooked, and then washed up by, someone else.
It was more my partners reaction that suddenly made me squeamish. I told him I’d brought home a pheasant from work, which was fine until he learned that the pheasant was currently in a bag, in the kitchen, still feathered, still with feet and beak attached. And the look of horror on his face both amused me and took me by surprise. Promptly, (and I know I’m far too old to behave in this manner, but it was too easy) I grabbed the bird from the bag and chased him around the lounge with it. And I don’t care what you think. It was worth it to see him hide in the corner, hands in front of face. Daft, I thought. This is how all our meat starts. What is there to be squeamish about? However, when I got the (literally) bloody thing out onto the chopping board, I have to admit (although, not to my partner of course) I changed my tune. Gone was the no nonsense Lincolnshire lass, and in her place was a city girl confronted by a horrible dead carcass, eyes white, and so many feathers! So what the hell happened? Anyone from back home would have laughed out loud. So, I decided, I had come this far. I wasn’t being defeated by a dead bird. Into a bucket of hot water poor Mr Pheasant went, and while he soaked, I poured myself a very large glass of wine, and put his poor sopping body on my chopping board. I took a very big swig, and started plucking.
Not so bad, I thought, as I put all my muscle into pulling out the feathers, and dropping them into the bucket on the floor. Not so bad until I got to the top, grabbed a big chunk of feathers at the breast, and the skin peeled away right up to the neck, revealing shiny blood covered tendons and veins. More wine. I looked at the poor bird, its little head still feathered and attached, but its skin hanging of around the base of it’s bloody neck. Head off I thought. So I took a second (and another large gulp of wine) and picked up the knife. I held its now bald body up, placed the knife on the lolling exposed neck, grimaced, and then cracked it. It came away pretty easily, and I quickly chucked it in the bucket, out of sight. My partner came in, poking his head tentatively round the door, obviously morbidly fascinated. That was the worst bit done, or so I thought, and I wasn’t going to let him see me being squeamish, so I chopped off the feet, and chucked the body in water in the sink.
By now, my bird was beginning to resemble something on a supermarket shelf, and with its sad little head out of sight, the pheasant torturing guilt had subsided. Only one job left to do. Just gut the thing. Not so bad right? Well, I’ll spare the details, but Christ, the smell! As soon as it hit me, I remembered it from when I’d helped my mother as a kid, but, as a grown up, I’m sure it was worse. Also, as a kid, it wasn’t my kitchen, so I had no responsibility to clean guts out of the sink. That smell stuck in my nose for the rest of the evening. I felt like Macbeth, with blood forever on his hands, guilt tormenting his soul about what he had done. I’d killed that poor creature! Well. I hadn’t actually. But I’d stopped it resting in peace!
Anyway, I’m over it now, and the moral to this story, if you can call it that, is as follows. My kitchen is now clean, and you’d never know the horrors that took place there. The gory remains have been safely disposed of*. Mr Pheasant, when cooked, looked just as appetising as anything in the butchers, and much more appetising than anything in the supermarket, and, it tasted bloody lush. So, city dwellers, lets get our hands dirty. Take away is great, but nothing is as satisfying as doing it yourself, short of shooting the damn thing and really being responsible for the whole process. And, a thought possibly more horrifying than any of the afore mentioned process – maybe Gordon Ramsay had a point when he butchered his kids pet chickens in front of them. Or maybe not. I’m undecided!
*N.B. Another note to city dwellers: When I said ‘safely disposed of’, I may have lied a little. May I advise if you are attempting anything similar, to weigh down your bin lid. Bloody foxes have left a right feathery mess, right across my garden! Damn wildlife!
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
Thursday, 19 November 2009
Call me a pessimist....
Call me a pessimist, but what the hell is going on with this country at the moment? Has everyone gone a little bit mad? And more to the point, has everyone lost the will to care?! Everyone has a degree nowadays. That’s millions of well educated young people – socially aware graduates – many of whom are either out of work or in dead end jobs (it’s a recession don’t you know) all over the UK. So what happened to the idea that the youth are the leaders of tomorrow? We have lost whatever little faith we had in politicians, we all complain about how badly Labour screwed things up, reel in disgust at MP’s spending thousands in expenses having their gardens/homes/chandeliers tinkered with while we’re all skint and miserable. We’re involved in a war that most of the country disagreed with from the start, and whose very basis was fuelled by yet more political lies. People like Nick Griffin are playing on our dissatisfaction and political malaise and winning popularity spouting nonsense about white supremacy, and what options are left to change this? Well, we have to choose between smug publicity whore David Cameron, Brown again (I needn’t comment on that one) and the lovely Nick Clegg, who is just thrilled the others are so utterly vile that he might actually get a look in. Either that, or lets go for a proper change. Something really different. Whose available, lets see, oh yes, the KKK’s new buddies - the British National Party. Come on! The depressing thing is (oh yes, that wasn’t the worst part) that none of us likes it. We all complain about it, often quite eloquently, when we’re down the pub, and then continue or dissatisfaction silently the following day. I know it’s the British prerogative to have a stiff upper lip and all, but forgive me if I’m mistaken, but wasn’t the whole idea of democracy that we could elect someone who represents our interests?
So how is it then that a nation of such well educated, socially and politically aware young people has allowed such a depressing list of options?
We know our parents royally messed up, letting Maggie do arms deals with Iraq on the sly (as well as stealing milk, obviously) then tried to amend the situation and were won over by young Tony’s charismatic grin, watching passively as he toadied up to yet another mad Bush. But come on, live and learn! The similarity between Blair and Cameron’s smarmy tactics is horribly obvious. What’s the point of remaining a staunch supporter of any political party if the blighters are all the same? There must be some of us out there better suited to the job. Some of the many honest people who are guided by wanting to make a change rather than by the potential size of their expense account!
In previous decades, the young were guided by materialism, by aspiring to live like glamorous celebrities, by greed. We could buy the lives we wanted, an interest in politics was a side thought. But for gods sake, put the credit card down, cut it in half, we can’t afford it anymore. The vast majority of graduates are slaving away in call centres, working as recruitment consultants, or out of work altogether, struggling to pay off massive student debts by and legitimate means available. Was that the master plan? No! And who qualifies as a celebrity now? Jordan? Paris Hilton? Victoria Beckham? Isn’t that enough to curb our aspirations for materialism and fame?! We’ve got more brains, and more potential than this! I know we all express our displeasure and irritation about the current state of affairs down the pub (when we can afford to go that is – thanks again Brown) but lets get off our collective arse and try and come up with some better options to change the situation. The previous generation buggered it up, and it’s our job to fix it. We’ve got the intelligence, the awareness and the numbers, all we need to do is ditch the feeling that we’re not in control. This is a good country, and we’ve been apathetic for too long. Even America has managed to sort itself out to some extent. Yes, it took some serious, serious mistakes to get them in gear, but they’ve got Obama now. He’s yet to prove himself, but at least they got a candidate in the running that you could afford to put some faith in!
It’s time to sort it out, and it’s impossible that our current political leaders are the best we have to offer. We’ve got the time, and the skill to fix this, I’m sure of it. Hey – maybe I’m not such a pessimist after all.
So how is it then that a nation of such well educated, socially and politically aware young people has allowed such a depressing list of options?
We know our parents royally messed up, letting Maggie do arms deals with Iraq on the sly (as well as stealing milk, obviously) then tried to amend the situation and were won over by young Tony’s charismatic grin, watching passively as he toadied up to yet another mad Bush. But come on, live and learn! The similarity between Blair and Cameron’s smarmy tactics is horribly obvious. What’s the point of remaining a staunch supporter of any political party if the blighters are all the same? There must be some of us out there better suited to the job. Some of the many honest people who are guided by wanting to make a change rather than by the potential size of their expense account!
In previous decades, the young were guided by materialism, by aspiring to live like glamorous celebrities, by greed. We could buy the lives we wanted, an interest in politics was a side thought. But for gods sake, put the credit card down, cut it in half, we can’t afford it anymore. The vast majority of graduates are slaving away in call centres, working as recruitment consultants, or out of work altogether, struggling to pay off massive student debts by and legitimate means available. Was that the master plan? No! And who qualifies as a celebrity now? Jordan? Paris Hilton? Victoria Beckham? Isn’t that enough to curb our aspirations for materialism and fame?! We’ve got more brains, and more potential than this! I know we all express our displeasure and irritation about the current state of affairs down the pub (when we can afford to go that is – thanks again Brown) but lets get off our collective arse and try and come up with some better options to change the situation. The previous generation buggered it up, and it’s our job to fix it. We’ve got the intelligence, the awareness and the numbers, all we need to do is ditch the feeling that we’re not in control. This is a good country, and we’ve been apathetic for too long. Even America has managed to sort itself out to some extent. Yes, it took some serious, serious mistakes to get them in gear, but they’ve got Obama now. He’s yet to prove himself, but at least they got a candidate in the running that you could afford to put some faith in!
It’s time to sort it out, and it’s impossible that our current political leaders are the best we have to offer. We’ve got the time, and the skill to fix this, I’m sure of it. Hey – maybe I’m not such a pessimist after all.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)