So, this is happening. Having attempted and given up on about 5 or 6 different creative endeavours since the start of 2017 I have decided I will attempt to keep a blog, posting at least something every day for a year.
I guess I should make this post ‘sticky’ so if anyone does randomly land here they can start from the beginning! Enjoy this whirlwind ride of disappointment. If you make it through 4 posts you win a 50% voucher for hot pants.
I am telling myself that the sole purpose of this inane dribble is to allow my pretentious inner hipster an outlet for creativity, maybe an idea will blossom that I can nurture through my writing and craft into something cultural and meaningful (or money generating).
Realistically I’m hoping somehow I’ll be able to generate a reader base who for some sick twisted reason want to listen to me talk about myself everyday. My wife doesn’t even want to hear me ranting as much as I plan to do on here, so why I think strangers would be interested in it is bizarre. Well not bizarre, it’s more absurdly narcissistic, given that I rarely write and the majority of my tedious life is spent between my home PC and office mac-book… It’s hardly the memoirs of a Victorian explorer.
I’m a 26 year old test engineer (sounds cooler than it is, and it doesn’t sound very cool) who lives in Leicester, England… A city famous for its underdog football story, a king buried in a car park and not much else. Other than reading dubious news sources and judging people on Facebook I’m not sure what qualifies me to discuss anything remotely topical… In fact the only way I can perceive this writing gaining any kind of traction is if I become a serial killer and document my ungodly exploits here, maybe I’ll just slip in the odd imagined paragraph every now and then to liven things up a bit.
I found this one waiting by the bus stop outside the central train station, she was heading up from London to visit a grandma who had just been diagnosed with advanced Alzheimer’s. Bless her, big city girl, didn’t realise we don’t have night busses running to the hospital; luckily for her I was feeling magnanimous enough to offer a lift. You should have seen the colour drain from her pretty little cheeks when she realised help wasn’t coming. Ironically grandma had probably forgotten she was even on her way.
I kept her left foot and right index finger, it will fit in well with the others. Only missing a left knee now and another baby blue eye, shouldn’t be long now, i’ll have my perfect woman soon.
I mean I think I’d definitely be justified in keeping a blog if that was how I spent my evenings. Ironically you’d receive fewer weird looks for reading about the depraved sexual deviancy of a psychotic killer than you would if you told your friends you were reading the musings of a bored IT worker who liked computer games and Netflix.
In order to add something slightly close to interesting to this ‘project’ I’ll try to be somewhat topical in my writing on occasion, rather than writing about what I had for supper (pork loin, roast potatoes, vegetables and Aunt Bessie’s Yorkshire puddings. It was fucking delicious). Whenever possible I’ll enlighten you all with the opinions of a working class university dropout with poor grammar, an overworked spell checker and a painfully bleak world view; like now for example:
As a young British adult living in England I have found myself increasingly interested in politics over recent years, for obvious reasons. Unfortunately that interest has been overpowered by a parallel rise in deep feelings of futility. The small fish in a big pond analogy has escalated to the point where I now see myself as a small fish in an ocean made entirely of fish… and I’m not coastline adjacent, there’s no risk of this fish washing up on a murky pebbled beach in Blackpool and feeding the local mutant seagulls, no. I’m miles out and many many fish deep. I’ve got more sea life on top of me than a sushi model at <insert fat celebrity name>’s house. (I literally tried, nobody I came up with made sense. At first I thought Pavarotti, but he liked pasta and he’s not very topical).
I voted for the first time last year. I voted to remain in the EU.
Why is this relevant you ask? Why such a painful non-sequitur from talking yourself down Farrell?
Why? Because yesterday was the inauguration of the most polarising president in my lifetime, I suspect in the history of the United States, but I can’t vouch for that, I didn’t read Reddit back then. The reason I mentioned my sense of hopelessness as a force of change and my second place award at the voting booth is to show empathy for the millions of Americans who still seem to be struggling to come to grips with how they managed to win the popular vote but lose the election.
I, like many others hoped for a different outcome, so I understand why people are scared and upset. What I do not understand however is the world’s obsession with protesting.
Right now, as I write this, there are protesters on the street in London protesting the presidency of Donald Trump. London in England. England that’s in Europe (for now). Never has the phrase ‘not my president’ been more factually accurate than when it’s coming from the mouth of a support worker from Slough. No he isn’t your president, in the same way that Kim Jong Un isn’t your Chairman either but I don’t see many placards outside Leicester Square stating that.
Don’t get me wrong, I do understand the importance of airing disapproval and making sure people realise that there are voices that represent their views. I’m just not sure waving a sign around all night in the middle of winter 3,660 miles away from the White house is a particularly productive use of anyone’s time, but then neither is writing a blog entry to yourself and pretending you’re a sharp witted newspaper columnist, so I guess I’m in no position to judge.