As I sit here looking at the ten or so albums on this mp3 player at my disposal, the size of a small book of postage stamps - and just as light, it has me thinking back to a day trip to Alton Towers I undertook with a small group of work friends, all the way back in the year 2001.
I was barely out of my teens at this time, and someone had somehow concocted a plan to take the train to Staffordshire and visit the much loved theme park. With all its rides, gift shops, expensive food courts, more gift shops, and more rides, how could a young-man possibly say no? So off we went to Euston one Saturday morning, Myself, Alan - who was one of the physically naturally strongest people I ever met, combined with perhaps the most extensive knowledge of underground music and sub-pop Nirvana singles I have ever encountered. He should have been a fireman, like his father, who seemed like a really cool fella too. But unfortunately was turned down at a time in which they were only accepting minorities. (Blame politically correct government bullshit - not the minorities). Sebastian - who really by now should be a professional golfer, kicking Tiger Woods backside on a regular basis. Probably the only person I know who never seemed to struggle with anything, and now seems pretty darn happy doing the married life and Daddy thing - but then again, what normal person wouldn't? Especially when you have a little baby Lemon for a boy. And Denis - Denis was am engaging self-proclaimed plastic paddy, in his own way. And even though some people said that besides smelling sightly off, having yellow teeth, and somewhat resembling the barstad offspring of Phil Mitchell and the Banjo kid in Deliverance, seemed to have an aura in which women of a certain low-self-esteem would openly gravitate too. I don't know where he is and what he is doing all these years later, but I hope he is alive and well and still kicking back the Guinness as he watches Arsenal flatter to deceive for another year.
I had the knowledge that the journey was about two hours there and back, so I decided to create a mix-tape of my favorite Oasis songs, and yes, I did listen to a lot of crap back then. The tape was of course of the cassette variety, and lasted an hour - thirty minutes each side. I would need to rewind each song to a set point to choose a specific track, therefore proving, as Nick Hornby wrote about in High Fidelity; the stellar importance of the mix-tape. The Walkman was too big for even a big pocket, bulky, clunky, and at the time, one of the best alternatives out there for portable music listening.
Songs chosen, then illegally recorded onto cassette (Was there ever any better way)?, I was on the train off to an April day riding rollercoaters, eating crap, and searching for the now decade old arcade machine of Final Fight, which, to my amazement, much like the local fair of Colindale, which still carries the Kung-Fu-Master coin op after 25 years, still existed.
The day was fun and friendly. Denis bottled the inertia ride with the big dip, whose name I cannot remember. Alan punched the shit out of a Sonic Blast Machine, Seb must have had an off day, as I can't fore-tale a moment in his day, and a flying Pigeon pin-pointed a huge turd on the arm of my brand new beige denim jacket, whilst queuing for nemesis - a stain I never managed to wash off... good fortune my foreskin.
My greatest memory traveling home, besides my Walkman battery dying, was that of Denis sticking his head out of the train window, Ala Vivien in the young ones - minus the loss of head. I still to this day cannot decide if he was simply a man with real balls, or no brain cells. We all went home, ventured to our separate beds, and I probably had a wank over some of the soft-porn on Channel 5... this is what most males my age, who lived saddo teenage lives think of, when they hear the smooth and melodic jazz of a saxophone.
So here we are today. And I am left wondering just how much the kids of the new generation are missing out on the basic inequities of the stupid shit we had to do as little as ten years ago. I can whack every Oasis album and song ever recorded onto a mobile phone, play Final Fight on my laptop, buy a cheap jacket in case of bird shit attacks while queuing for Nemesis - which I can ride virtually aswell. Any item I need to collect is no longer limited to pot-luck chances of Car-boot sales and random high-street chains of Cash-Converters, as it is all somewhere on fee-bay. Pirate films are now only acceptable as total screeners, and the choice is endless, as opposed to the days of take any dodgy-cinema movie video you could - I still regret watching the worst copy of the Matrix ever created, in which Neo spent the whole movie with a green face. Or maybe this was just Keanu Reeves robotic acting. Or the copy of Independence Day, which looked to have been filmed by an alcoholic, holding a steady-cam while going through a severe case of the DT's.
No wonder people are getting so lazy and fatter these days. I enjoyed making mix tapes, I enjoy being creative. Kids today will be just as creative I guess, it is just how that I do not know... will be cool to find out.
I guess the only question I am left wondering after all this pondering, as technology moves faster and the world grows quicker, is pretty simple really...
I wonder if Denis still fiddles with his Banjo?
Lee.
Harrows World Of Weirdos Three: The Trolls.
Have you ever seen the movie 'Texas Chainsaw Massacre'? The original, not the remake. Much like all art, replicas or homages/ripoffs tend to miss the essence of the first creation, as well as the fact that 'rebooting' - the new, lazy barstad term for remake, tends to lend itself in film to being more for commercial than artistic reasons. Which is okay, I guess... if you like that sort of thing.
The movie, directed by Tobe Hooper in 1974, and banned in many countries (Including the UK) until 1999, is pretty good viewing. Though I don't personally see it as one of the greatest horror movies of all time. It is freaky, but the violence is all implied through cutaway shots, which actually makes the scenes more violent in the mind - a statement of how the human brain is so much more creative than the human eye.
The film focuses on a few attractive young adults, as horror films usually do, who venture into a small hick town to visit the grave of a late grandfather. Eventually things turn a little sour, and the main girl of the group ends up spending forced time in the vicinity of the main living quarters of the farmhouse, of a pretty screwed up family, which includes the classic character, Leatherface.
Which brings me to the next set of people who I see now and again in my time in Harrow; The Trolls.
The trolls are a family, for want of a better word, of four, who make the trip into Harrow off the 140 Bus. A shitty bus journey if there ever was one. Going through such lovely dumping grounds such as Hayes and South Harrow. They spend the majority of their time sitting around outside the Starburger besides St.John's Church - or oppostie Debenhams, if you don't go to Church. Usually sitting around and constantly puffing on fags. They do talk to each other, but it is so inaudible, that I have a feeling it may be a mixture of welsh and pig-Latin. I m sure I once heard one of them speak the words 'unter,gleben,glauben,glouben - followed by some cockney rhyming slang.
Standing with the gurning gormless, face, you have the Mother of the group. Pictured in the yellow puffed up jacket and red dress, she only ever wears these clothes - and I do mean ever... all year round, regardless of seasons. She tends to be the one who ventures into other pubs and stores for her family, only to purchase nothing and come back, only to venture out again. I would assume that when the human carcass are left in the kitchen, it is her job to organize the meats and label the packs for freezing.
The fella standing completely away is - I would assume, the son. He is gangly and looks to be in his late-twenties, and appears as if his mum, after organizing the human remains for the freezer, tucks him into bed with a hot water bottle, and reads him a bedtime story - which is either Jeffrey Dahmer's life story, or the philosophy of Ted Bundy... for kids! I dont believe he owns or knows how to use a computer, and probably knows a local farm in which the sheep tend to be very friendly, particularly in the dark. He is the one who sets up the table of human fingers for candles, and pig heads for footrests. He has most probably listened to the audio story of Ed Gein over a thousand times.
Thirdly, and fourthly - barely pictured with fags in their mouths, are the Dad, and the Granddad... I am still not sure which is which, but the glasses fella looks a lot older... and a little more bitter - so must be the Granddad. The father smokes constantly, wears a sparkly hooded jumper with dollar signs all over it - proper bling but quite odd on an old man with a haggard face. He reads the tabloids and barely moves, once his arse is stuck on the starburger seat. He does the dirty work of the bunch, and likes to wear a rubber mask of Maggie Thatcher whilst undertaking his twisted deeds. The granddad sits as the head of the table, and worships the failed Beach Boys wannabe loser, Charlie Manson.
Each night they seek out prey in Harrow to capture and eat. They like big massive fat people, for the added meats and longevity. They particularly visit Primark for this reason.
It is highly possibly that the dad and mum are also brother and sister, and that the grandad is in fact a scientific experiment gone wrong.
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is played ad nauseum in their house every minute of the day, and night. In fact, it was the inspiration for the lifestyle they choose The only other film any of them has ever seen, is Deliverance.
Whichever way you feel about them, be very weary of the trolls... and never take them up on any offers to go back to theirs for dinner - you have been warned!
Lee.
The movie, directed by Tobe Hooper in 1974, and banned in many countries (Including the UK) until 1999, is pretty good viewing. Though I don't personally see it as one of the greatest horror movies of all time. It is freaky, but the violence is all implied through cutaway shots, which actually makes the scenes more violent in the mind - a statement of how the human brain is so much more creative than the human eye.
The film focuses on a few attractive young adults, as horror films usually do, who venture into a small hick town to visit the grave of a late grandfather. Eventually things turn a little sour, and the main girl of the group ends up spending forced time in the vicinity of the main living quarters of the farmhouse, of a pretty screwed up family, which includes the classic character, Leatherface.
Which brings me to the next set of people who I see now and again in my time in Harrow; The Trolls.
 | ||
| Off Home. |
 |
| A Night On The Town. |
The trolls are a family, for want of a better word, of four, who make the trip into Harrow off the 140 Bus. A shitty bus journey if there ever was one. Going through such lovely dumping grounds such as Hayes and South Harrow. They spend the majority of their time sitting around outside the Starburger besides St.John's Church - or oppostie Debenhams, if you don't go to Church. Usually sitting around and constantly puffing on fags. They do talk to each other, but it is so inaudible, that I have a feeling it may be a mixture of welsh and pig-Latin. I m sure I once heard one of them speak the words 'unter,gleben,glauben,glouben - followed by some cockney rhyming slang.
Standing with the gurning gormless, face, you have the Mother of the group. Pictured in the yellow puffed up jacket and red dress, she only ever wears these clothes - and I do mean ever... all year round, regardless of seasons. She tends to be the one who ventures into other pubs and stores for her family, only to purchase nothing and come back, only to venture out again. I would assume that when the human carcass are left in the kitchen, it is her job to organize the meats and label the packs for freezing.
The fella standing completely away is - I would assume, the son. He is gangly and looks to be in his late-twenties, and appears as if his mum, after organizing the human remains for the freezer, tucks him into bed with a hot water bottle, and reads him a bedtime story - which is either Jeffrey Dahmer's life story, or the philosophy of Ted Bundy... for kids! I dont believe he owns or knows how to use a computer, and probably knows a local farm in which the sheep tend to be very friendly, particularly in the dark. He is the one who sets up the table of human fingers for candles, and pig heads for footrests. He has most probably listened to the audio story of Ed Gein over a thousand times.
Thirdly, and fourthly - barely pictured with fags in their mouths, are the Dad, and the Granddad... I am still not sure which is which, but the glasses fella looks a lot older... and a little more bitter - so must be the Granddad. The father smokes constantly, wears a sparkly hooded jumper with dollar signs all over it - proper bling but quite odd on an old man with a haggard face. He reads the tabloids and barely moves, once his arse is stuck on the starburger seat. He does the dirty work of the bunch, and likes to wear a rubber mask of Maggie Thatcher whilst undertaking his twisted deeds. The granddad sits as the head of the table, and worships the failed Beach Boys wannabe loser, Charlie Manson.
Each night they seek out prey in Harrow to capture and eat. They like big massive fat people, for the added meats and longevity. They particularly visit Primark for this reason.
It is highly possibly that the dad and mum are also brother and sister, and that the grandad is in fact a scientific experiment gone wrong.
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is played ad nauseum in their house every minute of the day, and night. In fact, it was the inspiration for the lifestyle they choose The only other film any of them has ever seen, is Deliverance.
Whichever way you feel about them, be very weary of the trolls... and never take them up on any offers to go back to theirs for dinner - you have been warned!
Lee.
Emotions and Islam.
A few years ago, while running through one of the ridiculously high amount of Psychology books I have eaten my way through - not literally, as that would just be stupid and bad for my health, I wandered across an idea in which all human beings are each driven by one solitary emotion. This emotion, whatever it may be, is the defining characteristic in which we feel the greatest sense of validation and contentment, when any form of reciprocation merits a stroking of it.
This is an important notion to be aware of when seeking rapport, especially with those who we do not yet attain it with. This idea resurfaced to me today during a conversation of about fifteen minutes or so with one of the coffee shop girls in Starbucks, where I do the majority of my writing and filter coffee drinking. She told me all about her religion - she was a Muslim, and spoke with a great sense of love and admiration over the ways and means she observes her belief system. A question I inquired about after her mentioning to me of the five times a day she would pray towards the direction of Mecca.
Besides learning about the reality where these five time periods are set throughout a day - I always thought you could pray anytime, so my knowledge is slightly better, I also was reminded that all religions are generally peaceful and positive, and that Islam is better off when spoken about by true practitioners of the faith, like Yusuf Islam, or practically anyone in the middle-east, as opposed to a bunch of middle-class, right-wing radicals who produce hate filled gutter trash spewed from pesudo-papers like The Sun or The Daily Mail.
Regardless, it was clear this girl felt a large portion of herself is defined by her faith... which is a pretty good choice of emotional drive. It was nice to hear not a single solitary word which never once sounded hostile or negative, and, even though I never took her up on an offer to visit the central London mosque anytime, without outwardly rejecting it - I am Agnostic, and am not looking to find God. If he finds me, that's cool, but much like the way I fell in love, if it happens, it will simply, happen.
The driven emotion can be either positive or negative to anybody. Some people generally feel validated through rejection, or anger geared towards them. The majority possess more positive traits, which can be anything from emotions of love, empathy, strength - emotional, not physical, courage, dignity, reverence, discipline, organization, peace, pride, honour, humour... the list is endless.
I started to consider my own process of the emotion which drives myself, and finally deduced that the feeling I find ingratiates myself to others more than any other trait; is intelligence.
Whenever I can connect with someone who feels an acceptance of me being a smart person, even though the definition of smart is far reaching, I feel content and satisfied. The strange irony is that once you know what it is, you find yourself not really needing to seek acceptance from it anymore. And, I imagine, a new emotion comes to the forefront.
So, next time you have a moment, ask yourself, which emotion drives you? When you find the answer, ask yourself why it drives you in the first place? After this is completed, begin to view the other people you meet in the random conversations of life. Quietly seek it in the other person you desire rapport with. You will see it, it is subtle, but a consistency tends to flow which begins to make sense.
Anyway, this is my rudimentary lesson in social anthropology for today. Have a ponder, realize the good of all religions, and the desire we all have to somehow connect and fit in - born from the reality of the primal dangers of the outcasted being, and next time you meet someone new, ask them about the things in life they love the most... unless they are a serial pervert. Then I would avoid them altogether. And, if you think this is all a bunch of mindless psychobabble, then I am glad you took the time to read my blog.
Lee.
This is an important notion to be aware of when seeking rapport, especially with those who we do not yet attain it with. This idea resurfaced to me today during a conversation of about fifteen minutes or so with one of the coffee shop girls in Starbucks, where I do the majority of my writing and filter coffee drinking. She told me all about her religion - she was a Muslim, and spoke with a great sense of love and admiration over the ways and means she observes her belief system. A question I inquired about after her mentioning to me of the five times a day she would pray towards the direction of Mecca.
Besides learning about the reality where these five time periods are set throughout a day - I always thought you could pray anytime, so my knowledge is slightly better, I also was reminded that all religions are generally peaceful and positive, and that Islam is better off when spoken about by true practitioners of the faith, like Yusuf Islam, or practically anyone in the middle-east, as opposed to a bunch of middle-class, right-wing radicals who produce hate filled gutter trash spewed from pesudo-papers like The Sun or The Daily Mail.
Regardless, it was clear this girl felt a large portion of herself is defined by her faith... which is a pretty good choice of emotional drive. It was nice to hear not a single solitary word which never once sounded hostile or negative, and, even though I never took her up on an offer to visit the central London mosque anytime, without outwardly rejecting it - I am Agnostic, and am not looking to find God. If he finds me, that's cool, but much like the way I fell in love, if it happens, it will simply, happen.
The driven emotion can be either positive or negative to anybody. Some people generally feel validated through rejection, or anger geared towards them. The majority possess more positive traits, which can be anything from emotions of love, empathy, strength - emotional, not physical, courage, dignity, reverence, discipline, organization, peace, pride, honour, humour... the list is endless.
I started to consider my own process of the emotion which drives myself, and finally deduced that the feeling I find ingratiates myself to others more than any other trait; is intelligence.
Whenever I can connect with someone who feels an acceptance of me being a smart person, even though the definition of smart is far reaching, I feel content and satisfied. The strange irony is that once you know what it is, you find yourself not really needing to seek acceptance from it anymore. And, I imagine, a new emotion comes to the forefront.
So, next time you have a moment, ask yourself, which emotion drives you? When you find the answer, ask yourself why it drives you in the first place? After this is completed, begin to view the other people you meet in the random conversations of life. Quietly seek it in the other person you desire rapport with. You will see it, it is subtle, but a consistency tends to flow which begins to make sense.
Anyway, this is my rudimentary lesson in social anthropology for today. Have a ponder, realize the good of all religions, and the desire we all have to somehow connect and fit in - born from the reality of the primal dangers of the outcasted being, and next time you meet someone new, ask them about the things in life they love the most... unless they are a serial pervert. Then I would avoid them altogether. And, if you think this is all a bunch of mindless psychobabble, then I am glad you took the time to read my blog.
Lee.
30 Love.
So, as I write this blog, I am considering that this will be the final evening of my entire life spent in the decade commonly known as the twenties - tomorrow I turn thirty years of age, and a new decade of my life awaits me. Hopefully the best one yet.
I would spout a bunch of ideas about what plans I have, or how I feel about the third whole decade of my life which has almost become little more than a bunch of memories, which will make much more sense as I grow older, as is in all times of our lives, but this is redundant, predictable, and, in all honesty, most of it is a good damn blur anyway. So, here are a list of a few things about the world I have seen so far which I am grateful for, as I reach the big three zero;
First of all, shallow as it sounds, I am eternally grateful for still having the majority of my own hair on my head. God this is vein, but unfortunately, due to a father who experienced the Kojak lifestyle from a particularly young age, I associate baldness with failure. Of course Hulk Hogan, Patrick Stewart, and Stone Cold Steve Austin prove this theory to be entirely irrational, and there are millions of very successful and respectable baldies out there. But still, I would be lying if I wrote that I am not happy for this fact. This also possibly jinxes it, and in a years time I may well have a head like a bowling ball... touch wood time.
Secondly, I am glad I at least dabbled in varying levels of drugs, pretty much anything below Heroin - which even as a young young man, I was smart enough to give an excessively wide berth to, just to realize how much of a waste of time substances really are. The best drugs are the natural highs and endorphin rushes of life, which no dealer can hand you. But hey, if you smoke weed, or visit Charlie every Friday night, it aint my place to judge you. I just get more kicks when my girlfriend smiles, when Barnet win (Which isn't often), and when a good line of literature shoots across my laptop screen from the formulations of my mind.
Third, I am glad I fixed my diet, though I did this at nineteen, so is kind of before my twenties. As well as finding a workout routine at 24 years of age, and sticking to it. Could so easily have gone the other way... gum wise, I don't mean turning homosexual - though even writing that worries me a little.
Fourth, I spent almost half my twenties wearing braces, (the teeth variety, not the bother boy skinhead types used to hold up the trousers). From the ages of 24 to 28 I wore those bastards. And with major reconstructive jaw surgery at the age of 26, finally went from having a square head shaped like a piece of toast (Credit to my little sister for this one), to the Teutonic plate masculine jawline I wear with pride today. But God those braces were a shit to wear.
At number five, I am grateful, for simply still having all my marbles, and not turning into a misanthrope, or a full on misogynist (the latter coming exceeding close, but not close enough to mess me up). I feel at this point at my life in the middle of the two, in that while I respect women, and men too, I do not kiss anybodies arse based on power levels or aesthetic looks, yet still appreciate the human soul they have inside. This is a work in process of sorts, but it's getting better, man.
There are downsides. Music doesn't seem to sound the way it used to, and I tolerate stuff so much less now. But perhaps this is purely internal, and I am becoming Victor Meldrew way too soon... I don't believe it!
In the end, age is just a number, and who you are and how you feel, matters more than anything else.
And finally, for being the decade of my life in which I met a Personal Trainer/Nerd/Fitness Model/Quirk named Marissa. By all accounts, the truly great years of our lives lay ahead of us, but it will always be in my twenties in which our worlds met. And this is by all means... a good thing!
And that's pretty much that. Goodbye twenties, you were fun while you lasted. We have some good days, some great days, some sad days, and some truly terrible days, but it all made sense, in a road to lead to whichever destiny I befall upon myself kind of a way. I now look forward to a decade of the potential of marriage, children (Something I simply could never live without in my life throughout its course), a stable and hopefully disciplined professional career, the retainment of my hair, and six pack. And maybe even another screenplay or two.
Oh, and twenties, just so you know... I always knew I would beat you in the end!
Lee.
I would spout a bunch of ideas about what plans I have, or how I feel about the third whole decade of my life which has almost become little more than a bunch of memories, which will make much more sense as I grow older, as is in all times of our lives, but this is redundant, predictable, and, in all honesty, most of it is a good damn blur anyway. So, here are a list of a few things about the world I have seen so far which I am grateful for, as I reach the big three zero;
First of all, shallow as it sounds, I am eternally grateful for still having the majority of my own hair on my head. God this is vein, but unfortunately, due to a father who experienced the Kojak lifestyle from a particularly young age, I associate baldness with failure. Of course Hulk Hogan, Patrick Stewart, and Stone Cold Steve Austin prove this theory to be entirely irrational, and there are millions of very successful and respectable baldies out there. But still, I would be lying if I wrote that I am not happy for this fact. This also possibly jinxes it, and in a years time I may well have a head like a bowling ball... touch wood time.
Secondly, I am glad I at least dabbled in varying levels of drugs, pretty much anything below Heroin - which even as a young young man, I was smart enough to give an excessively wide berth to, just to realize how much of a waste of time substances really are. The best drugs are the natural highs and endorphin rushes of life, which no dealer can hand you. But hey, if you smoke weed, or visit Charlie every Friday night, it aint my place to judge you. I just get more kicks when my girlfriend smiles, when Barnet win (Which isn't often), and when a good line of literature shoots across my laptop screen from the formulations of my mind.
Third, I am glad I fixed my diet, though I did this at nineteen, so is kind of before my twenties. As well as finding a workout routine at 24 years of age, and sticking to it. Could so easily have gone the other way... gum wise, I don't mean turning homosexual - though even writing that worries me a little.
Fourth, I spent almost half my twenties wearing braces, (the teeth variety, not the bother boy skinhead types used to hold up the trousers). From the ages of 24 to 28 I wore those bastards. And with major reconstructive jaw surgery at the age of 26, finally went from having a square head shaped like a piece of toast (Credit to my little sister for this one), to the Teutonic plate masculine jawline I wear with pride today. But God those braces were a shit to wear.
At number five, I am grateful, for simply still having all my marbles, and not turning into a misanthrope, or a full on misogynist (the latter coming exceeding close, but not close enough to mess me up). I feel at this point at my life in the middle of the two, in that while I respect women, and men too, I do not kiss anybodies arse based on power levels or aesthetic looks, yet still appreciate the human soul they have inside. This is a work in process of sorts, but it's getting better, man.
There are downsides. Music doesn't seem to sound the way it used to, and I tolerate stuff so much less now. But perhaps this is purely internal, and I am becoming Victor Meldrew way too soon... I don't believe it!
In the end, age is just a number, and who you are and how you feel, matters more than anything else.
And finally, for being the decade of my life in which I met a Personal Trainer/Nerd/Fitness Model/Quirk named Marissa. By all accounts, the truly great years of our lives lay ahead of us, but it will always be in my twenties in which our worlds met. And this is by all means... a good thing!
And that's pretty much that. Goodbye twenties, you were fun while you lasted. We have some good days, some great days, some sad days, and some truly terrible days, but it all made sense, in a road to lead to whichever destiny I befall upon myself kind of a way. I now look forward to a decade of the potential of marriage, children (Something I simply could never live without in my life throughout its course), a stable and hopefully disciplined professional career, the retainment of my hair, and six pack. And maybe even another screenplay or two.
Oh, and twenties, just so you know... I always knew I would beat you in the end!
Lee.
Personal Trainers.
The month is January, and this is the time of year in which millions of human souls, consider to embark upon the New Years Resolution of weight loss and better health and fitness. The ads are everywhere, the videos (or DVDs. Geez you know you are getting older, when you instinctively reference a redundant technology), and the gyms are promoting the living daylights out of memebership contracts of at least a year.
If you were to have asked me this time twelve months ago, how difficult the job of a self-employed Personal Trainer was, I'd have responded in an ignorance that it is a simple job which any old idiot could do; Go in, train some people, go home, sleep, make a lot of cash rinse, and repeat... boy did I get this one wrong!
There are so many difficulties in this field that it is hard to know where to begin. Firstly there is the inconsistency of clients, and all the conditioning from media and advertising telling them about magic fitness techniques and products, which will sculpt a six pack in seven days. Or the lose five stone while still eating the foods you love plan types - surely anyone with half a brain can figure out that doing that which repeatedly made you overweight in the first place, will not change a thing? I mean, it isn't rocket science after all... I wonder if rocket scientists find this statement offensive? Anyhow, because of this the Trainers are, besides having to take the time to explain the brainwashing away, also expected to perform miracles, and keep the client motivated after the reality kicks in sometime down the line.
Then there is the idea that Personal Trainers are some form of super-robot, who live off celery, sleep one hour a night, have never touched a sugar or a fermented vegetable product, crap thunder, and eat lightning for breakfast - therefore all the hours and hours or work and dedication is easy. As if they were processed by some kind of Doctor Frankenstein machine. Kinda obvious I know, but Trainers are in fact human. The only difference is they are made of stronger stuff than the average mortal, and just keep going, and going, even if physically and mentally wrecked.
Another aspect, and the one I truly appreciate more than any other, as well as neglected more than the rest, is the level of intellect in social psychology needed to make their careers substantial. They are constantly in a situation where the ability to read beyond the basic statements are a must. We never always say what we truly mean, and even when we do, deep down we may not believe it anyway. Some may want to be really pushed hard and want to honestly improve their lifestyle. Others may just want to say to their friends they want a personal trainer, and pay the required amount to do so. There is, as in all business and life, no one size fits all mentality to the approach. Reading people is a requisite, and giving them what they want, while still making sure they have received solid training, and therefore been given their moneys worth, is a challenge unto itself.
Then there are the individual training routines and diet plans. An obese fourty-nine year old, will not require the same workout as a slim twenty-one year old - it would also be somewhat dangerous too. The same goes for the food they eat. Separating each client and working out the routine and work, is more time and effort, yet again unrecognized by the mass majority, at least I feel this way.
There are other elements, but the inner workings of the career is of something I do not do, and it is not my business to run up a list of the varying challenges of the job itself.
All I know is that it is a very tough gig. They are selling themselves, healthy living, and working out. They are competing with each other, while conversely trying to form bonds with each other. They retain zero help from the companies which employ them, and, much like Pro-Wrestlers, are employees when it suits the gym, yet independent contractors when it suits the company they work for too. They work long and arduous hours,
are constantly having to prove themselves to others who feel a level of threat by their abilities, always having to find new clients while retaining old ones, and never really receiving anywhere near the recognition which I personally feel they deserve for it. Most jobs are tough, but the glamourous nature of the perception it has, tends to lend itself to a lack of credit for just how hard it is to do. And yet, they continue to plow away, work hard, life the fitness lifestyle, and never give in. And for that reason alone, I salute the Personal Trainers of this world, and hand you all a double-thumbs up
By far one of the greatest aspects of the gym, at least for me anyway, is that hardly anyone, ever, is anything but positive and progressive. If you are in the gym, you are half way there. And I have more respect for an obese person trying to get healthier, than a toffee sitting at home every day, watching episodes of Saints And Scroungers and Murder She Wrote, while munching away on last nights Domino's extra hot. If you live and train healthy long enough, eventually it becomes secondary, and you don't even think about cooking rice and chicken after a long session with weights or cardio. It is worth it, but, much like all the great aspects of life, you have to get to the peak of the mountain, before you can truly see the view for all it's true value and glory.
The obesity problem is an epidemic, and I have sympathy for anyone who gets to this situation. A couple of decades from now, it is going to be a real serious western issue, and how it is fixed, I have no idea. But until then, I will keep training hard, and keep pretending I am as tough as those which do it for a living - even though, in reality... I aint even close!
Lee.
If you were to have asked me this time twelve months ago, how difficult the job of a self-employed Personal Trainer was, I'd have responded in an ignorance that it is a simple job which any old idiot could do; Go in, train some people, go home, sleep, make a lot of cash rinse, and repeat... boy did I get this one wrong!
There are so many difficulties in this field that it is hard to know where to begin. Firstly there is the inconsistency of clients, and all the conditioning from media and advertising telling them about magic fitness techniques and products, which will sculpt a six pack in seven days. Or the lose five stone while still eating the foods you love plan types - surely anyone with half a brain can figure out that doing that which repeatedly made you overweight in the first place, will not change a thing? I mean, it isn't rocket science after all... I wonder if rocket scientists find this statement offensive? Anyhow, because of this the Trainers are, besides having to take the time to explain the brainwashing away, also expected to perform miracles, and keep the client motivated after the reality kicks in sometime down the line.
Then there is the idea that Personal Trainers are some form of super-robot, who live off celery, sleep one hour a night, have never touched a sugar or a fermented vegetable product, crap thunder, and eat lightning for breakfast - therefore all the hours and hours or work and dedication is easy. As if they were processed by some kind of Doctor Frankenstein machine. Kinda obvious I know, but Trainers are in fact human. The only difference is they are made of stronger stuff than the average mortal, and just keep going, and going, even if physically and mentally wrecked.
Another aspect, and the one I truly appreciate more than any other, as well as neglected more than the rest, is the level of intellect in social psychology needed to make their careers substantial. They are constantly in a situation where the ability to read beyond the basic statements are a must. We never always say what we truly mean, and even when we do, deep down we may not believe it anyway. Some may want to be really pushed hard and want to honestly improve their lifestyle. Others may just want to say to their friends they want a personal trainer, and pay the required amount to do so. There is, as in all business and life, no one size fits all mentality to the approach. Reading people is a requisite, and giving them what they want, while still making sure they have received solid training, and therefore been given their moneys worth, is a challenge unto itself.
Then there are the individual training routines and diet plans. An obese fourty-nine year old, will not require the same workout as a slim twenty-one year old - it would also be somewhat dangerous too. The same goes for the food they eat. Separating each client and working out the routine and work, is more time and effort, yet again unrecognized by the mass majority, at least I feel this way.
There are other elements, but the inner workings of the career is of something I do not do, and it is not my business to run up a list of the varying challenges of the job itself.
All I know is that it is a very tough gig. They are selling themselves, healthy living, and working out. They are competing with each other, while conversely trying to form bonds with each other. They retain zero help from the companies which employ them, and, much like Pro-Wrestlers, are employees when it suits the gym, yet independent contractors when it suits the company they work for too. They work long and arduous hours,
are constantly having to prove themselves to others who feel a level of threat by their abilities, always having to find new clients while retaining old ones, and never really receiving anywhere near the recognition which I personally feel they deserve for it. Most jobs are tough, but the glamourous nature of the perception it has, tends to lend itself to a lack of credit for just how hard it is to do. And yet, they continue to plow away, work hard, life the fitness lifestyle, and never give in. And for that reason alone, I salute the Personal Trainers of this world, and hand you all a double-thumbs up
By far one of the greatest aspects of the gym, at least for me anyway, is that hardly anyone, ever, is anything but positive and progressive. If you are in the gym, you are half way there. And I have more respect for an obese person trying to get healthier, than a toffee sitting at home every day, watching episodes of Saints And Scroungers and Murder She Wrote, while munching away on last nights Domino's extra hot. If you live and train healthy long enough, eventually it becomes secondary, and you don't even think about cooking rice and chicken after a long session with weights or cardio. It is worth it, but, much like all the great aspects of life, you have to get to the peak of the mountain, before you can truly see the view for all it's true value and glory.
The obesity problem is an epidemic, and I have sympathy for anyone who gets to this situation. A couple of decades from now, it is going to be a real serious western issue, and how it is fixed, I have no idea. But until then, I will keep training hard, and keep pretending I am as tough as those which do it for a living - even though, in reality... I aint even close!
Lee.
Still Awake.
I am sitting upright in my bed as I write this on my laptop, using only the light of my screen to able me to view the keys I am writing with. It is late. I can't sleep. Again I just can't sleep. Normally I am the kind of boring person who is long in the land of nod before the next day chimes at midnight, but today, tonight, again... I just cannot sleep. It's been a couple of weeks like this now.
Somewhere in my mind I am troubled by something - quite possibly the fear that the book I write is total rubbish, and that my life will descend into one where a big fat failure sign is cattle prodded and etched with burning force onto my bottom cheeks, this in someway explains the slightly more darker and serious tone to these blogs recently. They are meant to be the literary equivalent of the cartoon shorts show before the feature film, as they did back in the days when cartoons such as Spongebob Squarepants and Cow And Chicken were not so readily available, but seem to be slowly turning into some form of depressing, low rent episode of a poorly articulated soap opera. Shit, why I am taking the circus so God damn seriously? I just want to buy a ticket, appreciate the jugglers and the trapeze guys, smile and feel converse sorrow for the clowns, and wonder how the lion tamer chooses to be one in the first place.
I am sure none of this makes that much sense to anybody who reads it, but I am really simply attempting the idea that if you try to consciously stay awake, it actually makes you sleepy and tired... try it sometime, it is starting to work.
They say it is possible to survive on three hours of sleep a nigh. I have never tried this, and if anyone reading this has done so, please let me know how it went - if you do not fall asleep before you get the chance to do so.
I am going to attempt to sleep now, I have some dreams to catch up on.
Goodnight all,
Lee.
Somewhere in my mind I am troubled by something - quite possibly the fear that the book I write is total rubbish, and that my life will descend into one where a big fat failure sign is cattle prodded and etched with burning force onto my bottom cheeks, this in someway explains the slightly more darker and serious tone to these blogs recently. They are meant to be the literary equivalent of the cartoon shorts show before the feature film, as they did back in the days when cartoons such as Spongebob Squarepants and Cow And Chicken were not so readily available, but seem to be slowly turning into some form of depressing, low rent episode of a poorly articulated soap opera. Shit, why I am taking the circus so God damn seriously? I just want to buy a ticket, appreciate the jugglers and the trapeze guys, smile and feel converse sorrow for the clowns, and wonder how the lion tamer chooses to be one in the first place.
I am sure none of this makes that much sense to anybody who reads it, but I am really simply attempting the idea that if you try to consciously stay awake, it actually makes you sleepy and tired... try it sometime, it is starting to work.
They say it is possible to survive on three hours of sleep a nigh. I have never tried this, and if anyone reading this has done so, please let me know how it went - if you do not fall asleep before you get the chance to do so.
I am going to attempt to sleep now, I have some dreams to catch up on.
Goodnight all,
Lee.
Someone Else's Dream.
It isn't a smart move by anybody to give their heart to a total stranger, or to simply jump into the deep end of it all, and allow the person you choose as your other half of the future, from the moment it hits you that they may be someone you could share all your stupidities and idiosyncratic ways with. But, then again, how long do you wait before you make a decision like this anyway? There is no answer, but, you know this as well as I do. The rhetorical nature of the question, like all rhetorical questions of life, find their answers somewhere in the emotional core, and I guess, if it is a truly tangible aspect of our central existence - the human soul.
I've seen enough stupid jumps into oblivion based around the less stable portions of humanity, but love is hard to find, and when it comes into anybodies viewpoint of normal living, sometimes it makes all sorts of sense to give it all we can, and hope for the best.
I don't really deserve what I have. I never intended to find what has come across me. I never searched for a partner to do anything more than gratify and validate the impulses and whims I needed to feed at the particular times in which I did, which is almost definitely one of the many reasons none of them lasted very long at all. I know people in this life who deserve all of this which fills me and my partner with the internal security of a long lasting relationship. I feel a little guilty sometimes over this, but still, as much as I did when I was single, I hope this aspect of their lives hits them as I believe it should. The hardest part about being attached is wishing you could give this same feeling to all those who don't have it - and it is easy to know spot them, even if you do not know them.
Still, I remain grateful and thankful, and can only end this unedited blog by saying that I now finally realize that even though it is possible to achieve much without the feeling of being loved and able to love right back in turn, it is a hell of a lot fucking easier when you have it.
So God, even though I don't really like you very much, and think your an insecure being who needs way too much validation, I simply say to you my Friend danke! And wonder why whenever a stranger refers to me as 'My friend', I always get the feeling they are untrustworthy? Now go help out everyone else creator of planets, and I may smile for you now and again.
Lee.
I've seen enough stupid jumps into oblivion based around the less stable portions of humanity, but love is hard to find, and when it comes into anybodies viewpoint of normal living, sometimes it makes all sorts of sense to give it all we can, and hope for the best.
I don't really deserve what I have. I never intended to find what has come across me. I never searched for a partner to do anything more than gratify and validate the impulses and whims I needed to feed at the particular times in which I did, which is almost definitely one of the many reasons none of them lasted very long at all. I know people in this life who deserve all of this which fills me and my partner with the internal security of a long lasting relationship. I feel a little guilty sometimes over this, but still, as much as I did when I was single, I hope this aspect of their lives hits them as I believe it should. The hardest part about being attached is wishing you could give this same feeling to all those who don't have it - and it is easy to know spot them, even if you do not know them.
Still, I remain grateful and thankful, and can only end this unedited blog by saying that I now finally realize that even though it is possible to achieve much without the feeling of being loved and able to love right back in turn, it is a hell of a lot fucking easier when you have it.
So God, even though I don't really like you very much, and think your an insecure being who needs way too much validation, I simply say to you my Friend danke! And wonder why whenever a stranger refers to me as 'My friend', I always get the feeling they are untrustworthy? Now go help out everyone else creator of planets, and I may smile for you now and again.
Lee.
For Better Or Worse.
There are times in all of our lives, in which moments abound and hit us square in the conscious mind so hard that even attempting to lie to ourselves becomes an impossible feat. These are the moments where we delve somewhat introspectively inward, and cannot formulate any kind of answer to pretend that we are a perfect being, and have to accept that portions of who we are are indeed nowhere near as pure and decent as we wish them to be. Sometime over the past few days, I have personally found these exact thoughts hit me hard enough to merit a more serious level of conducive thought, and accept that perhaps, as much as I don't like to or really want to admit it... I am in many ways a self-absorbed prick of a person!
There has been no event or moment that has caused this psychological estimation of my mindset as such - if anything this has been a quiet and generally productive period. I have written another 5,000 words to my book, and am now only another 5,000 or so from completion of the full manuscript, albeit in its first, full draft. But it has been the thought of how I generally perceive and react to others which has made me wonder aloud to myself. I am not a bad person, I am by all accounts a pretty decent and friendly guy. I will queue and be patient, I clean up after myself, I will ask people how their day is going - and honestly be interested in how they are feeling. The problem lies in the sad truth that I view everyone as living in my reality, and that the world I live in is more important than that of any other soul, which of course, much like everyone else, it really isn't. This makes me a selfish man... and I am ashamed to admit it, but it is true. I see every interaction in terms of how it affects me and me alone. The person or people I communicate with are there to merely assuage my ability to use the levels of psychological manipulation and head games I have become so good at playing with people, so much so that I tend to forget that all human souls are, just like my own, riddled with doubt, fear, insecurity, and the simple desire to be accepted, validated, and feel loved enough to know that their existence carries meaning. All existence carries meaning... Every last one.
In life, we receive back exactly as much as we give to it, and I believe as I rapidly approach my thirties, I need to make a concious effort to take greater stock in the hopes, dreams, and emotional circuitry of others. It is not that I do not care, and have no concern, I have simply spent far too long obsessing over my own, as the Ultimate Warrior calls it, pile of poop. And this is counter-productive, time consuming, and in evidential fact, totallty pointless.
I have empathy, I care for other people, I do not enjoy nor wish to effect any form of pain on anybody. I am smart enough to know which buttons to push and how to push them, and must stop doing so.
I have a girlfriend to love, friends to communicate and grow with, and, even though I really have no idea how to do so, a family to associate myself with. Time is precious, and so is life. And I wish the best for everyone I ever have met or known.
Life in itself is hard enough through the nature of it, without us as humans making it harder for each other. So I am openly expressing my immaturity in the hope it will exorcise some form of maturity. And, as the million dollar man Ted Dibiase once said ... 'maturity comes with the acceptance of responsibilty!' Though I think he may have nicked it from Spiderman's foster Father.
So I begin by wishing all who reads this, a happy and prosperous week ahead... and maybe a little sunshine too!
Lee.
There has been no event or moment that has caused this psychological estimation of my mindset as such - if anything this has been a quiet and generally productive period. I have written another 5,000 words to my book, and am now only another 5,000 or so from completion of the full manuscript, albeit in its first, full draft. But it has been the thought of how I generally perceive and react to others which has made me wonder aloud to myself. I am not a bad person, I am by all accounts a pretty decent and friendly guy. I will queue and be patient, I clean up after myself, I will ask people how their day is going - and honestly be interested in how they are feeling. The problem lies in the sad truth that I view everyone as living in my reality, and that the world I live in is more important than that of any other soul, which of course, much like everyone else, it really isn't. This makes me a selfish man... and I am ashamed to admit it, but it is true. I see every interaction in terms of how it affects me and me alone. The person or people I communicate with are there to merely assuage my ability to use the levels of psychological manipulation and head games I have become so good at playing with people, so much so that I tend to forget that all human souls are, just like my own, riddled with doubt, fear, insecurity, and the simple desire to be accepted, validated, and feel loved enough to know that their existence carries meaning. All existence carries meaning... Every last one.
In life, we receive back exactly as much as we give to it, and I believe as I rapidly approach my thirties, I need to make a concious effort to take greater stock in the hopes, dreams, and emotional circuitry of others. It is not that I do not care, and have no concern, I have simply spent far too long obsessing over my own, as the Ultimate Warrior calls it, pile of poop. And this is counter-productive, time consuming, and in evidential fact, totallty pointless.
I have empathy, I care for other people, I do not enjoy nor wish to effect any form of pain on anybody. I am smart enough to know which buttons to push and how to push them, and must stop doing so.
I have a girlfriend to love, friends to communicate and grow with, and, even though I really have no idea how to do so, a family to associate myself with. Time is precious, and so is life. And I wish the best for everyone I ever have met or known.
Life in itself is hard enough through the nature of it, without us as humans making it harder for each other. So I am openly expressing my immaturity in the hope it will exorcise some form of maturity. And, as the million dollar man Ted Dibiase once said ... 'maturity comes with the acceptance of responsibilty!' Though I think he may have nicked it from Spiderman's foster Father.
So I begin by wishing all who reads this, a happy and prosperous week ahead... and maybe a little sunshine too!
Lee.
Harrow's World Of Weirdos Two: Bag Man.
I was always going to write this blog, I just never knew when and where, or how and which frame of mindset I would be in, to formulate a series of words to accumulate some kind of multitude in expression to the story I am about to force upon the hundreds of people who have frequented these pages since their initial inception a month or so ago. Apparently I have had visiting readers from Albania, Singapore, Russia, Croatia, and even over a hundred from the good old U.S of A - though I am certain they may have stumbled upon this place by chance. I cannot imagine John Belushi's great uncle sitting on his laptop in his Tiranian home, whilst a Norman Wisdom marathon is played on television for the three hundredth day in a row, frantically bothering his wife about the antics of Mister Blobby - the food ponce of Harrow, while he ponders over which local weirdo I am about to embark upon dissecting next time. But you never know. I read all sorts of shit from around the global world, as I guess we all do to a degree... and it is usually about some odd ball story of some kind.
Anyway, my second installment of singular human weirdness, surrounds a fella who I have seen regularly around the lower section of the Hill in Harrow, the bus and train station, and the food court of the shopping center - all of which lie around fifty meters in radius from each other. The man I refer to I have simply Christened... Bag Man!
There is very little I can attest in terms of information about Bag Man. He is of an average to slight build, medium height, aged somewhere around his mid-40's, probably British, and with a full head of unclean yet his own hair. He wears (as is pictured) a blue anorak coat, black trousers, and a pair of old brown shoes all the time, each item smells pretty pungent and seem as if they have not had a decent wash for a number of years, if ever. He wears a wedding ring on his left hand, is often found standing up outside Harrow On The Hill station reading either The Metro or the Daily Mail, and carries around with him a collection of filthy shopping bags, which contain (from my own short inspections) a collection of other scrunched up dirty old bags, loaves of bread and milk, and more newspapers. During the summer months, my girlfriend and I would often see him hanging around a collection of trees around the Hill area, where he would either sit and stand for hours and hours, as if he were waiting for somebody to pick him up, but never found their way to arrive for him. He always seems to me as if he is waiting for someone to return - perhaps this explains the wedding ring.
In the evenings, he often sits in the bus station and sleeps in his coat beside his bags (pictured), where no one ever seems to bother him, until he awakes, leaves, and goes to somewhere where I have no idea where it could possibly be.
He is always silent, he is always alone, and no one ever seems to talk to him.
We once saw him use a bankcard in a cash machine, which would have me to assume that he is not homeless, and he always motions a look on his face of a man who is retaining a brain which may well be quite intelligent. It is interesting how we can tell simply by looking at someone as to whether they are smart or not, and hardly ever proven wrong. I find I can figure out someone's intellect within two minutes of talking to them, or even simply watching them from afar as they interact, but I inherited the mental genetics to become good at this shit, so who knows who sees whatever they see.
Bag Man to me is not alike all the other weirdos of this area, in that the rest I tend to view as being merely stupid or lazy, or even as those whose path was always assigned to either hanging around food courts nicking junk food, or dancing in a dirty yellow dress outside Starburger (More on this another time), but there is something in the eyes and the body language of Bag Man that seem somewhat tragic and tortured. He looks trapped in a place of his mind which never fully found it's way in and out of his social cognition and emotional construct. Like we all do, when the more quiet and passive around us give away very little information towards the associations and ways of their personal lives, we tend to build our own maps as to how and what they do around their own business. Primarily this is a way to answer the questions we cannot, which may bring ground to the notions of religion and the like, but this is another subject for another day. I build a story in which his long term wife left him at the station, as she told him she no longer loved him anymore, Bag Man had just been shopping, and wearing the anorak, black trousers, and brown shoes he currently resides in. After she boarded the train, his mind became lost in a mental vortex he may never escape from. Each and every day an endless moment of waiting for her to come back and fly into his arms, proclaiming how wrong she was to walk away. Does he imagine a life like this? Does he know where he is? Does he even care anymore? Does Bag Man goes to Church or Mass on a Sunday? And not just for the free sandwiches.
I find weirdos interesting because there is something tragic yet heroic about them. Whether it flows within the conscious framework of a human mind or not, a large portion of their souls reject basic society to live in a way which no one deems as acceptable to the masses. I have never wanted to be ultimately conventional to the point where I lack an original and independent mind, and God these are so rare it's ridiculous. But, at the same time, I don't think I would want to live a deluded notion such as these people, where this way of living seems normal. But then again, what is normal? In societal terms, the mass percentage is deemed correct, but it's not like we agree with the Nazi's or the elements of the reign of Henry the Eighth in the modern world, and in their times they determined truth by numbers.
So I guess what I am saying is that even though they live in an odd way, they are not harmless people. In fact, in the only conversational thread I have ever had with the man of bags - during a period in which I was leaving a bathroom which he was entering. I held the door open for him. He said two words... 'Thank You!'.
I guess he aint so bad after all. Because in my experience, out of every ten people I do that for, three or so never say anything. And they don't carry around dirty bags or wear a filthy anorak.
So if you are ever in Harrow, and you ever happen to spot Bag Man hanging around (he is easy enough to spot), spare a little sympathy for him. He may well wear crappy clothes, carry old bags and loaves of bread and a bank card, while sipping on a coffee in his wedded ring left hand, but deep down there is a fractured soul in there, who, like all of us, can feel intense love just as much as they an feel immense pain... and he is human, after all. Even if he does stink of piss.
Lee.
P.S. On a side note, to Mister Pannell; if you are reading this. I wish you all the best in your Barcelona marathon quest coming up. To run as much as you are is a feat that only a few of us brave and slightly sadistic souls can undertake, so good luck my man! I really should make the four of five mile trip to Finsbury Park and see you sometime!
Anyway, my second installment of singular human weirdness, surrounds a fella who I have seen regularly around the lower section of the Hill in Harrow, the bus and train station, and the food court of the shopping center - all of which lie around fifty meters in radius from each other. The man I refer to I have simply Christened... Bag Man!
There is very little I can attest in terms of information about Bag Man. He is of an average to slight build, medium height, aged somewhere around his mid-40's, probably British, and with a full head of unclean yet his own hair. He wears (as is pictured) a blue anorak coat, black trousers, and a pair of old brown shoes all the time, each item smells pretty pungent and seem as if they have not had a decent wash for a number of years, if ever. He wears a wedding ring on his left hand, is often found standing up outside Harrow On The Hill station reading either The Metro or the Daily Mail, and carries around with him a collection of filthy shopping bags, which contain (from my own short inspections) a collection of other scrunched up dirty old bags, loaves of bread and milk, and more newspapers. During the summer months, my girlfriend and I would often see him hanging around a collection of trees around the Hill area, where he would either sit and stand for hours and hours, as if he were waiting for somebody to pick him up, but never found their way to arrive for him. He always seems to me as if he is waiting for someone to return - perhaps this explains the wedding ring.
In the evenings, he often sits in the bus station and sleeps in his coat beside his bags (pictured), where no one ever seems to bother him, until he awakes, leaves, and goes to somewhere where I have no idea where it could possibly be.
He is always silent, he is always alone, and no one ever seems to talk to him.
We once saw him use a bankcard in a cash machine, which would have me to assume that he is not homeless, and he always motions a look on his face of a man who is retaining a brain which may well be quite intelligent. It is interesting how we can tell simply by looking at someone as to whether they are smart or not, and hardly ever proven wrong. I find I can figure out someone's intellect within two minutes of talking to them, or even simply watching them from afar as they interact, but I inherited the mental genetics to become good at this shit, so who knows who sees whatever they see.
Bag Man to me is not alike all the other weirdos of this area, in that the rest I tend to view as being merely stupid or lazy, or even as those whose path was always assigned to either hanging around food courts nicking junk food, or dancing in a dirty yellow dress outside Starburger (More on this another time), but there is something in the eyes and the body language of Bag Man that seem somewhat tragic and tortured. He looks trapped in a place of his mind which never fully found it's way in and out of his social cognition and emotional construct. Like we all do, when the more quiet and passive around us give away very little information towards the associations and ways of their personal lives, we tend to build our own maps as to how and what they do around their own business. Primarily this is a way to answer the questions we cannot, which may bring ground to the notions of religion and the like, but this is another subject for another day. I build a story in which his long term wife left him at the station, as she told him she no longer loved him anymore, Bag Man had just been shopping, and wearing the anorak, black trousers, and brown shoes he currently resides in. After she boarded the train, his mind became lost in a mental vortex he may never escape from. Each and every day an endless moment of waiting for her to come back and fly into his arms, proclaiming how wrong she was to walk away. Does he imagine a life like this? Does he know where he is? Does he even care anymore? Does Bag Man goes to Church or Mass on a Sunday? And not just for the free sandwiches.
I find weirdos interesting because there is something tragic yet heroic about them. Whether it flows within the conscious framework of a human mind or not, a large portion of their souls reject basic society to live in a way which no one deems as acceptable to the masses. I have never wanted to be ultimately conventional to the point where I lack an original and independent mind, and God these are so rare it's ridiculous. But, at the same time, I don't think I would want to live a deluded notion such as these people, where this way of living seems normal. But then again, what is normal? In societal terms, the mass percentage is deemed correct, but it's not like we agree with the Nazi's or the elements of the reign of Henry the Eighth in the modern world, and in their times they determined truth by numbers.
So I guess what I am saying is that even though they live in an odd way, they are not harmless people. In fact, in the only conversational thread I have ever had with the man of bags - during a period in which I was leaving a bathroom which he was entering. I held the door open for him. He said two words... 'Thank You!'.
I guess he aint so bad after all. Because in my experience, out of every ten people I do that for, three or so never say anything. And they don't carry around dirty bags or wear a filthy anorak.
So if you are ever in Harrow, and you ever happen to spot Bag Man hanging around (he is easy enough to spot), spare a little sympathy for him. He may well wear crappy clothes, carry old bags and loaves of bread and a bank card, while sipping on a coffee in his wedded ring left hand, but deep down there is a fractured soul in there, who, like all of us, can feel intense love just as much as they an feel immense pain... and he is human, after all. Even if he does stink of piss.
Lee.
P.S. On a side note, to Mister Pannell; if you are reading this. I wish you all the best in your Barcelona marathon quest coming up. To run as much as you are is a feat that only a few of us brave and slightly sadistic souls can undertake, so good luck my man! I really should make the four of five mile trip to Finsbury Park and see you sometime!
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