I am feeling a little down right now; kinda like a deflated football which has been left in a cupboard for a while, only for the family dog to start pawing around with it, then create a piercing hole which seeps the air out in a few minutes of hilarious air noise. No, I am not in need of a puncture repair kit and a few rubber stickers to patch me up, I am simply being overly dramatic - something I have always been quite talented at. I can make the average appear incredible, while conversely render the incredible as average. The trick is a mixture of a strong frame, and a reaction of the action in a way which either downplays or oversells the target... In another life, I am a very successful used car salesman.
Anyway, enough bullshit. So, the reason I am writing this is to try to understand the pointless nature of self-pity. More so, why we tend to indulge in the mental construct in the first place. You see I am feeling a little down today, as it is the first time in almost a year in which I am am having to indulge in my great love of thrice weekly gym training, all by my lonesome. For the last 12 months I have been regularly hitting the weights and cardio with my girlfriend - the joys of dating a Personal Trainer being the mutual love of intense working out, the miseries being an association with too many people who can train every muscle but their brain, but not all of them - some were and are pretty cool.
She has joined Virgin Active, and I remain at Fitness First. Therefore our routines are now separate. For reasons that make absolutely no sense to me, it reminds me of The Dudley Boys being split by the WWE draft back in 2001 (Oh how only a few people have any idea what this means), even though Marissa is not a fat, bald New Yorker, and I am not an even fatter, black dude in thick rimmed glasses.
It is not the training alone, or spending less time together which has gotten me down today. I trained for almost 5 consistent years alone, before we even met. And nothing changes in our relationship. It is simply that I never truly appreciated how much god damn fun it was to hit the gym together! I love to talk, I could talk for England, and never run out of things to say. Now, at the gym, when I think up a funny comment or stupid idea (And the gym provides many), who do I voice it to? I cannot talk to the walls like a madman, they probably wouldn't listen anyway. It is a little lonelier, and feels like my right arm is missing at the gym, (Which if true, would probably turn me into the world champion of one arm push-ups). But I will adapt pretty fast. Adaptability is key to a successful and ambitious life. I am a leaf blowing in the wind - not some dumb arse tree standing still watching the same crappy view its entire life.
Maybe it is the cold weather, the piss rain, the fact that I feel my short story could have been better... I don't know. In the grand scheme of things, it is small potatoes. It is not like I have lost a job, had a bill I cannot pay delivered to me, a child of mine (I don't have any yet), is ill at the hospital, or I have discovered a lump on my body. By all accounts, I am a pretty lucky barstad when it comes to this kind of stuff. God, or whoever, has given me an incredibly strong and healthy mind, body, and soul. And it gives me plenty more time to write and edit my book. A negative can be turned into a positive, and vice-versa - but I wouldn't advise this mode of thinking.
So, I am not really feeling any self-pity, it is just me being a little tongue-in-cheek. I feel pretty good. But I am considering that feeling sorry for ourselves is an act which goes against natural human biology. It serves no purpose to moan about an issue, when it does nothing to resolve it. Perhaps it is a self-soothing policy, an act of taking us back to the days as a helpless infant who wanted to have his or her guardians tell them it would all be better... sod that shit. The world kicks me down, I'm gonna take a knee and catch my breath for a second, glance upward at the world around me, smile like the clever and devious fella that I am, aware that I am still alive, kicking, and a little bit smarter and stronger from taking in every aspect of the experience like a sponge absorbs water - and come out swinging!
Well, something like that. I will probably just make a cup of tea ... but with lots of charismatic energy. Until the next self-pitying monster tries to strike me down.
Have a good evening all...
Lee.
Timmy's Longest Legs.
I have never written a kids story before, and this is my first attempt at doing so. I hope you enjoy reading this, and find it entertaining...
Timmy's Longest Legs:
Timmy had always dreamed of having legs. Long strands of mighty sticks the size of pole vaults. The kind which would - when he stood straight, leave him so high and mighty, every other boy and girl in his school would glaze upon him and bow down, like an omnipotent God for all the ages.
He had always been a small boy. His head would often meet most other children at their chests, and Timmy never enjoyed a conversation with torsos, and neither did the torsos. Nonetheless, for a boy as quiet and passive as he was, he was liked enough. Not too popular to receive invitations to all the cool birthday parties, but at the same time, in no way stupid enough to have worm containing mud thrown at him; unlike Anthony Grimes and Wayne Stickley - the boy who looked more like a Rat than most Rats could ever dream about.
Timmy was turning the big one zero in the morning. Ten years of age, finally! He felt like a man, and remained certain it was going to be the greatest Friday of his life.
Everything was primed for a perfect day; the prediction of glorious sunshine, the super-sized cake baked in the shape of Octomus Prime - he always wondered if Octomus Prime would take a day job delivering goods, if he ever lost his need to save the world from Megatron. And best of all, the brand spanking new pair of golden brown trousers - the exact kind Timmy had always wanted, since he first saw Harry Potter single-handedly take in the Dementours in them.
He was a firm believer in the power of magical trousers. More than anything, this was what his birthday was all about. And, wearing them, the day could have no negative consequences whatsoever. Well, minus the knowledge that his unrequited love for Jessica Grimshaw would yet again go unmerited.
Jessica only dated the best. In this case, Danny Smith - the boy nature was unfairly generous to. He was tall, athletic, sharp, witty, and could easily have passed for a fourth Jonas Brother. In short - he wasn't... unlike little Timmy.
Besides being the big one zero, tomorrow was also the day of the big annual school race - the 100 meters dash! Danny was clear favorite, as usual. For the last five years he had run and won every race of his year group at a canter, and this was going to be no exception.
This year's completion was a little fiercer, but no means any direct threat to Danny's crown as absolute master and ruler of year six; there was Sausage Matthews - the fattest child in the district of Northolt, and quite possibly the ugliest too - if it wasn't for Neville Beardsley - also in the race. Neville had more warts than a warthog, and more spots than a dalmatian. He had buck teeth, braces, and ate ugly burgers for dinner... apparently. Timmy has always wondered what an ugly burger looked like, not so much how it tasted - but assumed it was probably rather ugly, and came from a shop even worse than a Poundshop – if such a thing existed. The terrible Russian twins, Ivan and Drago Winavich had entered too. They were creating a real buzz - especially Drago. Both boys spoke little English, but fought like Lions. There were rumours Ivan and Drago were in fact military creations born from the height of communist Russia, and both fifty years of age. Timmy knew this wasn't true, as he never saw a reason why fifty-year-old Russian military experiments would collect Panini football stickers, and carry In The Night Garden lunchboxes.
There were others; Mohammed Mohammed - who was so blessed they named him twice, only to suffer a great equalizer of bandy legs and a set of mobs which would put Meat Loaf to shame. Billy Borarwitz, the Polish pansy - he was worse than Mohammed, except with a cooler name. And Princess Leah Johnson... who hated Star Wars!
Timmy had entered too - probably as a joke, most people thought. But nonetheless, little Timmy was steadfast that with enough determination, dedication, and desire, he could pull of the upset to end all upsets. He had checked cash converters in the hope of purchasing some good conditioned second-hand Flubber, or the juice drink drunk by Michael Jordan in Space Jam - but to no avail. If he would win the race - and the heart of Jessica Grimshaw, he would have to do it by an act of sheer force. Timmy was always positive, and would often find constructive means to climb ladders - like the time he used a ladder to climb onto his roof to retain his football.
He awoke from the thoughts of his slumber in dreams - aware school was almost over, as he looked up at the assembly room clock. The children had been singing 'The Sun Has Got His Hat On' - he always wondered why the sun needed a hat – and couldn’t figure out where it had got one from.
Jessica was sitting right beside him - which was odd, as she sure wasn't there when he fell asleep. 'Danny's gonna win it again tomorrow'. She beamed. 'He is untouchable'. Timmy turned his head towards her - his eyes peering on a small mark of chalk on the floor. 'I am confident in my abilities. I think I can pull off a shock'.
Jessica turned to him as if he had just denounced Christianity... 'You, win the race?' She laughed. 'Your legs are so weak they could be mistaken for white twiglets'. All the others kids around them laughed – as if they felt they had to, but never wanted to. Timmy shrunk, he never felt so small. And he always felt pretty small.
As the final bell of the day rang, Timmy slowly shuffled his way from the school gates, to go home. In passing, he caught site of a herd of kids circling around Danny as he juggled three coconuts with his eyes closed, with an ease of a man sitting on a lawn of a hot, sunny day. 'He will probably be president of the world someday', Timmy thought. 'I just want to be president of my bed'. It was too much for the boy, seeing a life he so desperately wanted, yet knew he could never have - not with these legs...
That night, Timmy lay in bed, his eyes as wide as a baboon’s bottom, and half as red. He clasped his hands together, as he closed his eyes. 'Hello Mister Godfrey, whoever you may be. I know I haven't visited you in a while, but... I was going to, but my X-Box always distracted me... I am sure you have an X-Box. Maybe we could play Call of Duty online someday? You can be the Taliban. Anyway, can you give me the greatest birthday of my life? I want it all, Mister Godfrey. Just for one day, please? I promise I will give you everything, if you give me everything back'. Timmy opened his eyes, then quickly closed then again. 'Oh and by the way, Mister Godfrey?’ Timmy said, a sly smile creeping from the left side of his mouth… ‘Let me be the master and ruler of year six’.
He rolled onto his side to find his sleep.
Tomorrow he would be ten.
Tomorrow he would own a brand new pair of trousers.
Tomorrow, he would win the heart of Jessica Grimshaw, the minds of everyone else, and find the soul of himself.
Tomorrow, he thought... was going to be a good, good day!
Timmy awoke, it was morning. He lay flat on his bed as his eyes gazed upwards upon sunshine shining through his aging Mister Men curtains. 'Get your clothes ready... school in an hour!' Shouted his mother. He pulled his covers off of himself, and went to stand on his little feet. Something was wrong? His balance and stature seemed somewhat off? He gingerly peered down. To his shock and horror, his legs had experienced a growth spurt... of immense proportions.
His legs were incredible! He stood, or tried to stand on them, at least. Eventually he managed to stand straight, except, his legs were so long; his neck was being twisted at a right angle by the ceiling. 'This is the worst feeling I have ever... hold on!' He paused for a moment 'I don't believe it, I now have....’ He smiled a molar sized beamer of a smile, ‘Superlegs!
Forgetting it was his birthday, and the presents which awaited him, he whipped on his top, then tried to pull on his trousers... they barely managed to fit, feeling like the tightest pair of shorts ever invented. His legs were so long, he couldn't even reach his feet to place on his shoes or socks. Even when he managed to slide into the holes, he could barely get his main three toes inside.
Bare footed and tight trousered, he ran all the way to school. He was moving at light speed. He felt like The Flash on atomic stilts, and his confidence grew bigger and bigger with each passing step. Once he arrived at the school, he mused; everyone will know who the real man of the playground is! They would see him, and cheer with almighty force at the power of his brand new Superlegs! He wished he had made a costume with a cape beforehand, but was never expecting this.
And yet, when he arrived to the usual strands of noisy children running around rambunctiously like a herd of wild wildebeest - every single soul; every child, teacher, and parent, paused in a physical silence of stone like quality. Every single set of eyes were glaring at him. Or, more precisely - up at him.
He was a clear three feet taller than the tallest adult around, and, no one really knew what to say or think. It was only when a little pigtailed girl from year three, screamed in fear as she ran out of the school grounds, that Mrs Irksome - the kindly old dear, and teacher of English Literature, asked Timmy if he could go take a seat in the headmasters office, that the ardent curiosity slowly died down. If anything, it was too unreal to even be real.
As Timmy sat down - barely, his head still arched by the ceiling, Mister Divinity - the headmaster, came in and took a seat. Mister Divinity was a rotund man with a white beard the size of a beehive. He liked to talk slow and methodical - as if he were Sigmund Freud. But to Timmy – and most ten year olds, was one of the silliest men they had ever met.
'Well, my boy!'. He said as he gazed towards the ceiling in Timmy's direction, while chewing on a Chicken Wrap from Boots, which contained a reduced price sticker of 15pence. 'Perhaps you watered your legs a little too much last night. I really do not know what to do with you. He paused, for a moment, trying to look as intelligent as he wasn't.
'Can I still run the race later?'. Timmy asked. 'Yes, I don't see why not. After all, sports day is for everyone. You are going to have to spend the remainder of the time in the sports hall though. You may need to go to a special school for kids with giant sized legs'. 'Superlegs!' quipped Timmy. 'Indeed' Mister Divinity motioned, before his stood up to leave. 'Now, be on your way, that's a good boy'.
Mister Divinity left his own office, the sandwich now thrown in the bin full of other reduced Boots Chicken Wraps - which Timmy thought a little odd.
Slowly, Timmy took to his giant feet, and made the short trip to the very next door to the sports hall – fortune, he thought, still kind of on his side. He decided to lie on the floor and consider his options as a giant. This wasn't the birthday he envisioned.
As the day passed - besides the merriment of children looking through the windows with, expressions of shock or amusement, and the ten minutes he spent sitting on the basketball hoop, the day moved without incident. Timmy felt lonely, and imagined a life as a giant. He thought he could be a professional basketball player? But he found it boring and squeaky, and he needed Flubber anyway. There was always professional wrestling; Timmy the Tower, he would call himself... until he found a better alias. He would use a finishing move in which his giant legs would drop down onto his opponent – much like a spider over a trapped fly for dinner… then again, perhaps not. He didn’t want to hug oiled men in their pants. Perhaps he would find a beanstalk and live there until Jack paid him a visit? Or even join the circus? It was a tough call, but one he knew he would eventually have to make.
His clock beeped, it was two o'clock. He stood up - again struggling, and left for the confines of the 100 meters dash... which he could see in the distance of the school fields, as a crowd slowly built.
Timmy slowly walked to the race track. He could see ahead all the eyes silently watching him. He felt numb, slightly tired, but confident he would win the race. At least, this would change the way everyone looks at him - even if it is upwards. He caught sight of Jessica, standing on sight of the finish line. An ardent curiosity towards him etched in her eyes. He knew she wanted him, he knew it! He knew how it worked, for he had seen Teen Wolf before. He just had to win, is all.
He approached the front line - nervous, but standing his ground. He looked down at all the other competitors. Danny carried a look in his eyes Timmy had never seen before – it was fear. For the first time in Timmy's young life... he had power! And, much as it confused him to feel so, he knew he loved it!
Ivan and Drago stood lane by lane. Emotionless, steadfast, and ready to explode with vigour. Sausage Matthews and Neville Beardsley were waiting to run. But, as in all cases, seemed a little out of it to cause any major damage. Though Timmy had wondered how fast Sausage would run if a Chicken McNugget was tied to his head, with a string an inch too far for his arms to reach.
Mohammed, Billy, and Princess all awaited the starting gun too, determined to achieve the ignominy of the wooden spoon of last place – a spoon which probably made for good porridge eating, Timmy thought. There was a silence from the motioning crowd as everything and everyone paused. The anticipation could be sliced in two – even with a wooden spoon. The crowd paused, a silent wind brushed Timmy’s legs - bang! The gun went off, and the race had started;
Within seconds, Timmy had amassed a strong lead from the ginormous strides of his beanstalk legs. It was clear after the first few moments, only Ivan, Drago, Danny and Timmy had any chance of success - evident by the heavy puffing of Mohammed, Billy, and Princess. Sausage and Neville had stopped altogether - not that Timmy knew, all he could see was the finishing line.
He was flying - with immense ease. He would win this at a canter, he thought. And suddenly found himself slowing down, arrogantly moving like a man who had nothing to fear and no chance of losing. Of course, he had not taken into account the sheer determination of Danny, Ivan, and Drago, who - seemingly out of nowhere, had all turned into machines of drive and pure heart and ambition. Suddenly - as they approached the finish line, all four were neck and neck.
As Timmy turned around, in shock of the challenge beside him, his left stump caught on an uneven piece of grounding. With a calamitous thud of somewhat comedic proportions, a series of eight legs came tumbling downwards upon each other. As Danny fell into Timmy, Timmy fell into Ivan, who in turn, fell into Drago. As they all crumbled upon a mass of dust at the finish line, they all lay motionless on the floor, conscious, but very tired. As the dust slowly cleared its way upward, it was only one small body part which lay over the finish line... Timmy's feet.
As they all made their way onto their soles, Mrs Irksome came over, and raised Timmy's hand in victory. 'Your winner!' she proudly proclaimed, 'Timmy Taylor!'. Timmy had won, and yet, no one seemed to applaud. Again, it was the victory of a freak-show, not a prime athlete. Timmy stood in grand joy, still miles taller than everyone else. ‘Master! Master! I am the master!’ He shouted, with sheer joy. This was his moment, and was he going to let everyone know this.
'I will saw legs away' Said Ivan, to Drago. 'Not before I do'. replied Drago, to Ivan. Timmy heard, but remained silent. He was too afraid they meant it. Mohammed chipped in 'You are an infidel'. Followed by Danny's two cents of 'Well done, Taylor. But you scare the bananas out of me!’
Jessica, however, was smitten by his victory, and, as she sprinted towards him and tried to throw him a hug, could only reach up to his belly button. He attempted to lean down and give her a peck on the cheek, but even on his knees, was too tall. As an awkward minute of trying passed, Jessica began to see the fear in poor Timmy's eyes. And, in a sudden snap, let go of him, stood back, and shouted, 'You are weird!’ Worse still, before he was able to collect his trophy, Mister Divinity turned up and – munching on a reduced Boots Chicken Wrap, and his Sigmund Freud head held low, told the boy 'Sorry Timmy, we have had to disqualify you. Your legs entered too many lanes... and the parents are in uproar. Also, you are too tall for your head to appear in the celebration photograph'.
He pulled a wooden spoon out of his back pocket, and reached up to hand it to Timmy. ‘I don’t even like porridge’, Timmy said to himself.
Mister Divinity walked off, grabbed the trophy from a makeshift table, handed it to Danny - who smiled like a man who could juggle coconuts with his eyes closed, and everybody crowded around him, leaving Timmy sad, alone, and a boy who carried a spoon with no porridge, with only his giant legs to solemnly carry him home.
He entered the house, despondently. A note was stuck to the banisters, which Timmy grabbed in an instant. 'Dear Timothy, we have had to run out and collect an important parcel from the Post Office, as we missed our alarm call this morning. Have left your present in the kitchen. Happy Birthday!’
Timmy moved into the kitchen as fast as he could. His head still arched at a right angle from the ceiling. In all the excitement of the day’s events, he had totally forgotten it was his birthday, and, more importantly, it was the day of his birthday presents!
In the kitchen, his awful day was finally going to relieve itself with the intriguing box sitting on the table. He went down on his knees, lifted the lid of the present, and pulled out a gorgeous pair of brand spanking new golden brown trousers!
In a hurry, without even taking off his current pair, he attempted to pull them on as fast as he can. In doing so he ripped them in half at the seems - his legs far too thick and long to maintain the fabric. Timmy dropped back onto the wall with despair. His race was won, but his friends were lost. His girl had gone, and his strength was lost. He was tired, lonely, devoid of air from the low oxygen of the skies. His pair of trousers had become two pairs of half-trousers, and, to top it all off, there was no Octomus Prime cake for him to munch away the evening on.
Timmy walked despondently up the stairs, his knees never fully stretching out. He was so drained and tired, and could barely contain the energy to do little more than drop onto his bed, as his legs hung long across the room.
'This has been the worst birthday of my life'. Frowned Timmy. 'All I wanted to do was win the race, get a compliment off Jessica, wear myself a pair of lovely golden brown trousers, and eat an Octomus Prime cake.’.
He cried himself to sleep. Wondering just how he would manage to live the rest of his life with a pair of freakishly large legs. He decided the first thing he would do, is go to the library - if he could fit in there, and find a copy of Frankenstein, Quasimodo, or a biography on Jimmy Kranee... which he blamed his Dad for forcing him to watch as a baby.
The next morning, Timmy awoke. Flat on his bed as his eyes gazed upwards upon sunshine shining through his aging Mister Men curtains. 'Get your clothes ready... school in an hour!' Shouted his mother. 'I can't do it' - thought the boy. 'I cannot face the day as a freak of a nature. Jessica hates me, Danny thinks I am a psycho-maniac, Mohammed keeps calling me an Infeedell - whatever that is, and the Winavich brothers are going to saw my legs off!'
Timmy paused for a moment. 'School? But it's Saturday?' He couldn't believe the teachers had forced an extra day of education. Much worse, this was the very first day he even knew about it - and on his birthday as well!
He looked down upon himself, afraid that he had grown any bigger, or, even worse, a set of roots.
But suddenly, he realized… his legs were back to normal? This didn't make any sense.
He stood up on his feet - feeling pretty odd, and much shorter than usual. He threw on his clothes, rushed out of the bedroom, and straight into the empty kitchen, and proceeded to munch away on his freshly cooked pancakes like a boy who had lived his entire life on a diet of gruel and outdated broken biscuits.
'What happened to you last night?' Asked his mother as she entered his vicinity. 'You kept calling yourself the master, all night long... almost made us miss our alarm call'. Timmy's eyes shot wide open, fully aware that it was all a dream - or maybe even a nightmare.
'Oh and by the way, Happy Birthday!' said Timmy's mother, as she plonked a nicely wrapped package upon his table – right beside an Octomus Prime cake containing ten candles.
Timmy ripped open the package with sheer excitement. Inside laid a pair of the freshest, most golden brown looking trousers he had ever seen. He frantically placed them over his legs...
They were a perfect fit.
The End.
Lee.
Timmy's Longest Legs:
Timmy had always dreamed of having legs. Long strands of mighty sticks the size of pole vaults. The kind which would - when he stood straight, leave him so high and mighty, every other boy and girl in his school would glaze upon him and bow down, like an omnipotent God for all the ages.
He had always been a small boy. His head would often meet most other children at their chests, and Timmy never enjoyed a conversation with torsos, and neither did the torsos. Nonetheless, for a boy as quiet and passive as he was, he was liked enough. Not too popular to receive invitations to all the cool birthday parties, but at the same time, in no way stupid enough to have worm containing mud thrown at him; unlike Anthony Grimes and Wayne Stickley - the boy who looked more like a Rat than most Rats could ever dream about.
Timmy was turning the big one zero in the morning. Ten years of age, finally! He felt like a man, and remained certain it was going to be the greatest Friday of his life.
Everything was primed for a perfect day; the prediction of glorious sunshine, the super-sized cake baked in the shape of Octomus Prime - he always wondered if Octomus Prime would take a day job delivering goods, if he ever lost his need to save the world from Megatron. And best of all, the brand spanking new pair of golden brown trousers - the exact kind Timmy had always wanted, since he first saw Harry Potter single-handedly take in the Dementours in them.
He was a firm believer in the power of magical trousers. More than anything, this was what his birthday was all about. And, wearing them, the day could have no negative consequences whatsoever. Well, minus the knowledge that his unrequited love for Jessica Grimshaw would yet again go unmerited.
Jessica only dated the best. In this case, Danny Smith - the boy nature was unfairly generous to. He was tall, athletic, sharp, witty, and could easily have passed for a fourth Jonas Brother. In short - he wasn't... unlike little Timmy.
Besides being the big one zero, tomorrow was also the day of the big annual school race - the 100 meters dash! Danny was clear favorite, as usual. For the last five years he had run and won every race of his year group at a canter, and this was going to be no exception.
This year's completion was a little fiercer, but no means any direct threat to Danny's crown as absolute master and ruler of year six; there was Sausage Matthews - the fattest child in the district of Northolt, and quite possibly the ugliest too - if it wasn't for Neville Beardsley - also in the race. Neville had more warts than a warthog, and more spots than a dalmatian. He had buck teeth, braces, and ate ugly burgers for dinner... apparently. Timmy has always wondered what an ugly burger looked like, not so much how it tasted - but assumed it was probably rather ugly, and came from a shop even worse than a Poundshop – if such a thing existed. The terrible Russian twins, Ivan and Drago Winavich had entered too. They were creating a real buzz - especially Drago. Both boys spoke little English, but fought like Lions. There were rumours Ivan and Drago were in fact military creations born from the height of communist Russia, and both fifty years of age. Timmy knew this wasn't true, as he never saw a reason why fifty-year-old Russian military experiments would collect Panini football stickers, and carry In The Night Garden lunchboxes.
There were others; Mohammed Mohammed - who was so blessed they named him twice, only to suffer a great equalizer of bandy legs and a set of mobs which would put Meat Loaf to shame. Billy Borarwitz, the Polish pansy - he was worse than Mohammed, except with a cooler name. And Princess Leah Johnson... who hated Star Wars!
Timmy had entered too - probably as a joke, most people thought. But nonetheless, little Timmy was steadfast that with enough determination, dedication, and desire, he could pull of the upset to end all upsets. He had checked cash converters in the hope of purchasing some good conditioned second-hand Flubber, or the juice drink drunk by Michael Jordan in Space Jam - but to no avail. If he would win the race - and the heart of Jessica Grimshaw, he would have to do it by an act of sheer force. Timmy was always positive, and would often find constructive means to climb ladders - like the time he used a ladder to climb onto his roof to retain his football.
He awoke from the thoughts of his slumber in dreams - aware school was almost over, as he looked up at the assembly room clock. The children had been singing 'The Sun Has Got His Hat On' - he always wondered why the sun needed a hat – and couldn’t figure out where it had got one from.
Jessica was sitting right beside him - which was odd, as she sure wasn't there when he fell asleep. 'Danny's gonna win it again tomorrow'. She beamed. 'He is untouchable'. Timmy turned his head towards her - his eyes peering on a small mark of chalk on the floor. 'I am confident in my abilities. I think I can pull off a shock'.
Jessica turned to him as if he had just denounced Christianity... 'You, win the race?' She laughed. 'Your legs are so weak they could be mistaken for white twiglets'. All the others kids around them laughed – as if they felt they had to, but never wanted to. Timmy shrunk, he never felt so small. And he always felt pretty small.
As the final bell of the day rang, Timmy slowly shuffled his way from the school gates, to go home. In passing, he caught site of a herd of kids circling around Danny as he juggled three coconuts with his eyes closed, with an ease of a man sitting on a lawn of a hot, sunny day. 'He will probably be president of the world someday', Timmy thought. 'I just want to be president of my bed'. It was too much for the boy, seeing a life he so desperately wanted, yet knew he could never have - not with these legs...
That night, Timmy lay in bed, his eyes as wide as a baboon’s bottom, and half as red. He clasped his hands together, as he closed his eyes. 'Hello Mister Godfrey, whoever you may be. I know I haven't visited you in a while, but... I was going to, but my X-Box always distracted me... I am sure you have an X-Box. Maybe we could play Call of Duty online someday? You can be the Taliban. Anyway, can you give me the greatest birthday of my life? I want it all, Mister Godfrey. Just for one day, please? I promise I will give you everything, if you give me everything back'. Timmy opened his eyes, then quickly closed then again. 'Oh and by the way, Mister Godfrey?’ Timmy said, a sly smile creeping from the left side of his mouth… ‘Let me be the master and ruler of year six’.
He rolled onto his side to find his sleep.
Tomorrow he would be ten.
Tomorrow he would own a brand new pair of trousers.
Tomorrow, he would win the heart of Jessica Grimshaw, the minds of everyone else, and find the soul of himself.
Tomorrow, he thought... was going to be a good, good day!
Timmy awoke, it was morning. He lay flat on his bed as his eyes gazed upwards upon sunshine shining through his aging Mister Men curtains. 'Get your clothes ready... school in an hour!' Shouted his mother. He pulled his covers off of himself, and went to stand on his little feet. Something was wrong? His balance and stature seemed somewhat off? He gingerly peered down. To his shock and horror, his legs had experienced a growth spurt... of immense proportions.
His legs were incredible! He stood, or tried to stand on them, at least. Eventually he managed to stand straight, except, his legs were so long; his neck was being twisted at a right angle by the ceiling. 'This is the worst feeling I have ever... hold on!' He paused for a moment 'I don't believe it, I now have....’ He smiled a molar sized beamer of a smile, ‘Superlegs!
Forgetting it was his birthday, and the presents which awaited him, he whipped on his top, then tried to pull on his trousers... they barely managed to fit, feeling like the tightest pair of shorts ever invented. His legs were so long, he couldn't even reach his feet to place on his shoes or socks. Even when he managed to slide into the holes, he could barely get his main three toes inside.
Bare footed and tight trousered, he ran all the way to school. He was moving at light speed. He felt like The Flash on atomic stilts, and his confidence grew bigger and bigger with each passing step. Once he arrived at the school, he mused; everyone will know who the real man of the playground is! They would see him, and cheer with almighty force at the power of his brand new Superlegs! He wished he had made a costume with a cape beforehand, but was never expecting this.
And yet, when he arrived to the usual strands of noisy children running around rambunctiously like a herd of wild wildebeest - every single soul; every child, teacher, and parent, paused in a physical silence of stone like quality. Every single set of eyes were glaring at him. Or, more precisely - up at him.
He was a clear three feet taller than the tallest adult around, and, no one really knew what to say or think. It was only when a little pigtailed girl from year three, screamed in fear as she ran out of the school grounds, that Mrs Irksome - the kindly old dear, and teacher of English Literature, asked Timmy if he could go take a seat in the headmasters office, that the ardent curiosity slowly died down. If anything, it was too unreal to even be real.
As Timmy sat down - barely, his head still arched by the ceiling, Mister Divinity - the headmaster, came in and took a seat. Mister Divinity was a rotund man with a white beard the size of a beehive. He liked to talk slow and methodical - as if he were Sigmund Freud. But to Timmy – and most ten year olds, was one of the silliest men they had ever met.
'Well, my boy!'. He said as he gazed towards the ceiling in Timmy's direction, while chewing on a Chicken Wrap from Boots, which contained a reduced price sticker of 15pence. 'Perhaps you watered your legs a little too much last night. I really do not know what to do with you. He paused, for a moment, trying to look as intelligent as he wasn't.
'Can I still run the race later?'. Timmy asked. 'Yes, I don't see why not. After all, sports day is for everyone. You are going to have to spend the remainder of the time in the sports hall though. You may need to go to a special school for kids with giant sized legs'. 'Superlegs!' quipped Timmy. 'Indeed' Mister Divinity motioned, before his stood up to leave. 'Now, be on your way, that's a good boy'.
Mister Divinity left his own office, the sandwich now thrown in the bin full of other reduced Boots Chicken Wraps - which Timmy thought a little odd.
Slowly, Timmy took to his giant feet, and made the short trip to the very next door to the sports hall – fortune, he thought, still kind of on his side. He decided to lie on the floor and consider his options as a giant. This wasn't the birthday he envisioned.
As the day passed - besides the merriment of children looking through the windows with, expressions of shock or amusement, and the ten minutes he spent sitting on the basketball hoop, the day moved without incident. Timmy felt lonely, and imagined a life as a giant. He thought he could be a professional basketball player? But he found it boring and squeaky, and he needed Flubber anyway. There was always professional wrestling; Timmy the Tower, he would call himself... until he found a better alias. He would use a finishing move in which his giant legs would drop down onto his opponent – much like a spider over a trapped fly for dinner… then again, perhaps not. He didn’t want to hug oiled men in their pants. Perhaps he would find a beanstalk and live there until Jack paid him a visit? Or even join the circus? It was a tough call, but one he knew he would eventually have to make.
His clock beeped, it was two o'clock. He stood up - again struggling, and left for the confines of the 100 meters dash... which he could see in the distance of the school fields, as a crowd slowly built.
Timmy slowly walked to the race track. He could see ahead all the eyes silently watching him. He felt numb, slightly tired, but confident he would win the race. At least, this would change the way everyone looks at him - even if it is upwards. He caught sight of Jessica, standing on sight of the finish line. An ardent curiosity towards him etched in her eyes. He knew she wanted him, he knew it! He knew how it worked, for he had seen Teen Wolf before. He just had to win, is all.
He approached the front line - nervous, but standing his ground. He looked down at all the other competitors. Danny carried a look in his eyes Timmy had never seen before – it was fear. For the first time in Timmy's young life... he had power! And, much as it confused him to feel so, he knew he loved it!
Ivan and Drago stood lane by lane. Emotionless, steadfast, and ready to explode with vigour. Sausage Matthews and Neville Beardsley were waiting to run. But, as in all cases, seemed a little out of it to cause any major damage. Though Timmy had wondered how fast Sausage would run if a Chicken McNugget was tied to his head, with a string an inch too far for his arms to reach.
Mohammed, Billy, and Princess all awaited the starting gun too, determined to achieve the ignominy of the wooden spoon of last place – a spoon which probably made for good porridge eating, Timmy thought. There was a silence from the motioning crowd as everything and everyone paused. The anticipation could be sliced in two – even with a wooden spoon. The crowd paused, a silent wind brushed Timmy’s legs - bang! The gun went off, and the race had started;
Within seconds, Timmy had amassed a strong lead from the ginormous strides of his beanstalk legs. It was clear after the first few moments, only Ivan, Drago, Danny and Timmy had any chance of success - evident by the heavy puffing of Mohammed, Billy, and Princess. Sausage and Neville had stopped altogether - not that Timmy knew, all he could see was the finishing line.
He was flying - with immense ease. He would win this at a canter, he thought. And suddenly found himself slowing down, arrogantly moving like a man who had nothing to fear and no chance of losing. Of course, he had not taken into account the sheer determination of Danny, Ivan, and Drago, who - seemingly out of nowhere, had all turned into machines of drive and pure heart and ambition. Suddenly - as they approached the finish line, all four were neck and neck.
As Timmy turned around, in shock of the challenge beside him, his left stump caught on an uneven piece of grounding. With a calamitous thud of somewhat comedic proportions, a series of eight legs came tumbling downwards upon each other. As Danny fell into Timmy, Timmy fell into Ivan, who in turn, fell into Drago. As they all crumbled upon a mass of dust at the finish line, they all lay motionless on the floor, conscious, but very tired. As the dust slowly cleared its way upward, it was only one small body part which lay over the finish line... Timmy's feet.
As they all made their way onto their soles, Mrs Irksome came over, and raised Timmy's hand in victory. 'Your winner!' she proudly proclaimed, 'Timmy Taylor!'. Timmy had won, and yet, no one seemed to applaud. Again, it was the victory of a freak-show, not a prime athlete. Timmy stood in grand joy, still miles taller than everyone else. ‘Master! Master! I am the master!’ He shouted, with sheer joy. This was his moment, and was he going to let everyone know this.
'I will saw legs away' Said Ivan, to Drago. 'Not before I do'. replied Drago, to Ivan. Timmy heard, but remained silent. He was too afraid they meant it. Mohammed chipped in 'You are an infidel'. Followed by Danny's two cents of 'Well done, Taylor. But you scare the bananas out of me!’
Jessica, however, was smitten by his victory, and, as she sprinted towards him and tried to throw him a hug, could only reach up to his belly button. He attempted to lean down and give her a peck on the cheek, but even on his knees, was too tall. As an awkward minute of trying passed, Jessica began to see the fear in poor Timmy's eyes. And, in a sudden snap, let go of him, stood back, and shouted, 'You are weird!’ Worse still, before he was able to collect his trophy, Mister Divinity turned up and – munching on a reduced Boots Chicken Wrap, and his Sigmund Freud head held low, told the boy 'Sorry Timmy, we have had to disqualify you. Your legs entered too many lanes... and the parents are in uproar. Also, you are too tall for your head to appear in the celebration photograph'.
He pulled a wooden spoon out of his back pocket, and reached up to hand it to Timmy. ‘I don’t even like porridge’, Timmy said to himself.
Mister Divinity walked off, grabbed the trophy from a makeshift table, handed it to Danny - who smiled like a man who could juggle coconuts with his eyes closed, and everybody crowded around him, leaving Timmy sad, alone, and a boy who carried a spoon with no porridge, with only his giant legs to solemnly carry him home.
He entered the house, despondently. A note was stuck to the banisters, which Timmy grabbed in an instant. 'Dear Timothy, we have had to run out and collect an important parcel from the Post Office, as we missed our alarm call this morning. Have left your present in the kitchen. Happy Birthday!’
Timmy moved into the kitchen as fast as he could. His head still arched at a right angle from the ceiling. In all the excitement of the day’s events, he had totally forgotten it was his birthday, and, more importantly, it was the day of his birthday presents!
In the kitchen, his awful day was finally going to relieve itself with the intriguing box sitting on the table. He went down on his knees, lifted the lid of the present, and pulled out a gorgeous pair of brand spanking new golden brown trousers!
In a hurry, without even taking off his current pair, he attempted to pull them on as fast as he can. In doing so he ripped them in half at the seems - his legs far too thick and long to maintain the fabric. Timmy dropped back onto the wall with despair. His race was won, but his friends were lost. His girl had gone, and his strength was lost. He was tired, lonely, devoid of air from the low oxygen of the skies. His pair of trousers had become two pairs of half-trousers, and, to top it all off, there was no Octomus Prime cake for him to munch away the evening on.
Timmy walked despondently up the stairs, his knees never fully stretching out. He was so drained and tired, and could barely contain the energy to do little more than drop onto his bed, as his legs hung long across the room.
'This has been the worst birthday of my life'. Frowned Timmy. 'All I wanted to do was win the race, get a compliment off Jessica, wear myself a pair of lovely golden brown trousers, and eat an Octomus Prime cake.’.
He cried himself to sleep. Wondering just how he would manage to live the rest of his life with a pair of freakishly large legs. He decided the first thing he would do, is go to the library - if he could fit in there, and find a copy of Frankenstein, Quasimodo, or a biography on Jimmy Kranee... which he blamed his Dad for forcing him to watch as a baby.
The next morning, Timmy awoke. Flat on his bed as his eyes gazed upwards upon sunshine shining through his aging Mister Men curtains. 'Get your clothes ready... school in an hour!' Shouted his mother. 'I can't do it' - thought the boy. 'I cannot face the day as a freak of a nature. Jessica hates me, Danny thinks I am a psycho-maniac, Mohammed keeps calling me an Infeedell - whatever that is, and the Winavich brothers are going to saw my legs off!'
Timmy paused for a moment. 'School? But it's Saturday?' He couldn't believe the teachers had forced an extra day of education. Much worse, this was the very first day he even knew about it - and on his birthday as well!
He looked down upon himself, afraid that he had grown any bigger, or, even worse, a set of roots.
But suddenly, he realized… his legs were back to normal? This didn't make any sense.
He stood up on his feet - feeling pretty odd, and much shorter than usual. He threw on his clothes, rushed out of the bedroom, and straight into the empty kitchen, and proceeded to munch away on his freshly cooked pancakes like a boy who had lived his entire life on a diet of gruel and outdated broken biscuits.
'What happened to you last night?' Asked his mother as she entered his vicinity. 'You kept calling yourself the master, all night long... almost made us miss our alarm call'. Timmy's eyes shot wide open, fully aware that it was all a dream - or maybe even a nightmare.
'Oh and by the way, Happy Birthday!' said Timmy's mother, as she plonked a nicely wrapped package upon his table – right beside an Octomus Prime cake containing ten candles.
Timmy ripped open the package with sheer excitement. Inside laid a pair of the freshest, most golden brown looking trousers he had ever seen. He frantically placed them over his legs...
They were a perfect fit.
The End.
Lee.
War Of The Weirdos.
I am slightly afraid at this moment. Maybe afraid isn't the exact word I am searching for, and a more appropriate term would be unnerved. It all stems from some bizarre middle-aged woman mailing me through Facebook, talking about all sorts of oddness to do with valentines day and secret admirers she has. I still do not understand how she can have a secret admirer, who she knows is not on facebook. For if he is secret, how the hell does she know anyway?
This was bad enough, but then, after I added her account using a secret fake account I keep, in case of situations such as this, she has up-linked my profile, with the picture of me and Marissa on the front - in one of her profile updates. This, for want of a better set of words, is kinda screwed up. And it scares me too. Not in the funny 'what a weirdo' kind of a way, but in the 'Jesus... I don't even know this person' type thing. Anyway, I blocked her, warned Marissa, and hope this is the end of that. But man it feels creepy. I ave an affection towards weirdos, yes. But stalkers are just dangerous.
The second odd thing, was an old chubby guy who started talking to me in Starbucks about my amazing laptop. Which isn't that amazing, as it is four years old, has low memory compared to most modern machines, has a few keys missing, and ran windows 7 at a speed so slow, that even snails would ridicule it. Of course, I have written my amazing book using this, but this is another form of value altogether.
He was telling me how he plays Clarinet Jazz through his laptop, and records it - which is fair enough. Then asked me if I was Australian... which, considering I have had people think I was Irish, Scottish, German, Italian, Croatian, Turkish, Arabic (When tanned), and South African (While standing in a freezing Rugby field in my underpants), is probably not that great of a shock. I was however, weirded out when, a few hours later, as I sat in the boardwalk of Edgware eating a reduced wholemeal sandwich from Boots (receipt retained for points), and looked on at the clothing shop ahead of mes collection of tacky t-shirts - bearing such original slogans such as 'Remember my name, you'll be screaming it later', or 'If found, please take to the nearest pub', wondering to myself who in the hell actually wears this crap... Mister Jazz man turned up and grabbed a copy of the screaming t-shirt, and took it in the store to buy it. My first thought being that whoever is screaming his name later, must be seriously blind, desperate, or both! It's funny really, if I wore a t-shirt bearing the face of Albert Einstein, most people would both wonder who he is, and think I am odd. Yet wear a t-shirt which expresses an inability to be original and independent, and a bunch of dumb-arses will love you. Oh and fellas, just so you know, those t-shirts make you look both stupid and desperate. And the last time I checked, stupid and desperate do not equate to high value, social cognition, and strong replication value... go look the words up.
Anyhow, needed to get this off my chest. I feel better now. Just want to live my life, make good associations, and help others too.
And, to miss bizarre woman, if you read this. I wish you all the best, but with due respect, bugger off. And to Mister Jazz man... just bugger off. I love you both really, but not enough to take it further than this.
Lee.
This was bad enough, but then, after I added her account using a secret fake account I keep, in case of situations such as this, she has up-linked my profile, with the picture of me and Marissa on the front - in one of her profile updates. This, for want of a better set of words, is kinda screwed up. And it scares me too. Not in the funny 'what a weirdo' kind of a way, but in the 'Jesus... I don't even know this person' type thing. Anyway, I blocked her, warned Marissa, and hope this is the end of that. But man it feels creepy. I ave an affection towards weirdos, yes. But stalkers are just dangerous.
The second odd thing, was an old chubby guy who started talking to me in Starbucks about my amazing laptop. Which isn't that amazing, as it is four years old, has low memory compared to most modern machines, has a few keys missing, and ran windows 7 at a speed so slow, that even snails would ridicule it. Of course, I have written my amazing book using this, but this is another form of value altogether.
He was telling me how he plays Clarinet Jazz through his laptop, and records it - which is fair enough. Then asked me if I was Australian... which, considering I have had people think I was Irish, Scottish, German, Italian, Croatian, Turkish, Arabic (When tanned), and South African (While standing in a freezing Rugby field in my underpants), is probably not that great of a shock. I was however, weirded out when, a few hours later, as I sat in the boardwalk of Edgware eating a reduced wholemeal sandwich from Boots (receipt retained for points), and looked on at the clothing shop ahead of mes collection of tacky t-shirts - bearing such original slogans such as 'Remember my name, you'll be screaming it later', or 'If found, please take to the nearest pub', wondering to myself who in the hell actually wears this crap... Mister Jazz man turned up and grabbed a copy of the screaming t-shirt, and took it in the store to buy it. My first thought being that whoever is screaming his name later, must be seriously blind, desperate, or both! It's funny really, if I wore a t-shirt bearing the face of Albert Einstein, most people would both wonder who he is, and think I am odd. Yet wear a t-shirt which expresses an inability to be original and independent, and a bunch of dumb-arses will love you. Oh and fellas, just so you know, those t-shirts make you look both stupid and desperate. And the last time I checked, stupid and desperate do not equate to high value, social cognition, and strong replication value... go look the words up.
Anyhow, needed to get this off my chest. I feel better now. Just want to live my life, make good associations, and help others too.
And, to miss bizarre woman, if you read this. I wish you all the best, but with due respect, bugger off. And to Mister Jazz man... just bugger off. I love you both really, but not enough to take it further than this.
Lee.
When Today Becomes Yesterday.
Today, right now, this very moment, I am alive. I intend for this to be true for as long as my mind, body, and soul allow me to continue living and breathing. And, while I am aware that of course nobody is truly immortal, I am also pretty hopeful that Mother Nature and Father Time will treat this child of theirs with the decency he tries to give them back. Not always, but the intention - more or less, is generally positive and progressive.
One element I remain constantly aware of, is that at 30 years of age, the next decade of my life is arguably going to be the one which truly defines this life I have been afforded. I am at my physical peak, and, even though the process is going to be very very slow, my dedicated nature towards diet and exercise, (some call it obsession, I call it lifestyle), as well as writing, reading and general inquisitive prowess of life, should keep me of extreme fitness and health, both mentally, physically and emotionally, for many years to come. But now, I know, seems to me not just a time in my life, but THE time in my life.
Perhaps this is simple immaturity speaking. Perhaps when i turn fourty I will feel exactly the same as I do now - I really do not know, as I am not there yet to say. But, as I look at a few images from the past year of my life, I realize that one day, a decade or so from now when I view these same images again, I will be looking at me - and everyone else in my life ,and thinking to myself how god damn young and amazing we looked.
How every hope, dream, idea, and plan lay there, right in front of our very eyes. Waiting and begging for us to grab them with an iron fist. And even if we do or we don't, it is somewhat irrelevant, as regardless of the outcome of the next decade, the now remains beautiful. The now remains all that life truly is. We spend our lives looking backwards, or looking forwards. We are told to live FOR the moment, but, really, we should be living IN the moment... now is all we have. Whether that now is lving in this today, tomorrow, next week, or even next year.
So go outside into the living world tomorrow, and embrace this life you have been given to you. Go and tell someone you like a style of clothing they wear. Softly pat a doggy on the head. Give a small gift to a total stranger. Do anything positive. Create moments of today, which you can look back on when the moment becomes blurred in history, and all you can see is the smile or the brightened eyes of the reaction to a shocking yet pleasing moment of pure human kindness. It is like the question someone once asked me if I collected anything; whether it be comic books, DVDs, figurines etc... I never had an answer, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized, the one thing I am trying to collect, is memories!
There are those who are a hell of a lot better at it than I am, and perhaps it is only in the past year or so, that i have really started to get as good at it as I wish to. And in many ways, this blog itself is an indication of that fact...
Have a good evening world...
Lee.
One element I remain constantly aware of, is that at 30 years of age, the next decade of my life is arguably going to be the one which truly defines this life I have been afforded. I am at my physical peak, and, even though the process is going to be very very slow, my dedicated nature towards diet and exercise, (some call it obsession, I call it lifestyle), as well as writing, reading and general inquisitive prowess of life, should keep me of extreme fitness and health, both mentally, physically and emotionally, for many years to come. But now, I know, seems to me not just a time in my life, but THE time in my life.
Perhaps this is simple immaturity speaking. Perhaps when i turn fourty I will feel exactly the same as I do now - I really do not know, as I am not there yet to say. But, as I look at a few images from the past year of my life, I realize that one day, a decade or so from now when I view these same images again, I will be looking at me - and everyone else in my life ,and thinking to myself how god damn young and amazing we looked.
How every hope, dream, idea, and plan lay there, right in front of our very eyes. Waiting and begging for us to grab them with an iron fist. And even if we do or we don't, it is somewhat irrelevant, as regardless of the outcome of the next decade, the now remains beautiful. The now remains all that life truly is. We spend our lives looking backwards, or looking forwards. We are told to live FOR the moment, but, really, we should be living IN the moment... now is all we have. Whether that now is lving in this today, tomorrow, next week, or even next year.
So go outside into the living world tomorrow, and embrace this life you have been given to you. Go and tell someone you like a style of clothing they wear. Softly pat a doggy on the head. Give a small gift to a total stranger. Do anything positive. Create moments of today, which you can look back on when the moment becomes blurred in history, and all you can see is the smile or the brightened eyes of the reaction to a shocking yet pleasing moment of pure human kindness. It is like the question someone once asked me if I collected anything; whether it be comic books, DVDs, figurines etc... I never had an answer, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized, the one thing I am trying to collect, is memories!
There are those who are a hell of a lot better at it than I am, and perhaps it is only in the past year or so, that i have really started to get as good at it as I wish to. And in many ways, this blog itself is an indication of that fact...
Have a good evening world...
Lee.
Momentary Words...
As I happened to present and then delete just as quickly, a short excerpt of my book the other day. I have no decided to place up another portion of the work, owing to a conversation with a conversation with Darren and Marcello this morning. Who, if you don't know who they are, are in fact two people who you don't know who they are.
This is still part of the 1st edit, and in no way is an exact replica of the finished product... if anything, it is about 85% of this sections completion.
I hope whoever reads this can offer some feedback of construction... but if not, enjoy the words if you can.
The section is on the media, and is from chapter 5;
'The newspaper is a readily accepted source which promotes itself as presenting facts of information, as opposed to general opinion of the writer. And yet, just as with the Mona Lisa, The Bayeux Tapestry, or any form of artwork in human history before 1825, when has any redressing of information been strictly told down the middle? We are conditioned from the day we are born, to view everything in the ways which suit the generation which lies directly above our own, and the only way to remain neutral, is to consistently and consciously stay aware of any lapse of equality – and even then, many people simply wouldn’t want to. History is revisionist, and, is always written by the winners.
This is why the photograph merited itself as such a powerful human creation. An image of a man taken by a neutral, motiveless machine - much like a record of the sound waves they create is, unless there is some form of virtual intelligence we as a species are as yet unaware of - a completely neutral impression. It was fast, effective, and could capture in a flash of a light bulb, something an artist could spend weeks, months, and even years pondering over, even then never fully able to convey true impartiality.
The same concept applied to anything else captured by camera, whether it was a building, a plant, a chair, an animal – literally anything within the confines of our reachable universe.
The human desire for control over its own knowledge and power of technology was, by the early dawns of the twentieth century, about to begin a progression of perpetual motion which would have astounded even the most ambitious and hopeful of scientists, inventors and philosophers of the time. Whilst photography was a wonderful new form of technology for it’s time, a simple image was only a small microcosm of the very basis of what was to manifest over the course of the evolution of technology and media - up until this very day, and beyond.'
The chapter then progresses to the powers and inception of media upon our world, and the dangers and promises it has both created and infected as a global form of human conditioning.
Lee.
Drunks And Football.
There was a guy in Starbucks today for a brief moment of about ten to fifteen minutes or so this afternoon. Now, a guy in Starbucks is of course a pretty common occurrence - I am one of these myself. Albeit an incredible and amazing one at that, who really should be paid to write in there as it raises the level of awesomeness. But what can I do? The fella in question was in his fifties, bald - virtually, badly dressed and reeking of urine. In simple terms, he was one of the piss-heads who hangs around the corner, who for some reason that made no sense to anyone, decided to pop in for a latte, which just shows that beggars can in fact be choosers.
He was pretty loud, almost annoying to the point that perhaps two or three years ago I may well have snapped and told him to shut up, but, in truth, he was pretty harmless and talking to all and sundry in a pleasant enough way, as those same people politely responded in a style forced by the societal structures of social interaction - which I adhere to less and less each day, and feel so much better for it. This is where I would have been much more blunt, but I was sitting in an alcove by the window, and, beside catching some dude throw up outside an hour or so before, it wasn't too bad a view.
Anyway, what caught me most about the fella, was his ad-nauseum booming repetition of the phrase 'We beat Man Utd, we are Arsenal!!'. I heard it and, much as I appreciate the skill and talent of Arsenal football club (And they truly are something to behold), I kinda realized that this guy probably had little else in his life which served him any form of internal validation. I mean, he didn't beat Man Utd... he got pissed, went home, propped his lazy arse on the sofa, and watched the immensely talented Arsenal team beat Man Utd. There is a difference. Does this merit me supporting the postman? If he wins a tenner on the lottery, I can walk around shouting... 'We won a tenner on the lottery!' We are my postman! Or when Andy Murray wins a grand-slam, omit the same proclamations?
It took me back to a bus journey home back in June last year, the evening after me, Darren, and Marissa had viewed, like most of the country, England's hammering and elimination from the 2010 World Cup by Germany, in The Junction in Harrow. (Ironically, the very same pub I saw them go out of the World Cup in 2006 - a firm indication to broaden my horizons if there ever was one).Going home, I happen to spot a disheveled looking English male in his mid-40's, as he sat alone on an old rotted wooden bench of a virtually empty small row of local shops - a beer can resting by his side, as his head lay hung down deep in his hands, and carrying an expession of a man who has just lost everything... not a piece of love, a moment of chance, or a section of time, but, everything! Dejection was an understatement. Personally, it was a shame, and I really thought England would at least turn up and do some credible damage, beyond that of their own ridiculously unmerited reputation, (England are, much as I hate to admit it, the Tottenham Hotspurs of international football). But, looking at my girlfriend ,and a guy I have seen grow up into a man it is simply impossible to either dislike or have any negativity towards, I realized it didn't really matter. Life went on.
I just wonder how it must be to live a life where all your happiness and feelings of euphoria are determined by acts you are completely helpless to effect? That scares me. I will admit to being someone who attains control issues, which are improving with maturity. But to place it all in the hands of people you have never even met? I don't know, it makes no sense to me.
It doesn't mean celebrating a teams achievement is not a good thing. Without fans, there are no potential for a team to build or nurture. But when it is literally the only thing you have... that is kinda scary to me! Then again, I support Barnet... so even the thought of abject glory, is ridiculous by itself.
Anyway, best rush off to buy the postman a lottery ticket.
Lee.
He was pretty loud, almost annoying to the point that perhaps two or three years ago I may well have snapped and told him to shut up, but, in truth, he was pretty harmless and talking to all and sundry in a pleasant enough way, as those same people politely responded in a style forced by the societal structures of social interaction - which I adhere to less and less each day, and feel so much better for it. This is where I would have been much more blunt, but I was sitting in an alcove by the window, and, beside catching some dude throw up outside an hour or so before, it wasn't too bad a view.
Anyway, what caught me most about the fella, was his ad-nauseum booming repetition of the phrase 'We beat Man Utd, we are Arsenal!!'. I heard it and, much as I appreciate the skill and talent of Arsenal football club (And they truly are something to behold), I kinda realized that this guy probably had little else in his life which served him any form of internal validation. I mean, he didn't beat Man Utd... he got pissed, went home, propped his lazy arse on the sofa, and watched the immensely talented Arsenal team beat Man Utd. There is a difference. Does this merit me supporting the postman? If he wins a tenner on the lottery, I can walk around shouting... 'We won a tenner on the lottery!' We are my postman! Or when Andy Murray wins a grand-slam, omit the same proclamations?
It took me back to a bus journey home back in June last year, the evening after me, Darren, and Marissa had viewed, like most of the country, England's hammering and elimination from the 2010 World Cup by Germany, in The Junction in Harrow. (Ironically, the very same pub I saw them go out of the World Cup in 2006 - a firm indication to broaden my horizons if there ever was one).Going home, I happen to spot a disheveled looking English male in his mid-40's, as he sat alone on an old rotted wooden bench of a virtually empty small row of local shops - a beer can resting by his side, as his head lay hung down deep in his hands, and carrying an expession of a man who has just lost everything... not a piece of love, a moment of chance, or a section of time, but, everything! Dejection was an understatement. Personally, it was a shame, and I really thought England would at least turn up and do some credible damage, beyond that of their own ridiculously unmerited reputation, (England are, much as I hate to admit it, the Tottenham Hotspurs of international football). But, looking at my girlfriend ,and a guy I have seen grow up into a man it is simply impossible to either dislike or have any negativity towards, I realized it didn't really matter. Life went on.
I just wonder how it must be to live a life where all your happiness and feelings of euphoria are determined by acts you are completely helpless to effect? That scares me. I will admit to being someone who attains control issues, which are improving with maturity. But to place it all in the hands of people you have never even met? I don't know, it makes no sense to me.
It doesn't mean celebrating a teams achievement is not a good thing. Without fans, there are no potential for a team to build or nurture. But when it is literally the only thing you have... that is kinda scary to me! Then again, I support Barnet... so even the thought of abject glory, is ridiculous by itself.
Anyway, best rush off to buy the postman a lottery ticket.
Lee.
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