I kind of lost count of how much booze I consumed over the weekend, but I suspect it was at the high end of the forties, units-wise. So far this week, not a drop.
And I bought a laptop last night for £66!
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Poverty.
We entered the house,my son and I. It was a birthday party for one of his friends. Everywhere, there were the signs of building work and house improvement. The hallway was half-stripped wall and bare plaster; a door for the living room was still encased in its plastic wrap; a toilet lay covered in dust, waiting to be plumbed in; the kitchen-cum-dining room, newly extended, was a hotch-potch of old furniture, dismantled panels, and packages waiting to become new furniture. Half the lights didn't work. In the year since we'd last been there, it seemed to me that little had changed, except that the hostess' eyes had more lines around them, darker circles of care. I couldn't help noticing a letter rack bulging with bills and torn envelopes. The party fare, laid out on a worn paper tablecloth, was of the kind of things that kids loved, but it was spread thinly. Cheap fizzy drinks clustered to the side; Value sausage rolls were cooling off on a paper plate, and setting in their own grease; Lurid pink iced biscuits were lumped on a tray uninvitingly.
While the kids entertained themselves, I asked the hostess how it was going.
'Oh, fine', she said, 'you know. It's a bit tricky at the moment, but it's a birthday; we have to do something for that.'
And everywhere about the place, there was that smell; the smell of clothes that had been left a little too long, a little too damp, on a dryer; the smell of bodies not quite looked after; cheap perfume, cheap room deodorants, cheap detergents, all with their bitter underscore in the nose; cheap food, exuding unhealthiness into the air like a plague; And worse, the smell of desperation, a need to rise above this seeming morass, a vast, hungry desire to make it, to be bigger, better, stronger, all of it expressed in the dust and damp smell of Home Improvement.
The United Kingdom is still, just about, the fourth largest economy in the world, a fact that never fails to stagger me when I look about and see how many people in this country are quite clearly living in poverty. Now, I'm not talking about the gut-churning, soul-wrenching horrors of the Brazilian Favelas or slumtowns of Nairobi, to name but two, or the abject existence of the average Chinese peasant (don't be fooled by the economic miracle there - most of the population still grinds out a living from the land) - no, I'm talking the poverty of lives that are truly unlived. It's a poverty that ironically takes its shape from having a glut of things, a riot of choices - all of which are placed in front of the punter with no information given as to how to use them. And without knowledge, all choices are necessarily bad, because we don't know what to do with them.
I've mentioned before my profound mistrust and, indeed, hatred of advertising, and the main reason why is because it sells nothing but dreams, and grinds our faces back into the apparent nightmare of our own existence - I say apparent, as all ads imply that without the product being sold, we are somehow inadequate. Adverts essentially exploit poverty, or the perception thereof, leaving people unhappy with their lot. This has become especially noticeable, in Britain at least, over the past twenty-five years or so,certainly since that nemesis of honesty and decency, Margaret Thatcher, pronounced that there was no such thing as society, and opened the floodgates of the morass of greed we find ourselves in now.
I have to go back here a little bit, and describe my family as we found ourselves in the mid-70s, and one particular incident that etched itself on my mind. It was, if memory serves me correctly, my mum and dad's wedding anniversary. My granddad and nan had bought them a pine welsh dresser, and I remember thinking then, as it was unwrappped and given pride of place in acorner of the living room, 'Wow! Nan and Granddad must be really rich!' Also, another incident, visiting one of my uncles, and being impressed not only by their detached house with large (to my eyes) garden, but also their top-of-the-range family tent, resplendent in 1970's orange and brown swirls.
I still have that welsh dresser; its base sits in my living room now, a rather nondescript piece of not very expensive furniture. Its top is in my shed, being used to house various garden implements. In other words, a rather cheap piece of household goods impressed me with its wealth way back then. And it is only in the past few years in conversation with both my parents that I have realised just how poor, in real finacial terms, we were back then. However, it was something I never noticed at all. I never realised that I was supposed to be counted as being one o f the poor, and I daresay that my parents never contenanced this either, at the time.
Yet things change. How would we define poverty now? Who do we see as poor in our own society, let alone in the developing world? It strikes me that the goalposts have not been so much shifted as raised to almost impossible limits. You MUST have that iPod, You MUST have that plasma screen telly, you MUST have those trainers, you MUST have the right kind of flooring, you MUST have white teeth, glossy hair, perfect tits, even more perfect sex, the best set of wheels, perfect abs, brilliant mates et cetera et cetera ad fucking nauseam.
And it's impossible to be that! In other words, we consign ourselves to an apparent failure, one tinged with that odour I mentioned at the beginning of this piece, the scent of poverty's desperation. However, it's important to remember this one important fact: The vast majority of us are born into 'poverty'. Look around you at the world: of the other five or six people born in the same second as you were, you are the only one of them, statistically speaking, who is actually even able to read this, let alone having access to the internet; two of them are almost certainly dead due to poverty-related diseases.
In reality, we must distinguish the different forms of poverty that afflict us all. Now, I could go on about Maslow's hierarchy of needs at this point, but I'm not going to - if you're interested, do some googling on the subject. Basically, there is objective, real poverty, based on a lack of those things that are essential - shelter, clothing, clean water and adequate food. This we all know, and I think it is fair to say that no-one in the UK can say that they lack any of these - or that should be the case. Notice, by the way, I say adequate food, not necessarily healthy food - that should cover some of the crap Brits are liable to consume. No, other forms of poverty haunt us: a subjective poverty, based on our measurements against how well or badly others are doing compared to us; Poverty of choice, being stuck in a rut or a situation that one cannot escape; A poverty of education, meaning we cannot exercise choice in a meaningful way; And a poverty of mind, a bleak outlook that informs us that we are defined by how we appear and what we consume rather than by what we really are.
While the kids entertained themselves, I asked the hostess how it was going.
'Oh, fine', she said, 'you know. It's a bit tricky at the moment, but it's a birthday; we have to do something for that.'
And everywhere about the place, there was that smell; the smell of clothes that had been left a little too long, a little too damp, on a dryer; the smell of bodies not quite looked after; cheap perfume, cheap room deodorants, cheap detergents, all with their bitter underscore in the nose; cheap food, exuding unhealthiness into the air like a plague; And worse, the smell of desperation, a need to rise above this seeming morass, a vast, hungry desire to make it, to be bigger, better, stronger, all of it expressed in the dust and damp smell of Home Improvement.
The United Kingdom is still, just about, the fourth largest economy in the world, a fact that never fails to stagger me when I look about and see how many people in this country are quite clearly living in poverty. Now, I'm not talking about the gut-churning, soul-wrenching horrors of the Brazilian Favelas or slumtowns of Nairobi, to name but two, or the abject existence of the average Chinese peasant (don't be fooled by the economic miracle there - most of the population still grinds out a living from the land) - no, I'm talking the poverty of lives that are truly unlived. It's a poverty that ironically takes its shape from having a glut of things, a riot of choices - all of which are placed in front of the punter with no information given as to how to use them. And without knowledge, all choices are necessarily bad, because we don't know what to do with them.
I've mentioned before my profound mistrust and, indeed, hatred of advertising, and the main reason why is because it sells nothing but dreams, and grinds our faces back into the apparent nightmare of our own existence - I say apparent, as all ads imply that without the product being sold, we are somehow inadequate. Adverts essentially exploit poverty, or the perception thereof, leaving people unhappy with their lot. This has become especially noticeable, in Britain at least, over the past twenty-five years or so,certainly since that nemesis of honesty and decency, Margaret Thatcher, pronounced that there was no such thing as society, and opened the floodgates of the morass of greed we find ourselves in now.
I have to go back here a little bit, and describe my family as we found ourselves in the mid-70s, and one particular incident that etched itself on my mind. It was, if memory serves me correctly, my mum and dad's wedding anniversary. My granddad and nan had bought them a pine welsh dresser, and I remember thinking then, as it was unwrappped and given pride of place in acorner of the living room, 'Wow! Nan and Granddad must be really rich!' Also, another incident, visiting one of my uncles, and being impressed not only by their detached house with large (to my eyes) garden, but also their top-of-the-range family tent, resplendent in 1970's orange and brown swirls.
I still have that welsh dresser; its base sits in my living room now, a rather nondescript piece of not very expensive furniture. Its top is in my shed, being used to house various garden implements. In other words, a rather cheap piece of household goods impressed me with its wealth way back then. And it is only in the past few years in conversation with both my parents that I have realised just how poor, in real finacial terms, we were back then. However, it was something I never noticed at all. I never realised that I was supposed to be counted as being one o f the poor, and I daresay that my parents never contenanced this either, at the time.
Yet things change. How would we define poverty now? Who do we see as poor in our own society, let alone in the developing world? It strikes me that the goalposts have not been so much shifted as raised to almost impossible limits. You MUST have that iPod, You MUST have that plasma screen telly, you MUST have those trainers, you MUST have the right kind of flooring, you MUST have white teeth, glossy hair, perfect tits, even more perfect sex, the best set of wheels, perfect abs, brilliant mates et cetera et cetera ad fucking nauseam.
And it's impossible to be that! In other words, we consign ourselves to an apparent failure, one tinged with that odour I mentioned at the beginning of this piece, the scent of poverty's desperation. However, it's important to remember this one important fact: The vast majority of us are born into 'poverty'. Look around you at the world: of the other five or six people born in the same second as you were, you are the only one of them, statistically speaking, who is actually even able to read this, let alone having access to the internet; two of them are almost certainly dead due to poverty-related diseases.
In reality, we must distinguish the different forms of poverty that afflict us all. Now, I could go on about Maslow's hierarchy of needs at this point, but I'm not going to - if you're interested, do some googling on the subject. Basically, there is objective, real poverty, based on a lack of those things that are essential - shelter, clothing, clean water and adequate food. This we all know, and I think it is fair to say that no-one in the UK can say that they lack any of these - or that should be the case. Notice, by the way, I say adequate food, not necessarily healthy food - that should cover some of the crap Brits are liable to consume. No, other forms of poverty haunt us: a subjective poverty, based on our measurements against how well or badly others are doing compared to us; Poverty of choice, being stuck in a rut or a situation that one cannot escape; A poverty of education, meaning we cannot exercise choice in a meaningful way; And a poverty of mind, a bleak outlook that informs us that we are defined by how we appear and what we consume rather than by what we really are.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Thursday, January 25, 2007
tuesday night: three small glasses of white. two single G&T's.
wednesday night: two and a half glasses of red and a single raki, plus an argument with the wife because I couldn't get Sean to sleep - 'You're worse than a Turkish man! You just think of yourself and no-one else! You're a lazy, typical man! You don't give me enough money!'
I suspect she was pissed off because Sean's crying interrupted her having a chat with her best friend on MSN messenger.
wednesday night: two and a half glasses of red and a single raki, plus an argument with the wife because I couldn't get Sean to sleep - 'You're worse than a Turkish man! You just think of yourself and no-one else! You're a lazy, typical man! You don't give me enough money!'
I suspect she was pissed off because Sean's crying interrupted her having a chat with her best friend on MSN messenger.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
How are you?
Such a simple question; You ask it, and get the reply, 'Fine', or 'Not bad'. And most of the time, that seems to be enough. There's a peculiarly British dread of asking 'How are you?' and then being told in exact detail how the person is - their moans, their gripes, their various ailments and arguments with their families, friends and enemies. This is because the question has become debased to mean just 'Hello', and the reply - 'Fine thanks', 'Not bad', 'Mustn't grumble', and so forth - a mere acknowledgement of this. I have had many students left perplexed at how a question that carries notions of concern, sympathy, and love within it is regarded in such a cavalier fashion. Turkish people always reply with 'Thank you' to it, and depending on the level of relationship between the person asking and the answerer, leave it there, or go on to develop the conversation. The Poles I have taught tend to ignore its cognate - Jaksiemas? (any Polish speakers, please feel free to correct my spelling of it!) - as it is an invitation to spill all. A simple 'Hello' suffices.
Yet there are times when I want to say 'How are you?', or 'How are you?', or even 'How are you?', and mean it sincerely, and be interested in and sympathetic to the reply. I want to be asked the question in the same way, and be able to sincerely say what is in my heart, whether it be a burden or a joy - to say 'Today is not good, because of this and that and the other', or to look the asker in the eye and tell that person how I feel, how much I love them and what they mean to me, how my day has been lifted by the simple action of being asked such a simple, such a complex and fraught, question.
Such a simple question, yet so hard to articulate truthfully, in its asking and in its reply.
So I ask you: How are you?
edit: drank 1 bottle of red last night.
Yet there are times when I want to say 'How are you?', or 'How are you?', or even 'How are you?', and mean it sincerely, and be interested in and sympathetic to the reply. I want to be asked the question in the same way, and be able to sincerely say what is in my heart, whether it be a burden or a joy - to say 'Today is not good, because of this and that and the other', or to look the asker in the eye and tell that person how I feel, how much I love them and what they mean to me, how my day has been lifted by the simple action of being asked such a simple, such a complex and fraught, question.
Such a simple question, yet so hard to articulate truthfully, in its asking and in its reply.
So I ask you: How are you?
edit: drank 1 bottle of red last night.
Monday, January 22, 2007
A crab wandering on sand.
So, after a day of feeling really crap, I should be in bed, sleeping soundly, ready for the travails of another day; Yet I can't. Instead, here I am at nearly midnight, scratching an entry out onto the page and drinking red wine. And as I write, I'm puzzling what it is I'm trying to say, trying to exude onto the pristine white screen facing me, like a child faced with a virgin parchment of snow early in the morning, wanting to implant his first footsteps before all others, only to leave random bootsteps going first this way, then the other, directionless. The night, the house, are silent; The boys and Nur are abed, nuzzled in warmth and sleep; even the vixens in the stand of woods at the valley's lip are quiet, their yowling silenced by the cold.
What should I write? My frustrations at the everyday burden? My 'humble' opinions on this, that, and the other? By the way, whenever I hear someone begin with the words 'In my humble opinion..' I feel a need to punch the pompous fucker in the gob.Opinions are never humble. I could write of my readers, the strangely scattered number of you who read this. I check you out, you know. I look at the meter to the right of these entries, and it shows me a map of who has had a look, and I wonder why some posts seem to be more popular than others. Why is someone in China having a peek? Why is my diatribe against Rolie Polie FUCKING Olie so popular? Who is it that finds my discussion on the need to vote correctly in elections so interesting?
Here is a list of some ideas I'd like to write about on this blog. Whether I'll get round to it is anybody's guess.
What should I write? My frustrations at the everyday burden? My 'humble' opinions on this, that, and the other? By the way, whenever I hear someone begin with the words 'In my humble opinion..' I feel a need to punch the pompous fucker in the gob.Opinions are never humble. I could write of my readers, the strangely scattered number of you who read this. I check you out, you know. I look at the meter to the right of these entries, and it shows me a map of who has had a look, and I wonder why some posts seem to be more popular than others. Why is someone in China having a peek? Why is my diatribe against Rolie Polie FUCKING Olie so popular? Who is it that finds my discussion on the need to vote correctly in elections so interesting?
Here is a list of some ideas I'd like to write about on this blog. Whether I'll get round to it is anybody's guess.
- Poverty - its various guises, not necessarily the lack of lucre
- Ignorance - its relationship to poverty, and why they are both my enemies
- Stupidity - let's face it, we're all guilty of this, but why?
- A deterministic versus a relativistic universe - why the former is deeply scary, and the latter even scarier
- creation myths - how they have been hijacked by idiots full of the top three discussion points on this list
- why all faiths are at the mercy of fuckwits
- booze - me keeping faith with the original ethos of this blog
- why all politics, which, after all, is only another guise of faith, is at the mercy of ambitious fuckwits
- my sons, my family, and all the other things that conspire to drive me completely bloody mad, love them though I do.
And this week's score is...
46 units! with an acceptable margin of error, of course. Better, but still 16 over target.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
quick booze update
thursday: dad's birthday, so went round and had one small beer there, followed by another in the pub, then three glasses at home.
friday: one pint of cider, then three glasses of red.
saturday: one G&T (single) and three small glasses wine.
so far tonight, four glasses white wine.
so there.
I have also kitted out my shed as an office, so I shall be doing (hopefully) plenty of writing there.
friday: one pint of cider, then three glasses of red.
saturday: one G&T (single) and three small glasses wine.
so far tonight, four glasses white wine.
so there.
I have also kitted out my shed as an office, so I shall be doing (hopefully) plenty of writing there.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Art Copying Life? Hrant Dink Murdered
Let it not be said that this blog has forgotten its roots in Turkey and things Turkish...
Hrant Dink Murdered
The story of the murder of Hrant Dink is strangely reminiscent of the end of Celal Salik in Orhan Pamuk's incomparable 'The Black Book', even up to the promise from the Prime Minister to hunt down the perpetrators.
Hrant Dink Murdered
The story of the murder of Hrant Dink is strangely reminiscent of the end of Celal Salik in Orhan Pamuk's incomparable 'The Black Book', even up to the promise from the Prime Minister to hunt down the perpetrators.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Returning by bike at lunchtime to my normal workplace after a lesson at our other campus, I found myself not only blown to a standstill, but actually going backwards into the path of a taxi that clearly had no intention of stopping. Fortunately, I managed to get out of the way in time. Mad bloody weather. In another sign of madness, I saw a bloody enormous wasp flying groggily around the classroom.
The satellite was installed yesterday, and I can now get crystal clear TV pictures for the first time in about four years. Watched 'The Green Mile' on Film 4.
I also had three single shots of raki and three cigs.
The satellite was installed yesterday, and I can now get crystal clear TV pictures for the first time in about four years. Watched 'The Green Mile' on Film 4.
I also had three single shots of raki and three cigs.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
waiting for the cable guy.
I'm not exactly feeling inspired at the moment. It's one of those times where I'm engulfed in a static cloud of ennui, making little movement forward or backward, like a fish in a still pocket of water. Still feeling ill and tired doesn't make it any easier of course. Right now, I'm working at home, waiting for the sattelite guy to come and set up a receiver for us.
Monday night saw the consumption of two pints of Abbot ale, and most of a bottle of red, plus six cigs, while yesterday was three glasses of red and two cigs. I hadn't originally intended to drink at all on monday, but as I was cycling home I wrenched the muscles in my back, which then started to spasm, and I had to sit down. A pub seemed much the best place to do this in, and of course beer is the best muscle relaxant. Well, that's what I told myself, anyway.
Monday night saw the consumption of two pints of Abbot ale, and most of a bottle of red, plus six cigs, while yesterday was three glasses of red and two cigs. I hadn't originally intended to drink at all on monday, but as I was cycling home I wrenched the muscles in my back, which then started to spasm, and I had to sit down. A pub seemed much the best place to do this in, and of course beer is the best muscle relaxant. Well, that's what I told myself, anyway.
Monday, January 15, 2007
totting up.
Feel rather rough this morning, mainly because of a not exactly soothing night of sleep. Also, fun & games getting no. 1 son up and ready for school this a.m.
Last week, I had roughly 30 fags, and consumed 63.19 units of alcohol (conservative estimate, although I've tried to make an absolutely honest assessment of the size of the whiskies I had) - better, but still not good enough. The aim this week is to reduce this figure to between 30 - 40 units max, then drive the figure down until it is regularly below 30. As for the cigarettes - well, apart from one day last week, I have only smoked in the evenings, and cerainly over the past couple of days it's been more from force of habit than from any real desire.
Last week, I had roughly 30 fags, and consumed 63.19 units of alcohol (conservative estimate, although I've tried to make an absolutely honest assessment of the size of the whiskies I had) - better, but still not good enough. The aim this week is to reduce this figure to between 30 - 40 units max, then drive the figure down until it is regularly below 30. As for the cigarettes - well, apart from one day last week, I have only smoked in the evenings, and cerainly over the past couple of days it's been more from force of habit than from any real desire.
Friday, January 12, 2007
processes.
I was doing process descriptions with my Academic English class, and these two images appeared out of things they said. The first is a commentary on the carbon cycle. It's meant to be that animals exhale CO2, which is taken up by plants; One student's description was 'rabbits breathe on the plants to help them live'. the second picture depicts a pair of students who work in the Purple Turtle, collecting glasses, and shows how they feel about halfway through the process of collecting glasses and taking them to be washed while negotiating a heaving, sticky, sweaty bar full of drunks.
Friday.
Always a good day, especially considering that I have no lessons and I get the opportunity to burn,er, deal with the great drifts of paperwork cluttering my desk. Also, my cold is subsiding.
Booze news: Last night was a bottle of Magners Cider on the way home, a bottle of Argentinian red (at 13.5% abv) and a large G&T, because I didn't feel tired. Also, six cigs.
Booze news: Last night was a bottle of Magners Cider on the way home, a bottle of Argentinian red (at 13.5% abv) and a large G&T, because I didn't feel tired. Also, six cigs.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
I'm feeling rougher than a porcupine's bum at the moment. I'm also still simmering away with inchoate, frustrated anger, caused by stress and illness. And the fact that it's the middle of January.
Last night, turfed myself out of the house, as the wife had friends round, clucking over the baby and chit-chatting. Went up to my local. What excitement.
Had three pints of London Pride, six cigs and, on returning home, a shot of raki.
Last night, turfed myself out of the house, as the wife had friends round, clucking over the baby and chit-chatting. Went up to my local. What excitement.
Had three pints of London Pride, six cigs and, on returning home, a shot of raki.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Don't you hate it when...
...you feel like crap, with all the symptoms of a bad cold; You have too much work to do, and someone is trying to lay more on; You do a professional job for amateur wages; You need to do further qualifications, but you can't get on with it because of previously mentioned workload; You hope to be able to work from home, but you can't, because of the demands of family chaos; And you never, ever, have time to be yourself, because someone or other is demanding to have a slice of your time, your life, your personality, save for the last few exhausted minutes before you close your eyes?
Welcome to how I'm feeling right now.
Last night, I had 1 cig (and felt horrible about it), and half a bottle of Mirool Creek cabernet.
Welcome to how I'm feeling right now.
Last night, I had 1 cig (and felt horrible about it), and half a bottle of Mirool Creek cabernet.
Monday, January 08, 2007
waking.
How do you feel, as life ebbs back into your body as light filters through the edges of your closed curtains? Do you feel energised, ready to leap forth into the day? Or do you slowly become aware of the necessity of arising, aware of the aches here and there that did not exist before, but have gradually crept upon you as age has? Or perhaps you just feel grateful for having survived another night, or even the slow malaise of dread that yes, here is another day, with the same drudgery, the same quotidian of frustration? Or perhaps you wake, but not fully, not even truly aware that you are still actually tired, but long custom has made you inured to it.
I miss the days where I would literally leap out of bed, fully aware of who and where I was, full of impatient kinesis, with not an idea of how I would spend it. I miss the days where I did not wake with a dull sense of something aching, an almost imperceptible hurt. I miss the days where, if I woke up tired, I would know that I was tired, rather than shrug it off and accept it as one of those things.
Yet still, there are those rare mornings where I wake, blissfully relaxed and with a delicious sense of my body fully reposed, fully aware, then I coil into action and stretch every last muscle and sinew towards the ceiling, and I open the curtains and face the day, full of every possibility, and then I miss the days when this would be every morning.
edit: monday night saw me smoke 5 cigs, and have six single measures of Glenmorangie, 3 of which were in the shape of hot toddies, as my throat was aching like buggery. The other 3 just sent along to join the party.
I miss the days where I would literally leap out of bed, fully aware of who and where I was, full of impatient kinesis, with not an idea of how I would spend it. I miss the days where I did not wake with a dull sense of something aching, an almost imperceptible hurt. I miss the days where, if I woke up tired, I would know that I was tired, rather than shrug it off and accept it as one of those things.
Yet still, there are those rare mornings where I wake, blissfully relaxed and with a delicious sense of my body fully reposed, fully aware, then I coil into action and stretch every last muscle and sinew towards the ceiling, and I open the curtains and face the day, full of every possibility, and then I miss the days when this would be every morning.
edit: monday night saw me smoke 5 cigs, and have six single measures of Glenmorangie, 3 of which were in the shape of hot toddies, as my throat was aching like buggery. The other 3 just sent along to join the party.
And the results are in...
Over the past week, I smoked 21 cigarettes, and drank 1 large G&T, 2 double rums and coke, 1 double Jack Daniels, one and half glasses of Bordeaux, and two glasses of Spanish Cava, nearly two bottles of St. Emilion, most of a bottle of a decent chilled chardonnay, a small measure of raki, one pint of cider, and most of a bottle of chardonnay, one bottle of white generic at 11.5% abv, plus a glass and a half of something else white, and roughly a bottle and a half of wine. In total, I have consumed, at a conservative estimate and assuming that the wine was 13% abv, 77 units of alcohol. Holy Fuckeroo. And I've been doing this to myself for years. It's not even as if I'm a wino; It's just something that I do, come home, make dinner, pour myself a wine, then another, and another.
Anyway, the aim of recording what I've been imbibing is to drive that figure down, and to do so publicly. I'm not ashamed - I rarely get raging drunk, and please don't think I'm permanently staggering round with a bright red nose. I suspect that in fact I'm fairly typical of my generation. Nor do I feel particularly unwell - far from it; Thanks to regularly exercising and cycling to and from work, I'm actually fitter than when I was in my twenties. It's just that it's time to break habits that will, iof left unchecked, potentially become health-threatening later in life.
Anyway, the aim of recording what I've been imbibing is to drive that figure down, and to do so publicly. I'm not ashamed - I rarely get raging drunk, and please don't think I'm permanently staggering round with a bright red nose. I suspect that in fact I'm fairly typical of my generation. Nor do I feel particularly unwell - far from it; Thanks to regularly exercising and cycling to and from work, I'm actually fitter than when I was in my twenties. It's just that it's time to break habits that will, iof left unchecked, potentially become health-threatening later in life.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Peas.
Last night, the wife was ferreting around on Ebay, eyes wide with excitement. She'd found a company that sold on goods at wholesale prices to her, which she could then sell on on Ebay. She seemed to think that she'd hit a gold mine, and that she would soon be making tons of profit. After all, that's what the publicity on the company's website said.
Advertising is a wonderful thing; In adland, everyone's smiling with perfect teeth, the weather's always just so, no one has grey hair, and there are large, luxurious houses with perfect kitchens and bathrooms, and broad, empty roads along which one can swish, wearing perfect sunglasses on perfect noses, going to perfect places where one will have completely fulfilling, perfect sex with one's perfect partner. A vertitable Tir-nan-Og. And it's all perfect bollocks, but it still makes us drool and wander off to the shops to stock up on this or that frippery in the hope that it will make our lives just a little less imperfect, a little more controlled.
I have hated and distrusted advertising since the age of five. I despise its promises, its lure and the ways in which it makes us complicit as consumers. I can date my loathing almost precisely. Picture then, a day in April. It is one of those days where the sky above the chalklands of my home is a silvered blue, and a lively breeze sends tattered sails of clouds rushing across from southwest to northeast; And in my house, the gas fire in the living room is on full, because it is cold, despite the promise of warmer days to come written in the burgeoning hawthorn and the first flowers of spring. Lying on the beige and white fabric sofa (This was the 1970's) is me, under a blanket, recovering from another bout of the bronchitis that plagued me when young. In the corner next to the large front window, the TV, a new Sony Trinitron colour television with a large black and silver dial with which one tuned into the channel you wanted to watch, is tuned to ITV, and it's adverts time. There is one for a powdered orange drink, featuring a couple playing tennis; another for some washing-up detergent, where a girl complains of greasy dishes; Then the next one. It is this that engages my attention. A boy, of around my own age, is sat at a dinner table, similar to ours. He looks like the sort of boy who does not like his greens. His mother is preparing his meal in the kitchen. She turns to a cupboard, and pulls out a tin.
A tin of peas.
'He'll never eat them', I think, as she opens it with a gleaming wall mounted tin opener, and tips the contents into a pan to heat up. By the magic of the ad, the peas are instantly ready, placed on the boy's plate, complete with a livid yellow knob of butter, and brought through. The boy looks at the peas dubiously at first, then tries one, then a forkful, and suddenly, the whole plate of peas is gone. Next, the boy is in the kitchen, tugging mum's apron.
'Mum!' he says, 'Have we got any more?'
And cut to the name of the tinned pea product.
I was staggered. I hated peas; This boy, my own age, and in a room similar to mine, hated them; His mother had bought these special tinned peas, had put said peas on his plate, topped by mustard-coloured butter; He'd eaten them and now wanted more!
Those must be damn fine peas, I think, or words to that effect.
Half an hour later, I ask my mum.
'Can we have those peas, mummy? I think they're tasty.'
And so, after the next weekly shop, there is the tin of peas. My mother makes dinner - fish fingers and mash, and opens the tin, warms the peas, puts them on my plate, and brings it through to the dining table. And I tuck in, making sure I get a forkful of these juicy, juicy peas. I take a mouthful, and begin to chew.
They taste like fucking shit. I spit them out, which of course makes mum angry, and she stands over me to make sure I eat up every last one of the fucking peas I'd specifically badgered her for.
And that is why I never will trust advertising.
I told the wife this tale, and she completely ignored the moral of it.
Last night saw me smoke 6 cigs and imbibe one bottle of white generic at 11.5% abv, plus a glass and a half of something else white.
Advertising is a wonderful thing; In adland, everyone's smiling with perfect teeth, the weather's always just so, no one has grey hair, and there are large, luxurious houses with perfect kitchens and bathrooms, and broad, empty roads along which one can swish, wearing perfect sunglasses on perfect noses, going to perfect places where one will have completely fulfilling, perfect sex with one's perfect partner. A vertitable Tir-nan-Og. And it's all perfect bollocks, but it still makes us drool and wander off to the shops to stock up on this or that frippery in the hope that it will make our lives just a little less imperfect, a little more controlled.
I have hated and distrusted advertising since the age of five. I despise its promises, its lure and the ways in which it makes us complicit as consumers. I can date my loathing almost precisely. Picture then, a day in April. It is one of those days where the sky above the chalklands of my home is a silvered blue, and a lively breeze sends tattered sails of clouds rushing across from southwest to northeast; And in my house, the gas fire in the living room is on full, because it is cold, despite the promise of warmer days to come written in the burgeoning hawthorn and the first flowers of spring. Lying on the beige and white fabric sofa (This was the 1970's) is me, under a blanket, recovering from another bout of the bronchitis that plagued me when young. In the corner next to the large front window, the TV, a new Sony Trinitron colour television with a large black and silver dial with which one tuned into the channel you wanted to watch, is tuned to ITV, and it's adverts time. There is one for a powdered orange drink, featuring a couple playing tennis; another for some washing-up detergent, where a girl complains of greasy dishes; Then the next one. It is this that engages my attention. A boy, of around my own age, is sat at a dinner table, similar to ours. He looks like the sort of boy who does not like his greens. His mother is preparing his meal in the kitchen. She turns to a cupboard, and pulls out a tin.
A tin of peas.
'He'll never eat them', I think, as she opens it with a gleaming wall mounted tin opener, and tips the contents into a pan to heat up. By the magic of the ad, the peas are instantly ready, placed on the boy's plate, complete with a livid yellow knob of butter, and brought through. The boy looks at the peas dubiously at first, then tries one, then a forkful, and suddenly, the whole plate of peas is gone. Next, the boy is in the kitchen, tugging mum's apron.
'Mum!' he says, 'Have we got any more?'
And cut to the name of the tinned pea product.
I was staggered. I hated peas; This boy, my own age, and in a room similar to mine, hated them; His mother had bought these special tinned peas, had put said peas on his plate, topped by mustard-coloured butter; He'd eaten them and now wanted more!
Those must be damn fine peas, I think, or words to that effect.
Half an hour later, I ask my mum.
'Can we have those peas, mummy? I think they're tasty.'
And so, after the next weekly shop, there is the tin of peas. My mother makes dinner - fish fingers and mash, and opens the tin, warms the peas, puts them on my plate, and brings it through to the dining table. And I tuck in, making sure I get a forkful of these juicy, juicy peas. I take a mouthful, and begin to chew.
They taste like fucking shit. I spit them out, which of course makes mum angry, and she stands over me to make sure I eat up every last one of the fucking peas I'd specifically badgered her for.
And that is why I never will trust advertising.
I told the wife this tale, and she completely ignored the moral of it.
Last night saw me smoke 6 cigs and imbibe one bottle of white generic at 11.5% abv, plus a glass and a half of something else white.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
12th night
..yep, the night Herne the Hunter is supposed to ride the skies with his hounds, picking up any souls that happen to be straggling around late. Also, the fun and games of getting all the xmas decorations down, packed away, and shoved back in the attic for another year. And now the dead grey days of January begin.
Last night saw the consumption of six cigarettes, one pint of cider, and most of a bottle of chardonnay.
Last night saw the consumption of six cigarettes, one pint of cider, and most of a bottle of chardonnay.
Friday, January 05, 2007
futile.
That's just how today feels; A dead beat of time, no matter how much I might actually do during it. I can't even work up the energy for a decent rant.
Sean grows apace -he's begun the process of vocalisation, separating sounds into compartments of meaning. I can distinguish between sounds that mean 'I'm hungry', or 'hold me', or 'I'm bored', and there are the other sounds he makes as he stares intensely at me, where he's trying to convey something else I haven't learnt to fathom yet. And it is all interspersed with smiles, broad, gummy cheeky smiles, making his whole face radiant.
Last night, I had 3 cigs, most of a bottle of a decent chilled chardonnay, and a small measure of raki.
Sean grows apace -he's begun the process of vocalisation, separating sounds into compartments of meaning. I can distinguish between sounds that mean 'I'm hungry', or 'hold me', or 'I'm bored', and there are the other sounds he makes as he stares intensely at me, where he's trying to convey something else I haven't learnt to fathom yet. And it is all interspersed with smiles, broad, gummy cheeky smiles, making his whole face radiant.
Last night, I had 3 cigs, most of a bottle of a decent chilled chardonnay, and a small measure of raki.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Booze.
I enjoy a drink or five, as anyone who knows me may have noticed. While I'm not an alcoholic, I still tend to knock back far more than is good for me. On average, a bottle of wine a night. I did a few calculations, and worked out this:
75cl wine x 7 days = 525cl of wine per week;
525 x 13% abv (typical alcohol content of the wine I drink) = 6865, divided by 100, = 68.65 units of alcohol per week, nearly two and a half times the recommended weekly limit. In terms of a standard beer, that's 34.32 pints over a week, or 1784.64 pints of beer a year, or 223.08 gallons of beer a year.
That's a bit scary.
That's why I want to write down what I drink on this blog - a public testament, and a way to cut down on the booze.
It's time I showed some mercy to my liver.
edit: I smoked 2 cigs and drank a bottle of St. Emilion.
75cl wine x 7 days = 525cl of wine per week;
525 x 13% abv (typical alcohol content of the wine I drink) = 6865, divided by 100, = 68.65 units of alcohol per week, nearly two and a half times the recommended weekly limit. In terms of a standard beer, that's 34.32 pints over a week, or 1784.64 pints of beer a year, or 223.08 gallons of beer a year.
That's a bit scary.
That's why I want to write down what I drink on this blog - a public testament, and a way to cut down on the booze.
It's time I showed some mercy to my liver.
edit: I smoked 2 cigs and drank a bottle of St. Emilion.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Well, I paid for the mixed bag of drinks I had last night, accompanied by a lot of snacking and some late night cheese - I've had about an hour of sleep, so I'm knackered. Sean was saintly - hardly a peep from him all night. This has not made teaching all that easy today, though fortunately I had only a handful to contend with.
no cigs today and I had three and a bit glasses of St. Emilion.
no cigs today and I had three and a bit glasses of St. Emilion.
Monday, January 01, 2007
New Year
It's on beautiful mornings such as this was that one has to praise God - mostly for Ibuprofen, vitamin pills and an English Breakfast. I woke with one of those sneaky bastard hangovers: That's the ones where you wake up, think 'Ha! I got away with it!', leap out of bed full of the joys of waking up without a hangover after having had lashings and lashings of booze the previous night, then sudden crumple up in a grey ashen heap as a screaming bastard behind the eyes suddenly assails you and tries to rip your stomach out via your oesophagus. One of those, anyway.
Today, I smoked 0 cigarettes, and drank 1 large G&T, 2 double rums and coke, 1 double Jack Daniels, one and half glasses of Bordeaux, and two glasses of Spanish Cava. I am, should I be able to keep this up to an entry per day, going to record my consumption, with the aim of driving it down.
Today, I smoked 0 cigarettes, and drank 1 large G&T, 2 double rums and coke, 1 double Jack Daniels, one and half glasses of Bordeaux, and two glasses of Spanish Cava. I am, should I be able to keep this up to an entry per day, going to record my consumption, with the aim of driving it down.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)