dim and distant

Part of us is always intrigued about revisiting our past: the places and people of former times. There’s a mysterious romance to it even when there shouldn’t be, even when you should just be relaxed about tucking it away in a box, ‘compartmentalising’. But surely most of us, unless there’s some incomprehensibly horrific post traumatic stress disorder-inducing episode, have a vested interest in the complicated tangle of experience which has produced the confused, neurotic mess of a human we have become.

We might wonder how differently things might have turned out – for better and worse, if you’d stayed around and finally somehow got that break you’d been holding out for. It’s broadly accepted that regret is a fairly useless emotion, but it usually colours any degree of personal reflection; it’s irresistible.

As an underachieving bloke still fumbling nervously along in his mid-thirties, I ponder less mature versions of myself. The younger-me versions who inhabited those places, the things that were going through my head. Memories are easily coaxed out through old iPods on long car journeys. Remember going to that gig, feeling miserable, and standing against that wall looking miserable and hoping someone would talk to you, then going home and hating yourself? Ahh, great days.

You wonder how far removed that person is from the you of right now? Are you really older and wiser? Have you mellowed? Or are you still irrationally wounded and bitter at all the rank unfairness of the world?

You idly consider how have the places might have changed, evolved, been knocked down or built up? How have the people changed, grown, altered? Or how nothing much has changed at all.

It hadn’t been all that long anyway. Only five years.

Never shy when it comes to gazing at my navel, as this blog robustly testifies, over a few days I flirted with the idea of returning to London. Just a short, flying visit. I miss the place, its scale and pomp, and hadn’t returned in about a year. There was a chance to see people I rarely see. I was feeling claustrophobic about not having left my current hometown for a while. I wanted a small personal adventure of my own. I was curious about how I’d react to being there alone again, all that familiar old stimuli, echoes of a time when I was often lonely and miserable, despite liking much about the place, thinking wouldn’t need much – just a couple of things to fall right and bingo, everything would change.

In two and a half hours I drove down to Hounslow, near Heathrow Airport, just outside London. I left the car in a sketchy feeling 24 hour NCP car park which happened to be free on Saturdays and Sundays, and hopped on a tube.

Gay Pride debris bombarded the senses upon arriving into the centre. Flamboyant rainbow coloured people sitting drinking on pavements in small groups, almost as if in stubborn protest that they couldn’t get Glastonbury tickets. Thousands of upbeat people swarmed in all directions, apparently unfazed by how easy an act of terrorism could be. You have to forget that when living in London, but when an infrequent visitor and there’s been a spate of recent terrorist acts, it’s harder.

One misgiving I had about making the trip was accommodation. Never much of a planner, I’d left it late before committing to the trip and hadn’t booked anything despite quickly browsing Airbnb and a few others. I didn’t want to pay over £50 for just a handful of hours, all the faff. Surely I could just sponge a sofa stay? But then I didn’t want to be a pain and cheekily impose myself on anyone I didn’t know that well. Hmmm. I hadn’t quite worked it out, but still, fuckit, cross that bridge when I come to it. It’d be fine. It was summer, not going to get cold, there are 24-hour coffee shops, plenty of interesting streets. I had my Kindle and a book on it I was really enjoying. It’d be fine. Wouldn’t it? Yes. Just get on with it and do it. Worry about that other stuff later.

Having tired of the social gathering around 11.30pm, or it tiring of me, and being nervous of further alcohol consumption when I was unsure what the next few hours held in store, it was later.  I drifted away, semi-drunk and walked back through the centre, thousands of Pride revellers still revelling. I got a sloppy burger meal, walked more streets, got a large coffee in a 24-hour coffee chain on gay high street Old Compton Street, impatiently endured a middle-aged man with a cleft-lip and speech impediment hesitantly question me about Kindle internet connectivity. Then I walked back towards Piccadilly Circus, from where buses would travel in the direction of my car. It was later and late and I was quietly worrying.

Pretty tired, body confused by alcohol and caffeine, I had considered sleeping rough. It was warm enough. Parks and doorways everywhere. I didn’t want to though. Uncomfy, awkward. And I’d get unlucky, mugged, arrested. Now I was on a long, slow bus ride, being driven by a gung-ho violently braking young man who would ultimately deposit me a few footsteps from my car. How sober was I? Was I really fit to drive? No. Probably not. Could I sleep in the car, in the car park, if there was no attendant? Likely CCTV, but unlikely to be monitored. I badly needed to pee as well. Drive a short distance out to some residential street and sleep in the car there? Questions, confusion, lethargy. Shit. How had I clumsily played myself into this hole? Idiot. Looking out of the window shortly before the bus approached my stop I saw a bunch of hooded youths. If I encountered any such groups like that while seeking somewhere to rest or piss, I would have undoubtedly shat myself. It didn’t seem the friendliest area.

Stepping off the bus onto the still populated middle-of-the-night outer London street, I smartly headed to the car and started the ignition straight away. I was ok enough to drive, wasn’t I? I’d probably fail a breathalyser test and I wasn’t at all proud of this, but it was now 4 straight hours since my last sip of beer. Between times I had eaten a reasonable amount of food, and drunk a large coffee and water. That was ok? Not ideal sure, but ok, right?

Still I felt considerable shame and doubt and anxiety and paranoia. It was a risk, a gamble, I could get caught and regret it for a very long time. ‘Death By Dangerous Driving’; ‘Driving Ban’; ‘No consideration for the safety of others’. I have never been a reckless deviant, never had any scrapes with the law. This stuff scares me.

After turning right out of the car park, I slowed next to a residential street and peered down the road. A tall man was standing there, just hanging on the street corner at 3.30am, like you do. Fucksake. I headed for the motorway, windows open, music blaring, eyes pinned, gripping the steering wheel tighter and more sensibly than usual. Every set of headlights in my rear mirror was a potential police car destroying my life.

I stopped at a service station in Reading and, the stabbing at my bladder so severe I half limped half crouched my way to the toilet, as if trying to balance a bowl of piss on my stomach. I was nervous of any lurking over-caffeinated traffic cops. None I could see. Promptly returning to my car, I took a few deep breaths. I was calmer now, and the black sky was already being diluted.

After that I grew steadily relaxed, if still cold by the necessarily blasting air. Whenever my blinking rate increased I sang and shouted to fend off any chance of them fully wilting. It seemed to work. Thankfully the midsummer darkness didn’t last long, light blues of morning seeping into the sky around 4am. I grunted monosyllabically at my partner and flopped into bed at 6am, relieved but still ashamed.

I looked back, had my small adventure and ended up feeling properly odd as a result. Clearly I am now much older and wiser.

neurosis yo-yo

And still there is constant yo-yoing neurosis in the realm of work, career, the infuriating need to make money.

On the one hand there is building this business thing of my own. There are flickers and hints that it could work. It is not yet an almighty disaster. These things take time, they say. I have put in some hard graft and continue to do so. Small wins, babysteps and all that.

But even if it does develop and grow, and I am as modestly happy as I allow myself to be, there is likely to always be a sense of the uncertain and unpredictable, a definite lack of security. I will always worry.

On the other hand, still there remains the idea of a ‘real job’. Drawn by attractive ‘grown-up’ salary numbers, I still spuriously apply for ‘real jobs’ and sometimes people reply, seeking more information, occasionally inviting me for interviews. Do I really want any of these real jobs? All the office stuff, spirit-crushing corporate guff and nonsense, all the ego and swagger and testosterone and idiots? Only if the job is genuinely really interesting, if it can engage me day-to-day and not regularly make me want to throw myself out of the window. Then perhaps. But even then, maybe not.

Which isn’t to say I could get close to such a job anyway. My CV and career is patchy. My competitors for such jobs would likely have bigger, more recognisable names in their CV, more sustained periods reflecting greater commitment, letters after their name demonstrating extra training and qualifications and rubberstamped commitment to their vocation. Alongside them, I’m sketchy, a gamble.

This latter real job option is chained to a slightly old fashioned, almost caveman-like sense of duty; a feeling that as Man Who Is Getting Married Soon And May Feasibly Reproduce In The Coming Years ‘I must simply provide as much money as possible.’ The press of wanting to provide security, stability, a solid foundation, is almost prioritised above my own work sanity.

I yo-yo between yes, my own thing CAN work. There are signs, incremental positive improvements. I have poured in so much time and stupidly major monetary investment, thousands of pounds. I should not cast that aside. As much as the day-to-day can be really tough, I know I’m a lone wolf now; more comfortable playing by my own rules, being independent, not sitting in an office and talking politely about the weather and the weekend to colleagues all day everyday forever until I die.

And I yo-yo between no, it WON’T work, this is stupid. You’ll never earn THAT much, not quite enough to equate to a serious salary. You’re good enough with money (tight/sensible/boring enough) to fudge along ok for a while, but in the long term? Sure, you can top up your income so sure, carry on doing bits. But it’s time to wake up and grow up now, face up to your responsibilities, buckle-up to the bullshit of corporate-land. And wouldn’t a real job have perks anyway? Imagine having that stability and predictability, having annual leave, relatively guilt-free holiday, the chance to actually fully switch off?

And in the middle of the yo-yo I have moments where I wonder if perhaps I shouldn’t just… you know, chill the fuck out a bit with all the analysis. Stop being so dramatic and taking everything so bloody seriously. Accept that in life and work, stuff is deeply unknowable and you’ve stumbled along this far, so perhaps you’ll stumble some more. You’re not a TOTAL idiot. You’ll work it out, and other parts might work themselves out. So try to worry a bit less? Relax about the uncontrollables (but what if they ARE controllable?), try not to constantly beat yourself up with what-if worry and guilt.

All that is pretty damned hard though, especially when you have more time than you’d like to play with all this stuff in your brain. When under-occupied, I suspect most human neurons spark instinctively towards what-if worry, fear, guilt, worst-case scenarios; rather than cool, calm, mindfully philosophical ‘what will be will be’. This is probably to do with primal self-preservation, survival instinct or something.

*NOTE TO GOD – Isn’t it time humans had a programmatic genetic reboot for the 21st Century? How about it, God? Pretty confident I won’t die from a bear attack now. Update our operating system already!

Playing matador to fizzing renegade neurons is a major challenge  – particularly when it’s so easy to see all the people doing so much better than you everywhere. Meditation and mindfulness continues to enjoy a resurgence, but there’s always alcohol, nicotine, escape or release via other media or substances.

Hope this dumb yo-yo snaps.

in sickness

Wheezing heavily over my keyboard as I originally typed this opening line, I wondered how to present what it was that I was trying to say. Nothing was all that clear.

Over the past few weeks my usually fairly reliable 34-year old body became alien to me: shrivelled and compressed, waves of hot and cold tingling from head to toe, body parts claiming curiously insistent pulsations (inside lower lip), involuntary grunting emissions like an old man in a care home, strangely transient rashes, the sensation of a razorblade guarding the stoop of my throat, greedy for medication, medication, medication.

Sickness offers a bleak window into a possible future where this is pretty much all that remains of life. Illness closely collaborates with ideas of mortality, and death. It can remind us how our bodies are temporary vessels, just a physical organism like any other, one which happens to be alive right now, a cage for our organs, a borrowed bit of blubber, although supposedly more refined.

There are strangely dream-like moments of not being quite there, fully present in the moment. You feel that you are standing there in the kitchen like that, trying to hold that conversation with her, but everything’s in soft focus, a light vignette around the edges, a woozy drifting sense of elsewhere, you’re not really listening, trying to make the right noises in the right gabs, is this what dying is like? Or just a relationship? Another wave of coughing crashes ashore.

There’s hopelessness and helplessness in badly wanting to be getting better and wanting to function normally again, but your body stubbornly resists, mutinying against your basic wishes like a belligerent child with whom it is impossible to reason.

You toy with the idea that perhaps you are dying from an obscure disease that won’t be detected until it’s too late, if it’s ever detected at all. You wonder how people will regard you if you do die, and you draft your own obituaries. “Work was never an easy thing for him…” I feel I would be pitied a lot. It’s more impossible than ever to escape judgement than in death.

You anticipate the mild euphoria of experiencing health and power again, the comeback, the resilience, the pride you will feel in this creaking vessel of a body.

It feels a way off.

wedding planning

I’m getting married.  We now have a date several months hence, making everything frighteningly real.

Here is a thing people say to you when you’re getting married.

“It’s YOUR day to do what YOU want.”

It’s bullshit.

Now it might be less bullshit if you’re totally up for the whole big wedding thing; a lavish public performance of your love in a big ornate church, followed by a grand reception in a castle; if you’re into all the traditions and have a large close family and tons of friends.

If you’re less bothered about the whole performance, perhaps if you’re less fussed about the ‘getting’ part of marriage altogether, it feels like it is bullshit.

I want to be married. As for the getting married part, if I was able to be massively selfish we’d probably just do it in five minutes in an office – which is tantalisingly possible.

However, that would be heartbreaking for my family, and particularly my mother – who I’ve found increasingly hard work of late.

Her inability to converse without immediately refocusing any subject on her own experience is immensely exhausting. The way she looks at me like I’m a starving African with whom she’s unable to communicate. She asks no questions of me, and when I do volunteer information it doesn’t register. Her brain simply pans for her own nearest reference point so she can talk about that.

She can be blithely cruel and patronising to neighbours, apparently needing to feel better than them. She can be tactless and embarrassingly candid to my partner about her admittedly dysfunctional family.  (You can say things within a family that you just cannot say outside it). She can be a total snob, as can my Dad: that whole needing to feel better than everyone in a small village. They seem more confined to their bubbles than ever.

This might just be a thing that happens to everyone as you reach later years of life. I’ve noticed it a lot recently. From your 50s you grow more snug and comfortable in what you know and like. You slide into becoming more alienated or uncaring about what you don’t. So you stick to it, ask fewer questions, and your general world view shrinks.

Still, for all this, out of dutiful son obligation, because you must ALWAYS keep your parents happy, I accept and tolerate it, and try not to snap. They have given me a lot, and I should probably be more grateful. Even so, if I ever become a father, I would hate for there to be a time when my child feels as remote from me as I feel from my parents now. From the outside looking in, it must look fine. To neighbours who see my car in the driveway semi-regularly. The truth is that we barely understand each other and ‘connect’ on only the dimmest level.

Nonetheless, we are doing the wedding thing in part – albeit scaled down registry office and something afterwards (to be decided), because it would hurt my family if we did not.

Another aggravation is, of course, him: the brother. In speaking to him on the phone he was his typical excitable, theatrical, embarrassing pantomime dame. I much prefer the sober, serious guy I see on television to this flouncy irritating buffoon who gets under my skin like no other human on the planet. Grunting to him on the phone like the teenage version of myself he always makes me feel, out of reciprocal obligation I asked him to be co-best man (as I was for his wedding around a decade ago).  Even though he makes my skin crawl. I tried to dodge questions about Stag Dos. I’ll go out for a few beers with my other best man, one of my best friends. Other than that, I’m not bothered – especially if it involves my brother.

Now is a time with stress.  A few weeks ago my main source of income was cut when the dim, blank people in an office where I’d worked for the better part of 12 months decided not to renew my contract. They were persuaded by a newish member of staff: a Frenchwoman in her mid-40s, hired to train and hire other people. She was high on cranky zany va-va-voom energy, positivity, motivation exercises and inspirationalism; low on everything else.  We never really hit it off. She hired a new person to replace me for less money. The higher-ups didn’t care that much, cared most about money. I was out the door inside two weeks.

Cashflow is now tight, and all going in one direction. I’m barely making any money and have little clue what I’ll be doing for work in the next few months leading up to the wedding. (The call centre? Surely not the call centre? Please not the call centre. I am STILL not better than the call centre?! It has featured in a cold-sweat dream or two).

I am working pretty hard on my own business things – which brings in limited cash. I am back applying for jobs I don’t want again, getting nowhere. I am grouchy, irritable of my partner’s messiness and a little snappy. I feel entirely inadequate, my esteem is low and I am simply scared about the future. My parents know my circumstance, somewhere must sense this, and ask nothing about it. My bride is immensely supportive, almost equally critical of my remote parents, yet somehow still wants to be my bride.

Sso HEY!!  WEDDING!! HOW EXCITING!!! You MUST be excited!

On the day I will try to plaster on a smile, accept people saying how it is OUR day to do what WE want, but we must invite these people and have this and this and that, and no you can’t do that! Are you crazy?  Right now it all feels a little overwhelming, potentially painful. I am dreading all the bullshit.

I will try and fake my way through everything without snapping. It will not be easy.

social tsunami

A generation has been cruelly deceived by the emergence of social media. Ok, maybe not a whole generation, and maybe not by social media alone. Maybe just a demographic by the false confidence that their identity and ability to articulate was enough. And maybe just a certain type of person. But I feel sure more than just one (me). I have a weight of hunch that there are considerably more people than just me towards whom the following applies.

There we were, circa 2005/6/7, not long out of university and embedded in low level marketing roles towards which we felt largely indifferent, but they provided a necessary source of income.

Like many marketers or PRs, perhaps we harboured private dreams of writing more interesting things, had secret side projects, but we had no real outlet for this. We knew we had a voice and we could write about stuff. It just so happened that what we were paid to write about, for mid noughties websites, printed material and email newsletters, wasn’t all that interesting.

Then the tsunami of social appeared on the horizon. A thing called Twitter which seemed exclusively for nerds but, ok, damn, whatever, let’s give it a go. Blogs built traction as a thing and we began playing with them, interest piqued. Slowly this social thing on the horizon swelled.

At a certain point the nervous excitement at the potential gave way and we thought this was it, what we’d been looking for, THE platform for our voice. Social allowed us to believe in our own uniqueness, our own personality and identity. We needn’t be defined by our employer or where we work. This would give us an audience, allow us to showcase our talents, we WOULD be recognised and ultimately go on to better, more fulfilling, more interesting things.

We backed ourselves, trusted what we had, and after a time, by necessity or not, towards the end of the noughties we went freelance: those of us who’d gambled and moved around a little, had one or two jobs in a few different towns, were not institutionalised by a workplace, those who were independent-minded, not tied down, open to taking a risk or two.

The economy was shit but it was shit for everyone. You had to deal with it. We could do this. It wouldn’t happen overnight, but with careful nurturing people would see the value. We knew what we were talking about; we could deliver a service on our own merits.

Unless we had somehow managed to rapidly scale an audience and built a high enough platform – helped by a leg-up from a few big brands or not, we got flattened.

Ok, not flattened. Not quite. Washed up and floundering under the weight of noise, it was suddenly more of a struggle to get heard than ever. Despite those early day hopes, our own identity and voice didn’t count for much in the chaos.

Some made it, and not necessarily the best. Those people managed to get high before it hit, and they appeared to flourish as a result. But the approach of slow and steady, implicit trust in the well considered thought of audiences: that did not pay off.

Volume mattered. Quantity mattered. Big numbers. For that you had to tolerate complete idiots, read their nonsense, “interact”. You could not be picky, and those of us who foolishly were, we suffered for it.

We clung desperately onto a root of something, a business of that same early kind, while looking around for better, firmer, a stronger platform. We made a reach or two for other shiny stuff and missed, not trustable enough. Everything still rushed around us, swirling dizzyingly, maddeningly, the inane quotes about perseverance and working hard, the pictures of food and drink and sunsets; while the highly rated and presumably now nicely rich idiots stared down their noses.

We’re choking now. In our mid 30s but feeling beleaguered, jaded and overtaken by fresher, keener faces in their mid 20s, utterly familiar, comfortable and happy with the noise, the feeds of hundreds and thousands. Still we’re trying, still gamely hanging in there, still dimly hoping. But we desperately want surer footing now, a more solid base; we are pleading for a small grain of financial trust in our future. We are growing colder and colder.

growing grumpy

After writing and shortly before posting this post below, I read my last post from a couple of months ago. It’s depressingly similar so don’t bother reading this if you read that. Nothing has changed so it seems I’m essentially having the same whinge using different words, accidentally plagiarising myself. Isn’t this blog fascinating?

I’ve been concerning myself lately. Even more than usual. I really don’t at all like who I’m being or what I feel like I’m becoming.

And what is that? You ask from your fancy swivel chair in your swanky high rise office, imaginary pen poised, appearing professionally indifferent as I lie back on an imaginary but highly comfortable couch.

It’s this: a bitter, grumpy, miserable man. A man who doesn’t see any sort of fairness or meritocracy. A man who sees conspiracies and cliques and ringfenced circles of people who publicly promote the virtues of open collaboration, but in reality practise none.

A man who feels constantly wronged and badly treated and unlucky in his professional life. A man who feels capable of achieving so much more, yet is utterly devoid of hope and infected with a quite cancerous level of cynicism which fizzes around inside and eats away at him on a daily basis. A man with a swelling chippiness about everything and everyone, stung by the world and a feeling that his ship has never come in.

It makes me less inclined to pretend to like people with whom I work. At Christmastime we are more obliged and inclined to pretend we are great friends with our colleagues. For me actually no thanks, fuck that.  I have nothing in common with them. They know very little about me because they never ask anything.  Why? I don’t know.  On the other hand I feel as if I know everything about them because my larger than average ears every word of the banal dross they spout at frequent intervals.

Do I want to pretend we’re friends and take part in Secret sodding Santa and eat and drink with them?  Do I bollocks.

At the weekend I saw an old friend first met through this identity several years ago. It was alarming how enjoyable I found it. My girlfriend commented that she enjoyed seeing me looking like I was having fun, I suppose because it was so rare. I was stimulated by the company and conversation in a way that is pretty unusual in my day to day, week to week, even month to month.  Meeting this friend reminded me that there are different types of people out there, people I feel more akin to, people I can share a joke with.  During these few hours – helped by the lubrication of several beers, no doubt – I was not such a miserable bitter man.

And yet in my day to day, I am.  I largely hate my work and at best feel indifferent towards most people there. For which I do feel guilty, like I should pretend somehow. Because they probably think me arrogant, how I disassociate from them. I have long since ceased being invited to the pub, which does sting a little as I might occasionally go for one. It’s a tricky one, when you are so different from a pack, smarter than most. You almost feel as if you should ignore it out of a weird empathy, descend to a base level and keep them company. But you don’t. Why should you feel ashamed for sticking to your guns and not giving much of a shit what they think of you?

You don’t want to stay there forever. You’ve been trying to get out for ages. It’s incredibly hard though. Your skill-set is one shared by so many people, and not that highly valued by C-Suite chiefs. They don’t much see or care for any difference in quality between what you produce and what someone a decade your junior produces. Because they won’t read or try to understand it. They just want to know it exists.

Even so, I do aspire to better and more and work hard towards other things, with little hope of actually getting anywhere meaningful. I halfheartedly apply for jobs, thinking that I stand no real chance, that you need to know someone from the outset to get a decent job at this point in a career. Applying for something cold will get you nowhere.

This time last year things were ostensibly worse, of course. Out of financial necessity and my flailing freelance operation, I was back at a call centre where I worked last as a student over ten years before. This Christmas my cashflow is better, healthier, less of an immediate worry. And I also hate my work slightly less, which has to be an improvement. It’s churning out content, marketing, PR, engaging with vacuous social nonsense online; not that demanding, but occasionally diverting, and not sitting in a call centre getting told to go away.

Still I am far from what I would call ‘happy’ or ‘content’,  Still I have no idea about my direction. It feels worryingly cyclical. I am never very happy. Never morbidly depressed either, please understand. While I don’t have what seems like the natural soothing balm of offspring into which I can plough my energy and hope, as many my age do, there are other things I take pleasure in, other ambitions I am working towards. Probably pointlessly.

Stumbling around in my day to day, I am rarely happy about where I am or where I’m going. I can’t really remember a time when I was.

I try telling myself to be positive, to lighten up. You never know what’s around the corner. You’re trying. You’re trying to create opportunities. Keep going. But I can’t help slouching back to bitterness, especially when greedy unfair nepotism gratuitously gyrates in front of you, which is hard to avoid, living where I do.

My face doesn’t fit, I know nobody important, nobody important backs me, I scare or threaten people, perhaps, I don’t smile enough. I have to just keep hacking away, being fucking miserable, bitter, trying to rein in the chippiness, trying to smile and be chipper for the sake of people around me who I do care about and trying to hope.

lucky spam

This continued businessland cliché that there is no such thing as luck, just hard work: it continues to frustrate, depress and infuriate me.  You make your own luck, you reap what you sow, hard work is all it takes.  Perhaps for rich Tories with a nice background to start from, a safety net and financial cushion.

Not that I can play a working class hero card.

But how on this earth people can say, routinely trot out and believe there is no such thing as luck is beyond me.  It makes me angry.

People who watch their young child die from a painful disease?
People who die tragically through no fault of their own in a car accident?
People whose own lives are cut short through illness – teenagers or inspirational young adults?
People who happen to be travelling in a plane blasted out of the sky by terrorists?
People who win life-changing millions in a national lottery?

All that’s nothing to do with luck? How the hell do you make that kind of luck?

Sure, these are extreme cases of luck. But there is a spectrum. Dumb luck and blind chance and stupid fortune absolutely exist.  Where you’re born: what country, what social class, who your parents are, who you happen to meet.

Luck works in tandem with hope, which makes it particularly important for me: someone who considers that they have never professionally achieved much, but plunders and stumbles onward. You hope your hard work will at some point pay off, something will click, a new relationship will develop, you will ultimately get recognised on some level you feel is commensurate to your worth. That’s why you carry on.

Although you have little other choice but to carry on, because you need money and enjoy a certain standard of living.

All the motivational business claptrap I’m subjected to on a day-to-day basis because I currently work in a salesy environment amongst young people (though am not directly a part of it): it depresses the living shit out of me.  The business pays people to come in and trot out this propagandist business drivel.

I give a wry smile and chuckle from outside the meeting rooms, pass a comment about it being cringeworthy.  But if I think too hard about it, I begin to seethe and it can start to penetrate my domestic life.

If I get all flat and dowdy; girlfriend will confront me about the self-proclaimed pessimism she hates and which drags her down.

“You’re only a pessimist because you tell yourself that.”
“No, I’m not,” I’ll growl, affronted. “I’m a pessimist because life tells me nothing different.  And not being optimistic doesn’t stop me from doing things and trying things and working really hard towards stuff and quietly hoping I get lucky, but suspecting I won’t.”

That for me is a key difference. If pessimism stopped me trying stuff, I’d understand the frustration.  But I work pretty hard in a few different quarters, I am professional (most places except here), I am pleasant / tolerant / non-committal about the many idiots I work with. I get my head down and think my skill-set could be an asset to companies.  I like to think I’m smart enough to do better than this.  And yet still I underachieve, kicking about in the lower leagues. Life appears to suggest to me that it’s best not to get my hopes up.

Professional worlds I inhabit tell me there are richer and more successful or at least considerably more comfortable people who don’t work that hard, aren’t particularly clever and whom I don’t rate. There are many of those in this parochial, villagey side of the UK.  I tend to alienate people as much if not more than I attract. I can’t make people *get* me or back me or invest in me. So I have to be snarky and hope.

I staunchly don’t believe in making your own luck, but industriousness can’t harm your chances, can it? Or maybe it just threatens and alienates other people more.

finding your people

It feels like you’re supposed to get along with your work colleagues, that is the done thing. Or at least pretend to. That’s polite.

I struggle to do this. I sit in my removed bubble, not exactly happy but certainly not readily willing to reach out from it and socialise with these people I mostly find dim and boring.

I guess it’s part of the ‘outsider’ complex bred from years as a total loner, and getting made redundant and working and living alone for long periods, generally failing to connect with anyone, family included.

All the while, then and now, I’m acutely aware of this idealised notion: ‘finding your people’. It’s quite probably bollocks of course, a fabrication of advertising and culture. But it nags at me because I’d like to believe it’s possible. Some claim this ‘finding your people’ thing happens at university, when you finally have the freedom to gravitate towards those you believe share your values and interests.

I struggled there too.

Nor did I find them in my twenties, through a workplace or football team – although I did enjoy the brief camaraderie offered by the latter.

Now it feels like mid thirties friendship groups have been formed by either having succeeded before, or by having children: having a kid in the same class as John and Dave’s kids, and luckily John and Dave seem like good blokes.

The chances are though, that I would be bored and frustrated by John and Dave, as I am by my co workers.

Not having the soothing life balm of kids, I still crave to someday ‘find my people’ – if indeed that is a thing. I imagine it must be great, having friends and friendship groups who easily get you and rate you, and who you get and rate back. Who you can laugh with like you’re in a cheesy advert for smoothies.

Until then I will drift along, ghost-like, a fragile weird outsider, insecure in my direction and particularly in my non-existent social life.

conscientious objection

This idea has been swirling around inside my brain for a while.  It concerns institutionalisation, careers, independent thought and generally having opinions about stuff.

Two acquaintances from different parts of working life came together in my thoughts recently.  Both men (one early 30s, the other late 30s) are really nice and pleasant.  They agree with everything I say to an almost boring extent. (Although perhaps they think I’m boring).  Both I find are naturally keen to please and agree with anything and everything anyone says, whomever their interlocutor might be.  So much so that they make for pleasant, amiable but essentially rather bland conversation.

In work meetings, the one constantly blurts

“absolutely”
“100 per cent”
“yeah, totally” – so anxious to give his support it seems like he can’t actually be listening and thinking.

How does such blind acceptance and apparent disengagement happen?  Because of careers?  A certain type of employer (and I’d wager the majority of employers) encourage and promote acquiescence, acceptance, obedience and agreement at all times.  They actively, although perhaps not voluntarily, deliberately or consciously, want people not to think too hard about what they’re doing, to operate within the defined parameters.

Naturally that makes sense if you are an employer; there have to be some rules and guidelines.

Yet to openly have independent thoughts and personal opinions at all: that can be dangerous, a risk. You’re told it’s not, of course, and that everyone welcomes open dialogue and new ideas.  In certain industries and workplaces though, it is not at all welcomed. People are threatened by unpredictable opinions. Although mine are not usually fierce or unbending opinions –  I’m always perfectly happy to be outargued by someone who knows more, or change my mind if it seems I am wrong – they are opinions nonetheless. And opinions of any kind are really not as common as you might think. At least not in my current world.

If you just agree and accept, life and work is easier, safer and more comfortable. Although making decisions can be hard for those people. That’s why you might come up against confused public sector inertia – older professionals perhaps, who sit behind desks playing solitaire, befuddled by much of this modern world. Nothing happens because nobody can confidently decide anything. Nobody wants to proffer a contentious opinion or make a decision that might be wrong. And there’s nobody available to agree with.

The world and the workplace reward people who don’t have opinions, people who are safe and nice and pleasant, who will passively agree to anything and get on with it. This is cosy and comfortable because it means industries and cultures don’t have to think too hard or be challenged about certain things concerning itself. It gives rise to institutionalisation, it breeds a fusty insularity even in the most public of arenas. This week’s Malky Mackay Cardiff City / Crystal Palace furore has turned a spotlight on football culture, what is and isn’t accepted within the game. Will anything really change as a result? Doubtful.

Everything is just easier if you’re not a pain.  Agree, accept, copy what everyone else does and we’ll all get along fine. Anyone else, you can be eliminated.

all you are not

Sometimes I use this place to whine and whinge in an awfully boring, embarrassingly self-pitying fashion. Here is another one of those posts.

It’s almost the opposite of Imposter Complex and yet it feels like a close relative: that unavoidable feeling or even that fleetingly bold *knowing beyond all reasonable doubt* – you really are better than where you are working and what you are doing, day in, day out.

But there you still are, grudgingly pootling along, uncaring and bitter, with an unhealthy lack of respect for who you’re working for, who you’re working with and what you’re working for. You know you could slowly and regrettably turn into the kind of person you deride.  Jeez, you look around the office, they are all idiots. Most of them. Especially him.

It hurts more when you know what you’d love to do and can think of and see countless other jobs you’d love to do instead, when you know you could do some of them if it weren’t for all the other fucking people on the planet who probably look shinier and smile more and sell themselves better than you do. Then it breeds major frustration, more bitterness, dejection, hopelessness.

It constantly stabs and jabs and irks you:

– when you are trying other things, have tried other things for some time;

– when you are looking and applying for things, but never quite as hard as you might;

– when you had an opportunity which might have been a brilliantly lucrative opportunity, but you turned it down, you fool;

– when there are lots of not very impressive people doing significantly better than you;

– when, despite the above, not that long ago you were working on a call centre earning virtually minimum wage, so you should not expect much;

– when, despite the above, you still demand more of yourself because you feel capable of more, crave more, at least more than this;

– when you are apparently always coming up short.

It feels similar to when I played football during my 20s, and always felt capable of playing a league or three higher, but never did. I accepted languishing, an ok player in a not good team, getting soundly embarrassed most weeks.

This all leads you to rationally conclude that in spite of your confidence that you are better than all this, actually no.

You can’t be that much better than where you are, can you? The life league table doesn’t lie. Your value is only dictated by what people will pay. You are where you deserve to be.

There is no clever scientific equation that will suddenly solve itself and make everything clear.

Buckle up, prick. Keep going. Stop whining.

It’s hard though. Unfair and fucking hard.

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