Why the fuck is there absolutely bugger-all to do in
this pisspot of a town? Seriously, man, all there is
do to is to go out and get pissed or stoned (bit of a
scramble to cast the first one in this context true
believers) and indulge in bar room philosophising
about life, the universe and all the sundry shit that
is associated with it, which is especially ironic
because we never get to fucking well experience any of
it in this bloody place anyway.
Getting pissed and spacecaked every night may appeal
to our more Neolithic nature but let's face it, there
are times when you want to do something a little less
destructive to the precious few million or so brain
cells you're left with after three years of debauchery
at College, a further two years of desperate nihilism
trying to cling on to those three years and finally
another year of quietly swozzled nervous anxiety as
you ponder if you've become an alcoholic pothead in
your late twenties while you sip a neat Jack D and
take tentative little drags on the dwindling remnants
of a badly rolled J.
If only there was theatre to go to, new movies to be
watched in splendid Technicolor whilst cocooned in the
embryonic warmth of THX surround sound. If only there
was Red Dwarf on the box and a half decent pub in
which to sink pint upon vomit inducing pint of Old
Speckled Hen in (beer is not drinking). If only there
was the Sunday Times' ill concealed right wing
neo-fascism to bask in and argue over with
Guardian-reading-bleeding-heart-liberal friends. If
only there were cobble-stoned mews to stroll in of a
Sunday morning, if only here was the anticipation of a
summer day. If only...
Instead? There's work, there's narrow minded small
town pettiness, there's nothing to do except sit here
writing bitter drivel about not having a life.
Fuck this for a game of soldiers, fuck this for a game
of election-rigging governments. I want out!
On the other hand...there are beautiful beaches,
resplendent in their golden magnificence, girding
shimmering salt water beneath a baby blue sky.
Absolute bliss on a lazy Sunday knocking back ice cold
Lion Lager and reading a novel by Douglas Coupland or
Alex Garland. Until...oh, fucking great; here come the
Oh aren't the little fuckers an absolute riot as they
playfully occupy the five square foot patch of sand
directly in front of you and merrily commence a game
of throw a ball around while tackling each other and
looking out of the corner of their eyes oh so
subtleobviously to see if the Colombo 7 chicks are
impressed and the men with them can be goaded into a
fight at which point they would hoot derisively and
beat a retreat whilst never losing face.
Fact is, there is no "other hand". This country is
fucked up in general in its urban splats (too small to
be "sprawls") and fucked up by the people in places
where it is beautiful and lush and verdant and
abundant and everything else naturally good.
I still want out.