Anger Management

My sister tells me I should think about it. Attending some kind of course I mean. I always tell her my anger is a healthy emotional reaction to just how immensely fucked up the world up, how incompetent everyone is, and how nothing, nothing works like it ought to.

I have to continue my recent vein of ranting against the media, as it is that sector of humanity that irritates me the most. In précis, having pontificated about the subject in more depth a couple of posts ago, the role of the media, at least in Britain, has changed in the last 20 years. Modern technology and sensibilities have rendered traditional news outlets’ former roles redundant. And so they’ve found themselves metamorphosing into new, slightly different incarnations of their previous selves. Some newspapers, radio stations and TV channels now devote themselves to the rigorous and thorough dissection of current affairs, while some others simply post contentious clap trap seemingly with the intent of causing some controversy and generating advertising revenue with clicks to their websites.

I’ve felt for a while that the standard of journalism, in the UK at least, has disappeared down the toilet pan of sensationalism and bone-idle cliché and stereotype. This notion of mine was confirmed somewhat when a Guardian writer countered some dismissive comments to a piece he’d written by averring he’d only had half an hour to write the article and thus hadn’t a lot of time to do any proper research.

I’m still not convinced I didn’t dream the journalist’s response; surely no-one would admit to crafting sloppy crap and defend himself by saying he didn’t have a lot of time. It was a fluff piece on Zinedine Zidane’s son’s nationality, so the main thought that crossed my mind, as I’m sure (as I hope) it did several other people’s was “why bother writing it then?”.

To my eyes, this is the path the world is currently treading; style over substance, laziness pervading every corner of our lives, ignorance, arrogance, confrontational nonsense and people shouting the loudest to make up for the fact they have the least to say.

Perhaps I’m just frustrated; I’m starting to feel a little tired through working full time and studying architecture part time (with additional night classes in CAD, music technology and German this academic year) on top of playing football 2-3 times a week. That’s not a huge workload for most people, but for someone as workshy as me, it is. And there’s a minor contradiction. I’m lazy, and I’m having a go at other people for their slothfulness? Well yes I am. Because physical laziness is one thing, but mental lethargy? I just can’t fathom that.

You see it all around these days though; people just don’t seem to want to put even the bare minimum of effort into thinking. You see it every day, from people dawdling in supermarket aisles and doorways, looking faintly astonished when people excuse themselves to get past to people believing the first thing they’re told purely because they can’t be bothered checking if it’s true or not. People stomping along the street clutching umbrellas, not able to see the people they’re blinding presumably because they think if they can’t see any other humans, there aren’t any there.

I get it every day at work as well. People constantly phoning and emailing, asking me how to do things that were expressly delineated in correspondence they’d been sent. Why do they do it? I suspect they just can’t be bothered. But that’s ok. Because if something’s hard to do, it’s probably not worth doing.

So the papers are peddling their crap to a readership that are all too willing to lap it up. The features, articles and essays require no real critical thought to read, and little more to write. I’ve just started reading ‘Bad Science’ by Ben Goldacre, and 50 or so pages in, it’s already proving an illuminating read. For the past few years Goldacre has been writing a column of the same name in the Guardian, and much like his colleague at the paper Charlie Brooker, he rails against and runs through the bubble of hyperbolic bullshit that has permeated British society in recent years, preying on the lazy, gullible minds of the masses, specifically targeting nutritionists and homeopaths and the British media’s approach to reporting medical issues and treatments. I’d certainly recommend it so far, if only because I feel that sometimes only he and Charlie Brooker provide any kind of dissenting voice or play devil’s advocate these days. Indeed, the cynical part of my brain (which is about 57% of it to be honest) thinks they might just be the only people doing any kind of critical thought in the mainstream media in this country.

And if you don’t believe me, and you think I’m over-reacting, just count how many times the word ‘stunning’ is used every day in tabloid newspapers and on the BBC. It usually numbers between 15-20 occurrences. I know I’ve driven most of my friends and acquaintances to distraction moaning about why journalists are so besotted with the word, but I think I’ve got a point. It’s symptomatic of the dumbing down in Britain and beyond. That, coupled with the Plain English movement and people’s reluctance to use a dictionary will result in a generation of humans a few dozen years down the line that are unable to talk in any kind of language that doesn’t resemble newspeak. For instance, I adore the word ‘disingenuous’. I think it’s subtle and versatile and elegant. Plain English would frown upon it however because it has too many syllables and requires an advanced education to understand. This is a hopelessly defeatist attitude in my view, and more than a little patronising. If we stop aspiring to learning new words, then why bother doing anything? In any case, in order to adequately replace that one word ‘disingenuous’, we would have to substitute a sentence of maybe 6-10 smaller words.

This blog probably doesn’t read very well; I’ve written it late at night on two consecutive evenings when I’ve had other commitments. I’m writing it because I need to, I need an outlet for my anger at the laissez-faire, lazy, ignorant and selfish stance taken by so many people in this world. An entire society with the same mantra of ‘why bother?’

What’s In A Name?

As long as I can remember, I’ve had something of a complex about names, other people knowing, using or even forming opinions about my own name, and above all, name badges. I’ve never fully understood the concept of nametags; some people would contend that they open up avenues of conversation by removing the obstacle of having to introduce one another, and I accept this probably works at conferences and school reunions and the like, but I’m not convinced the same concept is successful when applied in the service industry. Again, my cynical brain kicks in here; surely companies only give staff name badges so the customer knows who to complain about? Ok, and compliment I guess, but I’m fairly certain that no-one ever bloody reads the things; too busy staring at boobies if you’re into that sort of thing.

As I mentioned, I always felt incredibly uneasy and self-conscious on the occasions I’ve had to wear something with my name on it. I’m not sure why in the slightest, perhaps it’s my slightly odd name that always results in people asking the same three questions, but I can remember being separated from my father during the Car Show at the NEC in Birmingham in 1984 or 85. I was found by someone and taken to the crèche, whereupon revealing my name, they pinned a badge with it printed on on my chest. I didn’t like it, and I tried to take it off, but I couldn’t. I should point out that this wasn’t the start of my mild phobia, because I was adamant they weren’t putting the thing on me in the first place.

This dislike of badges has continued ever since; I’ve never worn any kind of non-identification name badge in my life, and I can tell you exactly how many times I’ve worn the other kind: 19. I mention all this because recently an email was circulated at work telling us we were required to possess name badges. Frankly, the general reaction was bemusement; we simply don’t meet customers in the office, and we very rarely entertain staff members from other departments. I frankly find it all a little hilarious. Some people are wearing theirs, most, i.e. 90% of the floor, aren’t. I’m not entirely sure what our management are trying to achieve here, but I think it ties in with the general school of thought that your customers have an advantage of some form when they know your name. Although I should point out that 15 of the times I’ve worn a name badge in the past were at my previous place of employment (I was only there three weeks), and I don’t think any customer took a second glance at my name. The only two people that did were fellow staff members.

In any case, I have been given a name badge, and it has since sat forlornly at the bottom of my desk drawer. No-one has said we have to wear them you see, just possess one. The ironic thing is that the font is smaller than that of my ID card, which I and most others do wear, so you have to be standing almost face to face with someone before you can actually read it. I noticed this today when the girl from round the corner, whose name I don’t know, had hers on and I couldn’t read what her name was without appearing to be trying to breastfeed myself.

“I love the rain, It washes the memories off the sidewalk of life.”

So goes the Woody Allen quote. I too love the rain, but not because it washes memories away, but because for whatever reason, it makes the memories I possess seem more vibrant and real, makes me feel as if I’m back in the place and time I was when they were formed. I’m not sure why this should be; I occasionally get these bursts of recollection of time go by no matter the weather or time of day, but the rain seems to be a catalyst of some sort for the synapses and neurons of my mind.

I’ll give you an example. I was at college in Glasgow tonight, and as the train left the station, the moon and artificial light caught the rain-lashed platforms just proud of the engine shed, and in the murky monochrome light I felt the sensation that I could be leaving any train station at any time. This sense of potential always seems to send my mind on a further tangent abound on some neural net/tracery of lifelines, alternate universes and boundless possibilities, where I can access the thoughts and minds of an infinite number of other human beings throughout history. It normally only lasts a split-second, but it’s enough to send shivers through my solar plexus, send the hair on my spine rippling up to my cerebellum, leaving behind a modest selection of ideas and notions in the dusty attic of my imagination, like quires of paper fluttering and cartwheeling through the ether, waiting for me to select one and elaborate upon it.

This is why I feel I’m a writer on some base level; I’ve never felt the desire to question an author of fiction where he or she gets his or her ideas from, because I go through almost every day of my life secreting away little nuggets of information to use as characteristics or plot devices in whatever of my current ‘projects’ I feel they best suit, or letting them fan the flames of a new, divergent notion. The world is a verdant nursery of ideas for those of a creative bent, and while I don’t claim to be a good writer in the slightest, I am assailed with data and information and tiny forges of inspiration every day.

The trouble comes, I feel, with the realisation that I’m not a people person. I never have been very good at making friend, or indeed keeping them, and a characteristic that was described as inveterate shyness as a child I think could now be delineated as some mild form of autism. I’m not entirely sure how one can write novels successfully while the machinations and mimesis of human beings are seemingly always beyond one’s perception.

As a result, the three unpublished children’s stories and first draft novel I’ve written tend to lean more to being crystallizations of my own internal confusion; I ask labyrinthine, meandering questions rather than provide answers. I’d be foolish to try to be honest. I have nothing to offer the world except my own confusion.

It’s still raining outside. I genuinely do love this type of weather; perhaps it’s tied in with some buried sense-memory. What is certain is that goose-bumps will creep across my skin when I hear the percussive rattle of rain and the howl of its accompanying squall, and fire will burn within me again. It’s just about the only time I feel close to contentment these days.