Social media: nothing has changed. But we must.

Posted: December 19, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

About a year ago (when would have been a good time to share publish this blog) – there was a great deal made of ‘X’ (then, and forever really, ‘Twitter’) becoming a platform permitting right-wing content, bullying and dangerous topics.

I myself didn’t notice any difference, the only real impact being that WordPress would no-longer be so easily shareable to the X site.

Perhaps, it depends on where on the X site you’re looking. I wasn’t really looking at right-wing, bullying or dangerous things, so that might be why. I just desperately scrawling through it to see who was sharing blogs about what they had for breakfast.

But there was no change I could tell.

I did notice, however, that there was something still a major factor of social media. As I spent hours scrolling and scrolling through the content on X, Instagram, and Facebook, it eventually dawned on me that social media is a profound waste of time.

And I’ve only got so much time, and I need it to write about my breakfast (today, toast. Tomorrow, the world!).

Hasn’t it always been a waste of time? Perhaps a cool waste of time? Especially X?

In my life, Facebook was the original place to waste time: posting pointless updates featuring the latest and most hip abbreviations, sharing photos of people literally just sitting around with a variety of hand gestures, and ‘liking’ pages ranging from an esoteric movie (Ergo: “Hey, I’m esoteric, like this movie.“) to (and I don’t know what to call this): a page titled “Hey it’s snowing! Brilliant!“.

Photos continued to be shared on Facebook through my 20s, and now I can’t delete the damn thing because it is the sole location of my kid’s baby photos. Mine too, probably.

Twitter was meant to be the means by which my extraordinary blog would be shared with soon-to-be adoring fans, as well as a foundation for further research into the absurdly interesting concepts that I could soon write about.

But then, I was ‘followed’ by a local carpet shop in my home town and I realised its proclivity for wasted time was confirmed. They still follow-me, and they too don’t seem any more right-wing than usual (likely due to going out-of-business several years ago).

Instagram is brilliant, the best way to share images and video. A great place for a blog, surely.

Otherwise, every other social media seems to be the same.

TikTok only seems to differ from Instagram as it is a means of People’s Republic of China’s subversion of Western stability, whilst Instagram is less-so. Instagram is best at short videos, YouTube long ones, TikTok pro-sedition ones.

Rest assured, what we had for breakfast can be duly shared on each of these.

My point is that the whilst there’s focus of each social media, the fact is they’re all broadly a waste of time.

Yes, I’m sure you too have heard of people who met their one-true love on Facebook, or are making money from Instagram, or even using the platform to share truly inspiring content. But you’re not, you didn’t and you likely won’t.

You did, however, waste your time. And not in the right way.

Remember that time on Facebook when there was a specific scenario benefiting you with brilliant life-experience a great tale to tell? No, of course not. Exactly the same as when you were on Twitter and nothing proceeded to happen there either.

It’s better to have a bad day in bad weather than to waste time on social media.

That way, you can either make good use of time or waste it too, but it’ll be real-life. Which is useful either way. More social media – less you.

Social media is not an experience.

We’re programmed to find ways to use and waste time as humans. Look at me writing this blog – a far more productive way to waste time.

Ultimately, social media hasn’t changed. It didn’t need to. Neither did we, but we do now.

Waste time in real life, not online.

Sam

Now’s the time to write about it.

Posted: November 30, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , | 1 Comment

In 50 years, those there and then will wonder why there wasn’t more first-hand accounts of the 2020s.

There are lots of ‘accounts’ – but these are largely bots, or worse – idiots.

And whilst I always take a certain pride in ticking that ‘I can confirm I am not a robot’ box, I am accordingly an idiot too.

And the issue with idiots is brevity, which is why they’re so well suited to social media.

However, if you listen to an idiot for long enough you come to realise one of two things:
1. Actually, they’re not an idiot after all
2. Actually, you’re an idiot along with them

One or two, you’ll realise whichever depending on your idiocy.

We have people who aren’t idiots – journalists, who are inevitably historians.

But what does the typical Brit consider of the Russian ‘military operation’ (aka – definitely a ‘war’) against Ukraine?

What does the average French woman think about Queen II dying?

And does anyone know how the people of Papa New Guinea feel about the worsening lack of fish generally?

Who is talking? Who is taking notes?

There seems to be, as I myself feel, a reliance on Google being around tomorrow.

It probably will be, but also – who knows?

Do you keep a diary?

I don’t, because naturally I feel all my opinions are worth sharing in blog form, which is like social media but more of a long-form idiocy.

The difference between a blog and a diary however, is consistency. Like a a good cake.

Diaries are quality cake.

This blog is shop-bought.

However, we can increase the output to the point of being disciplined – it’s just going to require everyone being ready for a greater stream of idiotic thoughts and feelings from me.

For some, that might be a blessing.

One shouldn’t compare oneself to others, but only to oneself yesterday.

Or, you can compare yourself to me – and feel pretty great about yourself in contrast.

Think about it this way: at least you aren’t saying this.

So brace yourselves, for a torrent of inane and mundane is on the way.

Why? So in whatever tomorrow may come, the people may know what a truly average person thought and felt about things.

See you there.

Sam

P.S. For breakfast, I had eggs. And this climate crisis really is getting a lot of attention now. Hmm. Think I’ll some more eggs.

Writing without a purpose

Posted: July 30, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I don’t like writing for people. Reading it is the worst part of my work.

People (or as I call them ‘people’) as an audience mean that there has to be an intent with the words.

And it’s nice not to have an intent. I prefer to be pleasingly pointless.

Like keepie-ups.

That’s why I kick balls.

And sentences like these are why I write.

Of course, I do try to have some impact here and there. But I prefer being ineffectual – it’s more expressive.

Perhaps that’s the point.

Meaningless matters. And that’s all our shame.

And, slightly…pride.

For me, irrelevancy gets the job done.

Just like this.

Whistling. Whistling in the wind. Perhaps also peeing.

Crickey – I’m good at summing myself up.

Sam

Getting old – a quandry of vegetable care

Posted: July 21, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I’m the sort of chap who has a great idea, tells people about, takes little-to-no action, allows a few years to pass by, and eventually wonders: “why didn’t I do that?”

You might know this sensation.

I wanted a vegetable patch in my garden – to grow my own, beat the system and enjoy fresh air, etc.

My wife and I had a slight disagreement on where such a patch would go – and it proceeded not to happen.

Later, friends told me they were growing their own veg. “How nice” I thought.

Later still, colleagues told me the same. “How nicer” I continued.

My brother then announced he was getting an allotment – the mark of someone who wants to grow vegetables so much that they do it in public.

Lastly, my wife told me she was starting a veg-patch wherever the hell she wanted in our garden.

Suddenly it seemed I was surrounded by home-growers of an idea I’d had years ago, and was feeling somewhat left behind and out of the veg-growing picture.

Other people my age are growing their own, enjoying the process and link to their land, and probably vegetables too.

I’m yet again behind, inspired to have an idea that becomes in-vogue in time, but not inspired enough to take action at the time.

Others are saving money, becoming in tune with the Earth and growing both themselves – and carrots.

What am I going to do? I’m such a loser – I didn’t even grow vegetables when I had the chance and and other people my age have so much going on, especially cabbage, and I really need to get my act together before………………………….oh wait it’s only growing vegetables.

Quite irrelevant really – when you want them to be. Still, I’m getting old.

I’ve had my efforts.

I tried growing a pineapple plant, which struggled until my dog snapped it in half – promptly ending the struggle.

I also grew tomatoes a few years ago – but that’s too easy. It’s like trying to grow a beard – effortless whether you succeed or not.

So, sure enough I do need to begin growing something, to remain a part of the pack – but it needs to have a edge to it. Just so I can feel slightly ahead of the curve for once, like I used to be.

Naturally I turned to sea-monkeys.

In place of the pineapple plant I was growing with my son, tiny crustaceans seemed like the next best bet/pet.

However – it turns out you can’t really rear and eat these minuscule specimens. You can drink them down in one, get a bad tummy ache and rear them back up again – but you can’t enjoy chewing them.

And they’re not very intimate a collection either – individually or as a herd. Carrots are better company.

We did name one though. On the theme of them being sea-faring monkeys, we named him: “Ooh Ooh ARGH!”

I think next I’ll try tomatoes, but grow them where no one would expect – like my brothers allotment. Watered with sea-monkeys.

That’d show them all.

That’d show everyone.

Sam

It’s all about the environment. Mine, not yours.

Posted: May 22, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

MAYBE, it’s about everyone’s environment, but that’s only if it turns out to be more helpful than I am currently intending.

Also, I’m not talking about the environment in that ecological, greater-crested newt, save the wales, sense.

Of course, I’m all in favour of saving the wales. Unless they cross me, in which case I’m moving to Japan.

I’m talking about the environment in that personal sense. MY environment.

The price of a pint of beer is important for this.

I tend not to drink in pubs on account of the cost. I drink at home, a lot, to the point of not going to the doctor in case they give me bad news and I can’t do it anymore.

However, there is a time (maybe, who cares) and more importantly there is a place in which the tipping of the bank balance is more acceptable, on account of really enjoying the environment.

The pub.

The pub is an environment, and it is very important because it is exceedingly lovely.

But what makes it so lovely, and therefore important?

I think it’s:

holding the glass of local beer after a long morning in town staring at classic cars on behalf of an enthusiast to whom I’m related, in the sun-trap garden with a breeze passing through, and a friendly greyhound coming up to sniff hello whilst children are playing and pleasantly misbehaving with the fish in the pond because of something I demonstrated earlier (“the fish bite if you put your fingers in – see?“), folk nearby talking about things I feel are not fascinating but are still something to which I could contribute in an emergency, another glass of increasingly local (is it? Who cares?) beer, my wife suddenly remembered that she’s stunning and is keen to share that with me, my children ask me adorable requests akin to wanting to sit on my knee or have a peanut, I make a political point to my wife and she responds just “hmmm, yes babe” but I’m still glad I said it, before heading inside to the tiny bar in the cooler darkness that reeks of British tradition, where there is a hat perched on a hook in the wall beneath a plaque saying “DAD” with a degree of loving aggressiveness one really had to be there for, and I’m asked if I’d like another, “No, water please” I counter but add that I’d love a pickled egg to accompany , that sates us both (him – my money, me – his egg), and I wrap said-egg in a tissue and place in my pocket and this is all marvelous, just marvelous, and I’ve spent here on two pints and an egg (that everyone hated) what would amount to much beer and many eggs from elsewhere to enjoy at home, but you’re then basically just at home – drunk with eggs.

That was all environment and also, I’m sorry, exquisite grammar.

Really, the importance of it was that it mattered at the time.

And then I realised I couldn’t escape the concept of environments. Such as the fish in the pond with fingers poking-in for the hope of being nibbled – that’s an environment.

Or the pocket with a parceled pickled egg in it – now I had the choice of pocket environments. One to act as a pocket in the traditional, common-or-garden sense, whilst the other now became an environment in which I could put things that I wanted to become smelly.

Naturally it didn’t end there, as we made our way back to the car park (another environment? No, probably not that one) we noticed a nearby shrine to St. Jude.

Here, in the sanctified silence broken only by the taps of my daughter’s feet as she danced in the kaleidoscope of colours from the stained windows and the summer sun, and of the whispers of my son asking “what’s a shrine?“; we felt another environment.

This one was of the kind with the mix of emotions that often comes when religion really matters to people on a daily level – a mix of hope yet desperation, glory yet pity, endless mercy and love, and a donation box in every possible eyeline, a place to place your intimate prayers, and a giftshop.

That’s what you pay for, much akin to two pints of Spitfire and a pickled egg. Plus a copy of the Catholic Herald that I stole (they’ll forgive me). Anyway, I donate to churches every time I light one of their candles, which I do almost every time I enter one, including this of St. Jude’s shrine.

I do go to church fairly often. Often, but not religiously.

There was a woman who sat alone and away from the shrine, in the chapel, who was fervently seeing-to a colouring book as though it had wronged her and she’d have her vengeance in primary colours. She looked up and asked my 5-year-old son if he’s like to colour-in too. He declined politely* and she looked back down to her traumatic colour-scape and never looked up again.

Her head. That was an environment; a very busy one that I don’t want to visit.

Exiting can be a lovely thing when it is stepping out from the gravitas of a softly sounding, aroma-filled cellar environment that pubs and chapels can share, into the relative outer-space of a blue-skied day. So we did, and it was.

A whole new environment. Stepping out into this, I thought as my son and I peed on a nearby secluded wall, was a matter of perception creating a new environment, whilst at the time of stepping into the shrine – the point had been vice-versa.

We arrived at the car, buckled up and cranked the air-conditioning to as low and powerful as it could be; creating another environment in which we controlled the climate, the radio, the view (depending on where we drove), and all with the feeling of togetherness that comes when a family in a car knows that everyone else is strapped in there with them.

This last one, the environment of the family bubble, I realised was the one that had been there throughout the day, and was the one I was taking home.

My advice is to alter your environment to make it what you want, therein making your self think and feel as you’d prefer – or to at least give yourself a better chance to.

Some might try beer, others religion, some are for summer, some for wherever the air-conditioning is best.

Mine is the lot, all, with varying intervals and different levels of intensity, before moving onto the next as per whatever the hell I feel like. It gets me thinking, appreciating, and moving.

What’s my gift though, that I’ll treasure beyond the wagers of the mercy of saints or the business of a barman, was being able to go home with and to my family.

Cheesy, I know, but that’s nothing compared to that pickled egg. Maybe this blog might have turned out to be helpful after all.

*Much as I have been for the past 20 years; in polite decline.

I’ve got some tickets to Shakespeare! Can’t wait to meet him.

Posted: May 16, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

A few centuries ago, having some tickets to a Shakespeare play would have been the hottest in town.

On 24th May 2024, the approaching date I have tickets for, there is a different perspective on the price of the ticket and the opportunity it represents.

Much Ado About Nothing has been performed more than a few times prior to the current run it’s enjoying at The Globe.

Over a few centuries there’ve been many thousands of performances, but really the appreciation for whether it’s a hot ticket or not is affected by the greatly reduced chance of bumping into Will Shakespeare in the queue for an ice-cream in interval.

But he’ll still be there. Not in essence, or in spirit, but physically. Is laughing not physical? Is the inner recoil of dread that comes when you know someone’s about to be cooked in a pie – not an ‘in the room’ feeling of physical?

Not really no. But he will still be there in in essence – whatever that means.

I think it means – ‘it would be nice if he was there’, but he isn’t really there. Though he is. Obviously.

Then again, for most of the time for most of the world, Shakespeare wasn’t there.

Perhaps, if it weren’t a good chunk of a millennia later, we might not ‘get‘ the meaning of his plays.

Without the insights of Shakespeare experts, with tremendous artists and producers, Shakespeare’s best might be only as good as a joke told by someone who doesn’t get why it is, or isn’t, funny.

Intonation is a tricky thing to express through a blog, but the point I’m making is that without it – well applied by actors (indeed – thespians) – Shakespeare isn’t so good.

Obviously, Shakespeare is good (maybe even great) – but how plebs like me come to realise that is thanks to other people realising that, and studying and rehearsing over years and decades to culminate with me thinking “oh, actually this is better than ‘good‘.”

And all the emotions around that.

The best thing a writer can do is strike recognition within the readers, and elevate from there. That’s the basis of comedy and tragedy. And Shakespeare did this then, but continues to do so now thanks to the interpretations of the experts today.

They’re ‘Thespians‘ – don’t’cha’know (using way more apostrophes then Shakespeare would have ever had).

I know this, from life.

I saw Two Gentleman of Verona at the Marlowe in Canterbury a few years ago. They took the stand by departing from script to laugh at anti-Irish joke, and bringing the audience with them in appreciating that anti-Irish isn’t really something people want to get behind any more.

Kenneth Branagh’s ‘Much Ado (About Nothing‘ – but it’s much cooler with just the first two words) – was intonation HEAVY and including a deck chair. Shakespeare didn’t include a deckchair, but Branagh did – and we’re better-off for it.

Then again, I had a bad time at Regent’s Park Theatre once, with Director portraying the tale A Midsummer’s Night Dream as one of much social discontentedness. Which was a semi-bad translation. Yes, such tyranny over a daughter (Hermia) is awful, but “though she be but little she is fierce” is spunky-enough to bring us through it.

Ultimately , we need to bring it back to the Thespians returning Shakespeare to the stage on the evening of 24th May 2024 – with his essence filling a theatre. We do get to meet him – the world-changing professional writer and personal poet that could cobble together a history to please a paymaster and Lord, whilst summarizing the variety of human conditions with soul-shuddering prose and a donkey’s head.

It’s a matter of hope.

Shakespeare was hopeful. He shared that with us. And it is a wonderful thing with which to leave a theatre.

And it only cost a tenner for standing room. Sore feet. Would recommend.

Summer is coming all over a town near you’s tits.

Posted: May 9, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Vulgarity gets you everywhere.

The people love it.

They love it in Buckingham Palace, they love it in the White House and in the Hamptons, they love it in on airplanes and under the sea.

‘Undiscovered‘ tribes that haven’t discovered us yet – have discovered vulgarity and they love it.

Now, naturally you need to be vulgar in a very classy way.

And that’s not writeable by people like me. I don’t know if anyone can write about it – or even begin to explain it.

Saying “fuck” (which, incidentally, is very rude) can be learned, but it can’t be written.

“Fuck” – see?

Approach the King of England and say “fuck” is a non-classy way, and it won’t go down too well. They’ve got ‘people‘ to deal with your sort of ‘person‘ that isn’t saying “fuck” as they jolly-well should be.

However, say it to Charlie with class, “fuck” with panache, and you’ll find yourself knighted.

He might even say it back to you, with even more panache – since he’s a monarch and divine, etc.

‘Panacheier‘ you might say, alongside “fuck“.

And this works in job interviews, contract negotiations, and social relationships.

Well not really, but it does work well after those scenarios.

Vulgarity is broadly applicable, in love, war, and blogging (fuck).

It’s not a good way to raise your kids, but aside from that – I strongly advise you say “fuck” a regularly, between meals, and get vulgar. There are other words of vulgarity I could demonstrate, but since I’ve really latched-on to ‘fuck‘ – I’ll perservere.

But the joy of variety in vulgarity is yours.

For instance, exhibit A – summer.

I write this in May 2024 and it’s getting warmer, lighter, longer and happier in that way that comes even before the promise of summer. I could get poetic of the smells and the touches and the living and the music, but I can also say “summer is coming all over a town near you’s tits” and that’s fine.

There’s no doubt – the grammar seems to be a bit off, but it’s technically not. The perception of the grammar being off makes it appear all the more vulgar, and that’s a positive.

Because vulgarity works. Ask the powerful.

Ask the influential in politics and communications.

Keep it classy, but a well timed “fuck” can get you ahead in life, and whilst living that same life – “fuck” can really personify how you’re feeling as the seasons become less dreadfully ‘seasonal‘ and instead suggest once more that total myth we all love to believe of summer once again coming for us.

Coming to re-embolden our souls as we make the choices that define us.

Coming to remind us of the point of life and the joy of living.

Coming….all over a town near you’s tits.

Yes, that’s not how you spell it. And yes, it’s so egregious that you forget the word “tits” is in there – but this……this is all the above.

And the below.

This is Shakespeare.

This is Aaron Sorkin.

This is Hunter S Thompson.

Three writers that I’m sure would have a great evening (to the point of breakfast) together.

The “fuck” is intrinsic to all we are and all we aspire to be. It brings us back to the horizons we aim for, all whilst enjoying the informal trepidation that comes from knowing “fuck” is acceptable to say in present company, and that now we can really get down to business.

The business of vulgarity.

The business of summer.

Fuck. In a classy way.

Sam

Local football – the difference between quality and enjoyment

Posted: April 21, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: I've been about | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Before I begin – I’ve looked up the rules of WordPress (by which this blog is generated) and whilst I can’t play music over the top of these words – I can link you to websites that play music – meaning you can enjoy sounds from one tab whilst reading words on this tab .

So I’m linking to some suggestions I’ve had from YouTube: Deep Space Banjo Ambience, A playlist to feel like you’re inside a Monet painting, and Rest Here a Moment.. Tomorrow We Start Again. I don’t know if you’ll like them, or if I do – but the internet seems to feel these pieces summarise me.

My dad and I travelled to watch Gillingham FC play yesterday. The Gills are a Kent-local team with a respected regional history that is over-shadowed by an incredibly devoted fanbase that reminds you that people are dedicated to all sorts of things, including screaming.

I find going to the stadium quite intimidating due to the crowd all around – especially behind me. There’s something about a mob that hasn’t realised it is one yet – it really makes me stay home.

I’m not really frightened of having a fight because no ones tends to start fights with me. However, I’d be quite tentative about starting a fight because I don’t know how to do it.

At what point am I allowed to punch you in the nose?

What happens if we’re exchange insults and threats, and I punch first? And then, everyone gasps and suddenly my wouldn’t-be opponent sobs with hysterical confusion, questioning what drove me to do such a thing – and then I’m politely asked to leave?

Unthinkably embarrassing and really not what the beautiful game is all about.

There are other aspects to the game which is beautiful. Elements that one can’t perceive through the screen watching premier league fixtures.

For one, the litter

There’s litter on the pitch and trundling down the stadium steps.

I think this comes down to two issues.

One – the stadium is draughty, being a stadium, which facilitates litter blowing into the goalmouth and clattering against the fanbase.

Two – the local stadium doesn’t have a two-deep line of hi-viz staff constantly trawling through the square footage to clamp down on the litter that risks being a form of unlicensed advertising (“a Snickers wrapper?! I didn’t approve that flutter by!?”).

Plus, everyone keeps dropping litter, which is likely the most crucial cause of littering.

Pigeons are fucking on the stadium roof

It’s spring, and nature is springing, which is beautiful.

Pigeons, fucking on the stadium roof, is also beautiful, but is that kind of beauty nobody really wants to see. Or hear.

If they could smell it, this sport wouldn’t exist.

It does make one feel lucky to be alive though. Spring is here!

Football! Sunshine! Pigeon eggs (eventually)! And god knows these past few months of dark winter, we’ve all been looking forward to more pigeons. The thought of that got me through Christmas.

The elements are real, not like on TV

I remembered to bring my hat this time, as previously I’d spent the entire 90 minutes saluting the spring-time sun in a vain effort to protect my eyes and see a single moment of play. And I don’t like saluting.

I could probably take eye-damage more seriously though. We all could. But I’m still not going to.

The sun hit my forearm for a long time that afternoon. Feeling something, as opposed to that dulling sensation of generally sitting – in which one only feels anything when they’ve been sitting for too long – I don’t get that at home watching TV.

It’s good to feel something, from the sun on my forearm, to the breeze that helps the litter along.

THUDS

Sitting 3 rows back from the field – you can hear the real thud of the game – thuds of players colliding, landing after tackles and the ever-thwack of the ball.

The same ball that everyone cheers as it makes it way by means of foot-empowered-flight out of the stadium towards brown top-hat chimneys of houses just feet away; it thuds when kicked, it thuds when it hits the roof, and it thuds and beep-beeps when it lands on a car just outside the stadium.

That ball is what makes me feel even more on edge than the mob around me and the procreating pigeons above me. There is a constant feeling, sitting so close to the pitch, that the ball is going to be kicked (perhaps…passed) right into my nose with such power it would colonise my face in the name of football.

It’s brilliant.

Fear can be a good thing, especially when it only relates to cosmetic issues and minor brain damage.

‘THUD‘ personifies that.

Money where it can be found

Each goal was sponsored – something I’ve never encountered before.

I wasn’t sure after the first goal, thanks to the roar of the crowd, but after the second – I’m sure the stadium announcer declared: “In the 47th minute, goal scored by JOSHUA ANDREWS!!! This goal was sponsored by Mr and Mrs Potts, of Twydall.”

Not only did this hyper-localise the local football game, but it made clear that ways to make money are discovered through ways to spend money. In this case, hyper-local; to donate money.

Outstanding.

Unbalanced and loving it

With my Dad – I think we were too balanced to fit in properly. When the ref judged a handball, we’d quietly agree with each other, whilst all about us let there position known not so much by direct disagreement, but by calling the ref a cunt.

It’s a matter of passion over facts. Everyone’s got a football opinion, because that’s the point. If you’ve got a football fact – that’s nice, but one hardly screams it at the opposing fanbase.

All about me were the folk who came to slightly decrease their overall long-term blood-pressure by drastically increasing it for a highly vocal 90 minutes (with a quick 15 minute break for liquids – in and out).

The referee represents the villain in the pantomime – you just know you’re supposed to boo them, regardless of what they actually do on the field/stage. The Gillingham-devoted have no idea of this ref’s name, they just want to enjoy the hour and a half of absolute love and total hatred; football.

The greens are greener

You can see the blades of the grass.

Not just general greeness – like on TV, but actually blades, and flying tuffs as boots dig in deep to the pitch whilst missing the ball somewhat.

It’s the same with the players’ hair, the swish of limbs, and – again – the pigeons fucking.

It’s spring!

Glory. Real glory

There were children asking for autographs from players in case they’re not nobodies, and the players were dutifully signing them. It’s wholesome – live with it.

But whilst they’re potentially not nobodies in the future, right now their names are revised and celebrated by the kids who have this hyper-local passion that is, I expect, replicated up and down the country and probably the world.

And then there is that particular moment of glory, when it comes – as it did for Joshua Andrews (sponsored by Mr and Mrs Potts) in which the ball came to him, he paused for a moment and thought (visibly) – “why the fuck not? I’m supposed to aren’t I?!“. And he kicked it, almost a punt on a punt…and it went in.

And a collective of associates who either know one another by name of the fact that they’d also die for this football club, felt every theme of joy conceivable – and they showed it.

By god, or more importantly – Gillingham FC – they showed it.

That’s a glory that cannot be compared.

But it can be beaten, by this:

There are other nobodies, ones you’ve not heard of and I’ve since forgotten, who played with this club for years and may have enjoyed times such as Joshua – the current number 9. Decades later, they passed away, and yesterday, they and their name received a standing ovation over 60 seconds in honour, absolute honour, of their life and service to this club.

There’s glory on these Saturdays, and dreams come true on the field, but it is in the stands that the living of life can be found. It’s excitement – and it is contagious.

All in all – you might get a bit of it, but there’s no way you get all the above from watching the Premier league on the TV.

Some, not all.

3-0 to the Gills it was.

Me and my Dad went.

Sam

Genitals in a tornado – and other topics that don’t get you far as a writer

Posted: April 12, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

‘Whirly whirly whirly‘ they’d go.

There’s something to it as a topic….the topic being genitals in a tornado.

It’s got depth, and history. It’s also metaphorical, but that’s not as important as literally having your genitals in a tornado.

Which genitals? You name them, they’re there. In fact, bring your own! BYOG!

Which tornado? I don’t know – I don’t any tornados. Obviously they’re all named, but I don’t know the depth of their character in the same way I do genitals.

Either way, I like the idea of genitals in a tornado, because that implies being naked in the elements.

And being naked in the elements, the wind and the rain, the sun and the snow, that in itself implies something too.

There’s depth to these genitals, especially hers.

I think it’s an epic representation of how tiny you are, an insignificant little human in a slightly larger universe, which is entirely indifferent, but the stars are out and pretty, and though you might be insignificant – feeling the rain and the wind and the starlight proves you’re alive.

Which is nice.

You might be able to picture the scene:
A person (perhaps yourself) looking up at an unending sky and appreciating all that living can be, whilst the turbulence of life on Earth increases – the wind rises and makes the person sway and lean into the now-raging storm threatening to rip them away, the will to be and live swells greater than the storm, and proof of living is undeniable and powerful, and all the while their genitals are going round and around like the clappers.

I’ll bet it’s good for them.

Doctors should recommend a tornado for your blood pressure, variations of hair-dos, and for your genitals. Or perhaps, just for the experience – why shouldn’t a doctor want you to have a fun time?

These. These are the topics that don’t get us far as writers. Probably because they’re so interesting, we don’t want to move.

There’s history to these genitals.

Well, really pre-history, but mostly guesswork and even statistics. There’s no way you’re the first person to have genitals out and about in a tornado.

And there’s absolutely no way in hell that you’re the first person to helicopter your penis hands-free but elements-dependent, such as a tornado provides.

The likelihood of this happening goes back further than even helicopters, further back than lassos, further back than any other things you might consider waggling round and round. A penis was doing it first – and I’ll bet there was a tornado right alongside it.

This is history that wasn’t written down at the time it happened, but I bet there’s an undiscovered cave painting somewhere in the world, with storm clouds and rain depicted – with a focus feature of a simple human figure encumbered with a penis so overly large it upsets other people’s balance, surrounded by motion lines to indicate rapid revolutions, and other members of the tribe keeping an awed-whilst-embarrassed distance.

That’s art that I wouldn’t pay for, but I would paint it.

I think they have something similar in the Vatican. Maybe on the walls that hold the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel up.

Turns out – there’s art and architecture to this.

I don’t know about breasts, since they seem to wobble most of the time anyway, but when it comes to history, I’m sure I’ve heard the term “like tits in a wind-tunnel” is one I’ve heard before. I just can’t recall when. I can recall why though – things were going extraordinarily well at the time – like tits in a wind-tunnel.

Vagina-wise (which is a theme, not a given-title for experienced gynecologists) – I’d have to imagine that whilst the tornado might make one’s ovaries a tad chilly, the hollow vagina in a tornado would emit a pleasing ‘toot‘ sort of noise – like when blowing into a half-finished bottle of beer. And you’ve finished the second half, first.

These are the topics that get one nowhere, not even preferably lost.

The important point here, is that writings on topics like these are the guarantee of successlessness. In addition to the creation of unreal words such as at the end of the last sentence, they are not what you want to read about.

But by golly, they’re enjoyable to write about.

And I write, to write.

Doing it this way is to ‘other’ yourself, which gets you attention such as I’m not getting, but the potential is still there.

These are the topics, as you’ve seen above: history, depth, metaphors, art, and architecture – who could possibly be interested in such subjects as these?! Thank heavens there was a unifying theme.

Maybe ‘genitals in the breeze’ would be a better title?

Sam

The internet isn’t sexy, and it isn’t helping

Posted: April 6, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I was distracted after writing the above title, by brief segment from a chat-show featuring a guest speaking about why having core stability is important for Formula One racing.

Apparently, it’s very important. For Formula One racing.

I don’t like Formula One racing, though I admit I’ve a soft spot for core stability.

The time I spent on the…….sorry I became distracted again and started browsing for cigars online.

The internet – it is distracting, and not in a good way.

The internet is only as wonderful as it is – and that’s about it.

When I think of the internet being most useful and worth keeping, I picture vital research being finalised in a lab in Australia thanks to some AI programming, then being discussed on a video-conference-call with Europe-based colleagues, and then shared with a children’s hospital when it saves a baby’s life in the nick of time. And then the news is celebrated amongst Facebook friends.

Yes, there’s also music, online communities, access of life-saving information, and occasionally – OCCASIONALLY – a funny video of a cat having a slightly bad time; all of which is tremendous.

Otherwise, it is a unsexy place – location undetermined but seemingly everywhere – and stopping people from approaching one another normally. Of course, ‘normally’ for humans – online or ‘off’ (I like that term – I am “off“) will remain as strange as it ever was before, thanks to people having it within their DNA to make things interesting.

These engagements don’t need to be online. It is preferable to take a single step out doors and try it thus instead. It’s better for your cardio.

The internet is not good for your cardio.

Cardio is sexy, leads to sex, and actually is sex too.

Whilst the internet might lead to sex – it certainly doesn’t do so in a sexy fashion; a click of a button is neither romantic, or attractive. ‘Sexy’ is almost as important as sex itself.

‘Sexy’ is a reason I am involved in things and with people, but aside from my wife – they’ve nothing to do with sex, but they sure as hell are sexy.

Indeed, I have many sexy friends that I don’t find remotely attractive, which I tell to the remaining few of them all the time.

In fact, the benefits of the internet, as broad, varied and accurate as they may be, seem to be proven in the individual instead of en masse.

The individual – who used internet forums to lose weight. Most are gaining weight from lack of movement.

The individual – who developed their friendship circle of like-minded folk to enjoy happily. Must feel more alone than ever, especially when self-judging in comparison to the beautiful people online.

Beauty is important a point that the internet has hammered-home and lost altogether. Once, physical beauty of a person was an exception. Of course everyone is beautiful but no they’re not. Quite a few are pretty, or kind of handsome, but few are beautiful.

The internet has reduced the unique advantage of beauty as something special. Beautiful is now ‘just-another-beautiful‘.

Naturally, everyone wants to breed with someone that is actually attractive – and all the more so if beautiful. I do, anyway. But now that physical beauty is everywhere, thanks to an online ubiquity, it’s not quite the same selling point as it once was.

Therefore, I predict now that in soon-years, physical beauty as a focal point will be replaced in favour of a unique face, one that suggests character over symmetry; balls over cheekbones. Smells good.

The internet has no scent.

It is whiffless, and this should tell us all we need to know.

But there’s more.

Dogs do not approach the internet, despite being such as prominent feature on social media and veterinary sites. If a dog doesn’t trust it,

If the internet were to attend parties, it would be the rather uncouth character fraudulently telling everyone about ladies he’s been with, attempting to sell you a variety of essentially unnecessary items but primarily penis enlargement pills, and speaking in acronyms and then delightedly rolling his eyes when older folk don’t understand.

The internet ain’t got no class.

Oscar Wilde would not invite the internet to one of his soirées, nor would he have need to use the internet as I just did to spellcheck “soirée”.

Another subject I needed to check with online help was the names and faces of the original 150 Pokemon.

I’ve wondered for a while if my two young children (3 and 5) would have their attention held by the programmes I watched when I was their age. So I gave the original pokemon series a go on YouTube.

Sure enough they loved it, but whilst they enjoyed the stories – laughing and silent at all the right moments – I was squirming with resistance to the urge to search online for the full 150 names and faces of each Pokemon.

I succumbed.

This is the data I do not need, but in that scenario I felt I could not do without it and now, in my brain, its there.

150.

So many minutes.

Afterwards, and indeed at the time, I preferred to spend the time with my children, watching them enjoy the cartoon, or I could have turned to this blog and make it a little better, or even dropped and given a solid round of push-ups. But instead, I had to have the instant knowledge, and it is distinctly unsexy.

Yes, of course the internet is fantastic when it’s needed, but we don’t need it as much as we use it.

There’s nothing wrong with a healthy thirst for knowledge, but there’s nothing wrong with not knowing something every now and then, let alone immediately.

And yes, this blog is on the internet, but nobody is trying to suggest this blog is a good thing. I could take it offline, and just comment your address below so I can post each blog to you in the mail.

The internet isn’t sexy. I don’t like online banking, which is remarkably more convenient and cost-effective, because I prefer bank tellers. I dislike home online-streaming services, but really want to go to the cinema and smell the popcorn. I prefer not to order online goods, as I really enjoy getting lost and confused in a department store, hoping my wife will come and find me.

It makes the world something you view, rather than be party to the people in it, and with head full of the kind of inane you don’t want. And I know what kind of inane I like – it smells like popcorn and is trusted by dogs.

If you haven’t got people – you haven’t got much.

And I’ve got some.

Sam

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