There can't be a person alive who doesn't know about The Exorcist.
Even if they have never seen the film or read the book, anybody's grandmother could reel off some of the iconic images featured in both - spinning heads, projectile vomit, hellish bellowing voices and that scene with the crucifix going somewhere it shouldn't.
I saw the film several years ago and I don't remember that much about it, but I do recall not feeling particularly scared. Not that it wasn't scary, just that I think The Exorcist as an entity had already been so indelibly burned into my consciousness by a steady drip-drip of references for years beforehand - I'd seen the clips, heard the music, endured certain film critics discussing it at length - that by the time I came to see it, it was already familiar to me.
I already knew that it was brash, hard, in yer face and incredibly graphic, so there was very little shock value to it when I eventually saw the film for myself. And the same goes for the book. I expected to see those horrific scenes written down and that's what I got.
Which, in a strange way, had an anaesthetising effect on me as a reader. I knew the possessed 12-year-old girl at the heart of it would swear like a docker, would do revolting things, would suggest what priests could do with the Devil's private member. I knew it was all coming and so, combined with the rather casual way in which the story is told, it all rather rolled over me.
And that's bizarre, because The Exorcist is an incredibly disturbing story. Having reminded myself in detail of what Regan got up to, I am freshly astonished that a child was ever cast in the movie. Yet it is written as pulpy entertainment and in that sense, it scores, despite subject matter that should be shocking readers out of their armchairs and into the letters page of the Daily Mail.
Blatty does write well and manages to draw some colourful characters, from the insufferable detective investigating a bizarre murder below Regan's bedroom window, to the careworn and desperate Father Karras, who is reluctantly drawn into a battle with the demon. There are pretentious touches to his writing which seem incongruous in such a balls-out horror story, and these little touches of literary flair do fall on stony ground I'm afraid. Enough of the 'thin as a whispered hope' nonsense, get to the bit where she twists that bloke's head off!
And that pretty much sums up this experience. I wasn't alive when this book was first published in 1971, so I can't testify as to its reception, but I'd be surprised if certain sections of society weren't practically bursting in the street with outrage. It's certainly not something I'd allow any child of mine to read until they were old enough to not be titillated by the copious cursing and graphic sexual references.
But you know what? It didn't move me. And I hope to God that just says something about how 21st century consumers are being desensitised by the images of horror, both real and fictional, that they see every day, and not about me as a person.
Sunday, 20 March 2011
Saturday, 12 March 2011
Review: Dissolution by CJ Sansom
Not a huge fan of crime fiction in general, I do like mysteries that have an extra element of interest to them.
Present me with some troubled modern day cop, who spends his days investigating grotty sex-related murders perpetrated with various grades of hot poker, while simultaneously battling a crack habit and wondering whether to shag his much younger and impossibly attractive assistant, and I'll probably pass in favour of Katie Price's latest autobiography.
So for me, a detective story or murder mystery needs to have something extra, something that puts all the gore in a more intriguing context.
I didn't buy Dissolution for myself, I got it for a friend as a Christmas present, a decision based entirely on superficial factors - mainly because it appeared to be about monks (she is a devout Christian) and partly because I was captivated by the olde worlde, parchment-style cover but couldn't afford to buy it for myself. I'd also kind of assumed that she liked historical fiction, though why, I really couldn't say. So I was a bit embarrassed when she popped round with the book a couple of weeks ago and revealed that she'd been surprised to enjoy it, bearing in mind the fact that she really couldn't stand historical fiction.
Still, the situation was saved by the fact that she'd enjoyed it so much, she wanted to recommend I take a look. As I'm currently too skint to buy new books, I was really pleased and couldn't wait to get stuck in, particularly as she had been so impressed by the story that she overcame her dislike of novels set pre-1960.
Personal recommendations from friends can be the bane of your life if their tastes in literature are wildly different from your own, because you really have no choice but to read it in case they ask difficult questions later. Over the years I've gnawed my painful way through countless Maeve Binchy novels, tedious romances and comedy books about funny things cats think, thanks to well-meaning but unsolicited loans from friends. But if they are on your wavelength, word of mouth can be the best way to discover new joys in reading.
Dissolution is the first in a very popular series of mysteries concerning Matthew Shardlake, a medieval hunchback who goes around doing the bidding of the deeply unpleasant Lord Thomas Cromwell. The world of Henry VIII and his ill-fated henchman is one in which I have recently become saturated - having read Wolf Hall, visited Hampton Court Palace, watched The Six Wives of Henry VIII and started getting addicted to The Tudors on BBC2 (in which old Chubba Chops is still surprisingly slim, good-looking and not ginger, despite now being in the twilight of his life) all in the last few months, I'm familiar with this geezer and his doings.
Following his break from Rome so that he could finally get down and dirty with Anne Boleyn, Henry is now enthusiastically dismantling the old church and Shardlake, a London lawyer with a huge chip on his shoulder (not to mention the hump), is dispatched to a Sussex monastery to investigate the grisly murder of one of Lord Cromwell's commissioners. Here, Shardlake encounters a house of God gone rotten, where the monks enjoy rather more good food, home comforts and hot bum action than St Benedict originally prescribed.
Dissolution was good. I don't think it was any more than good, simply because I spotted the culprit from the moment they appeared on the page, but read on in happy anticipation of them turning out to be a red herring, of course . But they weren't a red herring. It was them.
This was disappointing and left me feeling a bit annoyed, as usually I'm terrible at spotting murderers and was possibly the only person in the world who didn't spot the twist in The Sixth Sense a mile off. (As a digression, what the hell has happened to M Night Shamalayan? I mean, did you see The Village?? Did you??!!??)
The mystery is entertaining enough, but the lead character is an enigma, simply because he is rather unsympathetic. I don't know if Sansom deliberately made him self-righteous, rude and envious in order to play with the reader's sympathies, or if it was accidental, but I didn't warm to Shardlake very much. You know you are not a fan of the so-called hero when, during the inevitable dramatic showdown during which one of the protagonists faces certain death, you find yourself rooting for the bad guy.
Shardlake takes his good-looking young assistant to the monastery with him and his conflicting feelings of affection and jealousy towards the buck are interesting. I won't spoil the storyline by revealing why, but disagreements arise between the pair and again, my sympathies lay entirely with the youngster.
I will read more of the series, to see if Shardlake's appeal improves and it was an entertaining enough read. But the medieval setting and political backdrop were what really kept my interest and had this been a contemporary story, it would probably have been put back on the shelf.
Present me with some troubled modern day cop, who spends his days investigating grotty sex-related murders perpetrated with various grades of hot poker, while simultaneously battling a crack habit and wondering whether to shag his much younger and impossibly attractive assistant, and I'll probably pass in favour of Katie Price's latest autobiography.
So for me, a detective story or murder mystery needs to have something extra, something that puts all the gore in a more intriguing context.
I didn't buy Dissolution for myself, I got it for a friend as a Christmas present, a decision based entirely on superficial factors - mainly because it appeared to be about monks (she is a devout Christian) and partly because I was captivated by the olde worlde, parchment-style cover but couldn't afford to buy it for myself. I'd also kind of assumed that she liked historical fiction, though why, I really couldn't say. So I was a bit embarrassed when she popped round with the book a couple of weeks ago and revealed that she'd been surprised to enjoy it, bearing in mind the fact that she really couldn't stand historical fiction.
Still, the situation was saved by the fact that she'd enjoyed it so much, she wanted to recommend I take a look. As I'm currently too skint to buy new books, I was really pleased and couldn't wait to get stuck in, particularly as she had been so impressed by the story that she overcame her dislike of novels set pre-1960.
Personal recommendations from friends can be the bane of your life if their tastes in literature are wildly different from your own, because you really have no choice but to read it in case they ask difficult questions later. Over the years I've gnawed my painful way through countless Maeve Binchy novels, tedious romances and comedy books about funny things cats think, thanks to well-meaning but unsolicited loans from friends. But if they are on your wavelength, word of mouth can be the best way to discover new joys in reading.
Dissolution is the first in a very popular series of mysteries concerning Matthew Shardlake, a medieval hunchback who goes around doing the bidding of the deeply unpleasant Lord Thomas Cromwell. The world of Henry VIII and his ill-fated henchman is one in which I have recently become saturated - having read Wolf Hall, visited Hampton Court Palace, watched The Six Wives of Henry VIII and started getting addicted to The Tudors on BBC2 (in which old Chubba Chops is still surprisingly slim, good-looking and not ginger, despite now being in the twilight of his life) all in the last few months, I'm familiar with this geezer and his doings.
Following his break from Rome so that he could finally get down and dirty with Anne Boleyn, Henry is now enthusiastically dismantling the old church and Shardlake, a London lawyer with a huge chip on his shoulder (not to mention the hump), is dispatched to a Sussex monastery to investigate the grisly murder of one of Lord Cromwell's commissioners. Here, Shardlake encounters a house of God gone rotten, where the monks enjoy rather more good food, home comforts and hot bum action than St Benedict originally prescribed.
Dissolution was good. I don't think it was any more than good, simply because I spotted the culprit from the moment they appeared on the page, but read on in happy anticipation of them turning out to be a red herring, of course . But they weren't a red herring. It was them.
This was disappointing and left me feeling a bit annoyed, as usually I'm terrible at spotting murderers and was possibly the only person in the world who didn't spot the twist in The Sixth Sense a mile off. (As a digression, what the hell has happened to M Night Shamalayan? I mean, did you see The Village?? Did you??!!??)
The mystery is entertaining enough, but the lead character is an enigma, simply because he is rather unsympathetic. I don't know if Sansom deliberately made him self-righteous, rude and envious in order to play with the reader's sympathies, or if it was accidental, but I didn't warm to Shardlake very much. You know you are not a fan of the so-called hero when, during the inevitable dramatic showdown during which one of the protagonists faces certain death, you find yourself rooting for the bad guy.
Shardlake takes his good-looking young assistant to the monastery with him and his conflicting feelings of affection and jealousy towards the buck are interesting. I won't spoil the storyline by revealing why, but disagreements arise between the pair and again, my sympathies lay entirely with the youngster.
I will read more of the series, to see if Shardlake's appeal improves and it was an entertaining enough read. But the medieval setting and political backdrop were what really kept my interest and had this been a contemporary story, it would probably have been put back on the shelf.
Tuesday, 8 March 2011
Ebay Blues
Something happened to me recently.
Well, actually, a shitload of things happened to me recently, not all of them pleasant. However, one of the more constructive things was really quite remarkable and something that I hope will shape the rest of my life.
I cut up my credit card.
Sadly, that's not quite as dramatic as it sounds, because I've done that before. Only to receive replacement cards through the post a few months later and hit the shops like a dying man in the desert grasping at a can of 7-Up. But this time I didn't just cut up the card, I actually wrote off and cancelled my account. A few days later, it disappeared from my online banking accounts and that was it. I was finally bereft. Or free, whichever way you want to look at it.
I confess, I used to be a shopaholic. It took me a very long time to admit that to myself, because it sounds like the most pathetic, most indulged, most Western thing a person can possibly say. But unfortunately it's true.
It's been about two years since I started trying to curb my habit and the measures required were pretty drastic. These included just not going to the shops, for the magnetic pull I felt to go inside and empty my purse on the counter, while clutching wildly at the pretty things like some sort of mentalist, was often overwhelming. And it didn't have to be clothes. Christ, I've craved all sorts of weird shit over the years. Once I bought a violin on a whim. Okay, I fought the urge - for about two days, anyway - but I caved in the end. And I imagine the feelings I often still get are much like any other recovering addict does; it'll be okay as long as temptation isn't put in my way, because if I start again, I might not be able to stop.
Recently, while in London for a meeting, I had an afternoon to myself and fancied going to the National Portrait Gallery. It was free, after all. But I didn't go in the end. I got back on the train and went home. I told people it was because I had uncomfortable shoes on. But the truth of the matter, as I eventually had to admit to myself with a cringe, was that I knew I would be too tempted by the gift shop. I would fall in love with a painting or an artist and end up buying a souvenir poster, novelty biro or book of the complete works of Caravaggio, despite having not a pot to piss in, as the delightful saying goes. And so the problem lingers. Like alcoholism, I'm not sure if it will ever really go away.
But although I started recognising the problem some time ago, I had made very few in-roads into my lamentable cash situation, until a few months ago. This time the whole process of dealing with my awesome debt problems was a lot more rigorous and, I really hope, terminal. I suppose I even endured an intervention of sorts and god, was it humiliating. It certainly did a good job of taking a claw hammer to my self-esteem, with the effect of making me never want to be in the red ever again.
Anyway, enough of that. The purpose of this post wasn't to expose my childish inability to budget or respect the value of money. It was to have a bitch about Ebay. Or not Ebay specifically - I find the online auction site a brilliant creation on which I have found countless bargains and earned a bit of cash. No, I just want to bitch about one wanker who ripped me off recently. To the tune of 14 whole English pounds.
Now, that probably doesn't sound like very much in the big scheme of things. That's because it isn't. But in the Gormless Idiot scheme of things (which is very, very small) it's rather a big deal, for the reasons listed above. Not only have I been lately learning the truth of the smug saying, 'look after the pennies and the pounds look after themselves,' I've also had not very many of either to spend. So when I borrowed some money to splash out on smart new threads for my new job, I had to make a little go a very long way.
It was all going so well. With £100 I got five dresses, three pairs of shoes, a haircut - not on Ebay, obviously, it hasn't started dealing in parallel dimensions just yet - and a second-hand copy of The Exorcist (alright, the last one was an irrelevant indulgence, but what the hey...uh oh, that reckless attitude is on its way back...)
But unfortunately the very last item I purchased, a rather nice wrap dress from Topshop, failed to show. When I chased the seller with a polite email inquiring when they might get around to posting it, they apologised and told me they would dispatch it that day. It has now been three weeks since I paid for the dratted thing and not a further peep out of them, so I've now had to instigate a case against them with Ebay. And boy, am I looking forward to flexing those feedback fingers.
The most annoying thing about this isn't even the money (though that is pretty annoying, especially as it was the most expensive thing I bought on there), it's the sheer crapola scale of the theft. When I paid for the dress, the seller had one positive feedback response. A few days later, some fellow pissed-off Ebayer left an abrupt slag on their feedback warning other potential customers not to touch them with a barge pole. And now the creep appears to have vanished off the face of the planet, no doubt cackling smugly to him/herself about their mammoth haul (£14 from me and about £3.70 from the other buyer, who was deprived of a pair of hair curlers).
I mean, how pathetic and petty is that? If you're going to nick money off people, at least make it worth the effort, for god's sake! Con artists just don't seem to have much ambition these days, it seems. It would almost be less annoying if it didn't seem so pointless.
Plus, I like Ebay and think it's a good resource. You can get pretty much anything on there - just a few weeks ago I managed to replace a much-loved, over-worn pair of shoes with an identical, unused pair, despite the original purchase taking place the best part of a decade ago. Boy, was that a happy day!
It's just really annoying when you get the rare pillock who ruins it; who makes you distrustful and nervous and feeling a bit stung, the way a child might be scarred for life by an early encounter with a snappy dog. It won't stop me buying on there again, but jeez, I'd like to slap that knob-end silly.
So hey, Spike-Sanders 88 - screw you!!!
Well, actually, a shitload of things happened to me recently, not all of them pleasant. However, one of the more constructive things was really quite remarkable and something that I hope will shape the rest of my life.
I cut up my credit card.
Sadly, that's not quite as dramatic as it sounds, because I've done that before. Only to receive replacement cards through the post a few months later and hit the shops like a dying man in the desert grasping at a can of 7-Up. But this time I didn't just cut up the card, I actually wrote off and cancelled my account. A few days later, it disappeared from my online banking accounts and that was it. I was finally bereft. Or free, whichever way you want to look at it.
I confess, I used to be a shopaholic. It took me a very long time to admit that to myself, because it sounds like the most pathetic, most indulged, most Western thing a person can possibly say. But unfortunately it's true.
It's been about two years since I started trying to curb my habit and the measures required were pretty drastic. These included just not going to the shops, for the magnetic pull I felt to go inside and empty my purse on the counter, while clutching wildly at the pretty things like some sort of mentalist, was often overwhelming. And it didn't have to be clothes. Christ, I've craved all sorts of weird shit over the years. Once I bought a violin on a whim. Okay, I fought the urge - for about two days, anyway - but I caved in the end. And I imagine the feelings I often still get are much like any other recovering addict does; it'll be okay as long as temptation isn't put in my way, because if I start again, I might not be able to stop.
Recently, while in London for a meeting, I had an afternoon to myself and fancied going to the National Portrait Gallery. It was free, after all. But I didn't go in the end. I got back on the train and went home. I told people it was because I had uncomfortable shoes on. But the truth of the matter, as I eventually had to admit to myself with a cringe, was that I knew I would be too tempted by the gift shop. I would fall in love with a painting or an artist and end up buying a souvenir poster, novelty biro or book of the complete works of Caravaggio, despite having not a pot to piss in, as the delightful saying goes. And so the problem lingers. Like alcoholism, I'm not sure if it will ever really go away.
But although I started recognising the problem some time ago, I had made very few in-roads into my lamentable cash situation, until a few months ago. This time the whole process of dealing with my awesome debt problems was a lot more rigorous and, I really hope, terminal. I suppose I even endured an intervention of sorts and god, was it humiliating. It certainly did a good job of taking a claw hammer to my self-esteem, with the effect of making me never want to be in the red ever again.
Anyway, enough of that. The purpose of this post wasn't to expose my childish inability to budget or respect the value of money. It was to have a bitch about Ebay. Or not Ebay specifically - I find the online auction site a brilliant creation on which I have found countless bargains and earned a bit of cash. No, I just want to bitch about one wanker who ripped me off recently. To the tune of 14 whole English pounds.
Now, that probably doesn't sound like very much in the big scheme of things. That's because it isn't. But in the Gormless Idiot scheme of things (which is very, very small) it's rather a big deal, for the reasons listed above. Not only have I been lately learning the truth of the smug saying, 'look after the pennies and the pounds look after themselves,' I've also had not very many of either to spend. So when I borrowed some money to splash out on smart new threads for my new job, I had to make a little go a very long way.
It was all going so well. With £100 I got five dresses, three pairs of shoes, a haircut - not on Ebay, obviously, it hasn't started dealing in parallel dimensions just yet - and a second-hand copy of The Exorcist (alright, the last one was an irrelevant indulgence, but what the hey...uh oh, that reckless attitude is on its way back...)
But unfortunately the very last item I purchased, a rather nice wrap dress from Topshop, failed to show. When I chased the seller with a polite email inquiring when they might get around to posting it, they apologised and told me they would dispatch it that day. It has now been three weeks since I paid for the dratted thing and not a further peep out of them, so I've now had to instigate a case against them with Ebay. And boy, am I looking forward to flexing those feedback fingers.
The most annoying thing about this isn't even the money (though that is pretty annoying, especially as it was the most expensive thing I bought on there), it's the sheer crapola scale of the theft. When I paid for the dress, the seller had one positive feedback response. A few days later, some fellow pissed-off Ebayer left an abrupt slag on their feedback warning other potential customers not to touch them with a barge pole. And now the creep appears to have vanished off the face of the planet, no doubt cackling smugly to him/herself about their mammoth haul (£14 from me and about £3.70 from the other buyer, who was deprived of a pair of hair curlers).
I mean, how pathetic and petty is that? If you're going to nick money off people, at least make it worth the effort, for god's sake! Con artists just don't seem to have much ambition these days, it seems. It would almost be less annoying if it didn't seem so pointless.
Plus, I like Ebay and think it's a good resource. You can get pretty much anything on there - just a few weeks ago I managed to replace a much-loved, over-worn pair of shoes with an identical, unused pair, despite the original purchase taking place the best part of a decade ago. Boy, was that a happy day!
It's just really annoying when you get the rare pillock who ruins it; who makes you distrustful and nervous and feeling a bit stung, the way a child might be scarred for life by an early encounter with a snappy dog. It won't stop me buying on there again, but jeez, I'd like to slap that knob-end silly.
So hey, Spike-Sanders 88 - screw you!!!
Sunday, 6 March 2011
Plan B? How About Plan A...
In a recent job interview, I was asked what my 'plan' was.
I gaped a little. The interviewer expanded, with a careless gesture.
'You know, where do you want to be in five years' time? What's your career plan?'
Obviously, I flannelled something about being more ambitious in a creative sense than in terms of job titles and salaries. But to be honest, I was thrown. And not just because I didn't have a ready answer, but because it made me realise that planning is an utterly alien concept to me.
This is particularly strange because in a work environment, I am a highly organised and rather anal person who hates the feeling that I am flying by the seat of my pants and will go to great lengths to avoid it. Lists are probably my favourite thing ever and if I could spend all day filling in planners of various sorts, I would. So why on earth am I such a waltzing Matilda when it comes to the bigger picture?
Don't get me wrong - I have dreams and ambitions, I have hopes for how my life might turn out, in both a personal and professional sense, and I like to think they are not all attached to the saddles of flying pigs. But have I sat down and actually planned for how I might achieve these things? The answer is no and I think I might have just identified, rather belatedly, where I am going wrong in all this.
Now before I start getting out a spreadsheet with which to chart my projected earnings arch, offspring per annum and number of sexual encounters I intend to have until 23 March 2064 (my estimated departure date based on current health variables) there is something very important to be born in mind here. And it is this very canny old saying:
'Man plans and God laughs'.
If the last eighteen months have shown me anything, it is that the Journey of Life is absolutely full of speed bumps, oil slicks and great big brick walls. Setting your life path in stone before you've even turned on the engine can be a recipe for misery if - or rather, when - things fail to follow the directions precisely and start wandering off on unexpected detours. So flexibility and an ability to go with the flow to a certain extent are just as valuable commodities as the determination to follow your desires.
One of my biggest ambitions - perhaps, in fact, my over-riding one - is to become a published author and make my living that way. But it is also one of the most slippery to grasp hold of, because it just cannot happen unless I am a) good enough and b) able to convince people in the industry that I'm good enough. So that dream is kind of exempt from my new improved outlook on Life. All I can do is try my very best to make it happen by actually writing the damn things, so that is the only course of action open to me on that front.
However, I've realised recently that a certain amount of advance planning might not only help me to achieve the things that are important to me, but it could also make me feel better about Life in the meantime. For example, doing a dreary job can absolutely send you to the brink of suicide if, when you look to the future, all you can see is the same spirit-crushing daily routine stretching out before you from here to the grave.
If, however, you can think, 'oh well, I'm only going to be doing this for two years because in March 2013, I'm going freelance and this is how I'm going to get in a position to do so,' it should make the whole experience feel much more cheerful because you truly believe it is only temporary.
Just a means to an end while you put the mechanisms in place to achieve your true destiny. Whether you are writing a book, saving for an important goal, renovating your house or gaining specialised knowledge to help with your career, chipping away at it day by day can give you a brilliant feeling as you see the project steadily march towards completion.
Financial planning is of course more important these days than it ever has been and this is the area in which I have performed worst of all in my adult life so far. But, following a recent and rather traumatic overhaul of my life, things are finally looking clearer to me now and, armed with a determination to never let things get out of control again, the way forward is opening up to me in a way I have never experienced before.
Throughout my 20s, planning felt rather unnecessary and impossible too, as I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life and so spent most of my time bandying from pillar to post. Ironically, just as things began to settle as I turned 30, Life put me through the biggest spin cycle yet and I now face a future which is blanker and more uncertain than ever before.
But you can choose to see a blank canvas either as dauntingly devoid of features, or as an inspiration just waiting to be filled with bright colours and exciting new images. My 2011 diary was chosen for its rather cheesy motivational blurb on each page and one little pearl of wisdom has stayed with me. I forget the exact wording, but it said something about dreams being the best thing ever, made better still by having a solid foundation from which they could actually take flight.
Of course, in order to set dreams in motion, you need to identify exactly what those dreams are. I sense that I am going to have a period of soul-searching coming up, to find out what things I want out of my life in a practical, professional and emotional sense, before I can put those plans into action.
So if I want to go freelance in two years time, if I want to buy that dream house, if I want to take that magical journey around the world, I'd better stop waiting for the lottery win and work out just how the hell I'm going to do it, starting today.
It is high time I applied my talent for trivial organisation to the biggest project I will ever tackle - my one and only crack at Life.
I gaped a little. The interviewer expanded, with a careless gesture.
'You know, where do you want to be in five years' time? What's your career plan?'
Obviously, I flannelled something about being more ambitious in a creative sense than in terms of job titles and salaries. But to be honest, I was thrown. And not just because I didn't have a ready answer, but because it made me realise that planning is an utterly alien concept to me.
This is particularly strange because in a work environment, I am a highly organised and rather anal person who hates the feeling that I am flying by the seat of my pants and will go to great lengths to avoid it. Lists are probably my favourite thing ever and if I could spend all day filling in planners of various sorts, I would. So why on earth am I such a waltzing Matilda when it comes to the bigger picture?
Don't get me wrong - I have dreams and ambitions, I have hopes for how my life might turn out, in both a personal and professional sense, and I like to think they are not all attached to the saddles of flying pigs. But have I sat down and actually planned for how I might achieve these things? The answer is no and I think I might have just identified, rather belatedly, where I am going wrong in all this.
Now before I start getting out a spreadsheet with which to chart my projected earnings arch, offspring per annum and number of sexual encounters I intend to have until 23 March 2064 (my estimated departure date based on current health variables) there is something very important to be born in mind here. And it is this very canny old saying:
'Man plans and God laughs'.
If the last eighteen months have shown me anything, it is that the Journey of Life is absolutely full of speed bumps, oil slicks and great big brick walls. Setting your life path in stone before you've even turned on the engine can be a recipe for misery if - or rather, when - things fail to follow the directions precisely and start wandering off on unexpected detours. So flexibility and an ability to go with the flow to a certain extent are just as valuable commodities as the determination to follow your desires.
One of my biggest ambitions - perhaps, in fact, my over-riding one - is to become a published author and make my living that way. But it is also one of the most slippery to grasp hold of, because it just cannot happen unless I am a) good enough and b) able to convince people in the industry that I'm good enough. So that dream is kind of exempt from my new improved outlook on Life. All I can do is try my very best to make it happen by actually writing the damn things, so that is the only course of action open to me on that front.
However, I've realised recently that a certain amount of advance planning might not only help me to achieve the things that are important to me, but it could also make me feel better about Life in the meantime. For example, doing a dreary job can absolutely send you to the brink of suicide if, when you look to the future, all you can see is the same spirit-crushing daily routine stretching out before you from here to the grave.
If, however, you can think, 'oh well, I'm only going to be doing this for two years because in March 2013, I'm going freelance and this is how I'm going to get in a position to do so,' it should make the whole experience feel much more cheerful because you truly believe it is only temporary.
Just a means to an end while you put the mechanisms in place to achieve your true destiny. Whether you are writing a book, saving for an important goal, renovating your house or gaining specialised knowledge to help with your career, chipping away at it day by day can give you a brilliant feeling as you see the project steadily march towards completion.
Financial planning is of course more important these days than it ever has been and this is the area in which I have performed worst of all in my adult life so far. But, following a recent and rather traumatic overhaul of my life, things are finally looking clearer to me now and, armed with a determination to never let things get out of control again, the way forward is opening up to me in a way I have never experienced before.
Throughout my 20s, planning felt rather unnecessary and impossible too, as I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life and so spent most of my time bandying from pillar to post. Ironically, just as things began to settle as I turned 30, Life put me through the biggest spin cycle yet and I now face a future which is blanker and more uncertain than ever before.
But you can choose to see a blank canvas either as dauntingly devoid of features, or as an inspiration just waiting to be filled with bright colours and exciting new images. My 2011 diary was chosen for its rather cheesy motivational blurb on each page and one little pearl of wisdom has stayed with me. I forget the exact wording, but it said something about dreams being the best thing ever, made better still by having a solid foundation from which they could actually take flight.
Of course, in order to set dreams in motion, you need to identify exactly what those dreams are. I sense that I am going to have a period of soul-searching coming up, to find out what things I want out of my life in a practical, professional and emotional sense, before I can put those plans into action.
So if I want to go freelance in two years time, if I want to buy that dream house, if I want to take that magical journey around the world, I'd better stop waiting for the lottery win and work out just how the hell I'm going to do it, starting today.
It is high time I applied my talent for trivial organisation to the biggest project I will ever tackle - my one and only crack at Life.
Saturday, 5 March 2011
Go Compare My Arse...
Modern life seems to be just one endless string of nuisances - some big, some small, all of them nothing more than needless ball-ache.
It feels like you cannot make it through a month without one of these joyless little occasions popping up to make things more crap than they already are. Oh look, it's MOT time. The gas bill has arrived. It's time for the vet to suck more of my life blood to fund the cats' vaccinations. My smear test is due. The front tyre is bald and in imminent danger of pitching me into the nearest hedge if I don't get it replaced. Oh no, a molar is aching. God, the boiler's making weird noises, better let some bloke come and empty my wallet in exchange for glaring at it and whistling.
The particular joy with which I am currently contending is the car insurance renewal. Does this time of year roll around quicker than any other? It sure feels like it and I'm certain it's like bloody Christmas to the insurance companies, as they send out their ludicrous renewal offers in the hope that people will be too bored / busy / terrified to open it in time, allowing their automated direct debits to keep churning out and thus lock them into another year of legalised extortion. Well, this year I was one step ahead of those bastards. I DID open the letter and I DID find the new monthly premium quote and I DID tell them where they could shove it.
Apparently, a rise of nearly 100 per cent is perfectly reasonable and acceptable, the call centre drone assured me when I asked how they could possibly justify raising my monthly payment from £29 to £56, literally overnight. Clearly, these insurance companies are not stupid - they've been checking out Streetview and noticed that I recently swapped my small Ford run-around for a scarlet Lamborghini Aventador.
Insurance in general has gone through the roof this year, according to Bob or Ken or Janice or whatever their name was, as they informed me through slurps of coffee and mouthfuls of digestive biscuit. My insistence that countless other companies were offering me identical policies for less than £35 was met with the polite scorn usually reserved for senile grandmothers who insist they can see Nazis in the garden. Yes dear, of course they are.
Like a prostitute playing hard to get, they went through the usual motions of seeing if they could 'bring the price down a bit' and, after a pointless flurry of typing, announced they could offer me cover for £44 a month. When I told them it was an unattractive offer and I would be taking my business elsewhere, they asked me when my house insurance was due. I brought the conversation to a close.
Luckily I have managed to find a reasonably priced policy with another insurer which will only cost me £1 extra on last year, but annoyingly they want a rather large deposit and as my finances are somewhat embarrassed at the moment, the renewal will have to wait until a nerve-shredding 11th hour before being confirmed. But never mind, at least it keeps things exciting...
In my opinion, the insurance industry is the Devil's favourite hobby and all concerned should be deeply ashamed of themselves. I would have less animosity towards someone who beat small children with sticks for a living than to someone who announced they 'worked in insurance'. I have had a number of brushes with these hellhounds over the years, none of which left a pleasant taste in my mouth.
Particularly the time my limited edition Mini got written off after being shunted in a traffic queue by some prick in a van. The market value would easily have been in excess of £1,000 but because the 'blue book value' (ie. something no doubt written by insurers, for insurers) was only £500, I found that the premiums I had been paying on a £1,600 car for the last five years were pretty much worthless, and the situation is sure to be the same with my current vehicle. (I'd like to have seen what they had to say if I had given its value as £500 when I took out the bloody policy.)
Once they had deducted excess, which took several months to retrieve from the guilty party, I had an extravagant £350 with which to replace my car and therefore had no choice but to get into debt in order to fund the purchase. So I was basically shafted by two arseholes in one day.
The most annoying thing about car insurance? Like every other sane person in the country, I have spent the last year swearing profusely and switching channels every time that massive bell-end came on, bellowing about how you should thank your stars you visited a certain insurance comparison site. And yet when I sat down at the computer to start this thankless task, which website address did I automatically enter without a moment's thought, it's irritating little refrain dancing around my empty brain cavity as I did so?
Bah.
It feels like you cannot make it through a month without one of these joyless little occasions popping up to make things more crap than they already are. Oh look, it's MOT time. The gas bill has arrived. It's time for the vet to suck more of my life blood to fund the cats' vaccinations. My smear test is due. The front tyre is bald and in imminent danger of pitching me into the nearest hedge if I don't get it replaced. Oh no, a molar is aching. God, the boiler's making weird noises, better let some bloke come and empty my wallet in exchange for glaring at it and whistling.
The particular joy with which I am currently contending is the car insurance renewal. Does this time of year roll around quicker than any other? It sure feels like it and I'm certain it's like bloody Christmas to the insurance companies, as they send out their ludicrous renewal offers in the hope that people will be too bored / busy / terrified to open it in time, allowing their automated direct debits to keep churning out and thus lock them into another year of legalised extortion. Well, this year I was one step ahead of those bastards. I DID open the letter and I DID find the new monthly premium quote and I DID tell them where they could shove it.
Apparently, a rise of nearly 100 per cent is perfectly reasonable and acceptable, the call centre drone assured me when I asked how they could possibly justify raising my monthly payment from £29 to £56, literally overnight. Clearly, these insurance companies are not stupid - they've been checking out Streetview and noticed that I recently swapped my small Ford run-around for a scarlet Lamborghini Aventador.
Insurance in general has gone through the roof this year, according to Bob or Ken or Janice or whatever their name was, as they informed me through slurps of coffee and mouthfuls of digestive biscuit. My insistence that countless other companies were offering me identical policies for less than £35 was met with the polite scorn usually reserved for senile grandmothers who insist they can see Nazis in the garden. Yes dear, of course they are.
Like a prostitute playing hard to get, they went through the usual motions of seeing if they could 'bring the price down a bit' and, after a pointless flurry of typing, announced they could offer me cover for £44 a month. When I told them it was an unattractive offer and I would be taking my business elsewhere, they asked me when my house insurance was due. I brought the conversation to a close.
Luckily I have managed to find a reasonably priced policy with another insurer which will only cost me £1 extra on last year, but annoyingly they want a rather large deposit and as my finances are somewhat embarrassed at the moment, the renewal will have to wait until a nerve-shredding 11th hour before being confirmed. But never mind, at least it keeps things exciting...
In my opinion, the insurance industry is the Devil's favourite hobby and all concerned should be deeply ashamed of themselves. I would have less animosity towards someone who beat small children with sticks for a living than to someone who announced they 'worked in insurance'. I have had a number of brushes with these hellhounds over the years, none of which left a pleasant taste in my mouth.
Particularly the time my limited edition Mini got written off after being shunted in a traffic queue by some prick in a van. The market value would easily have been in excess of £1,000 but because the 'blue book value' (ie. something no doubt written by insurers, for insurers) was only £500, I found that the premiums I had been paying on a £1,600 car for the last five years were pretty much worthless, and the situation is sure to be the same with my current vehicle. (I'd like to have seen what they had to say if I had given its value as £500 when I took out the bloody policy.)
Once they had deducted excess, which took several months to retrieve from the guilty party, I had an extravagant £350 with which to replace my car and therefore had no choice but to get into debt in order to fund the purchase. So I was basically shafted by two arseholes in one day.
The most annoying thing about car insurance? Like every other sane person in the country, I have spent the last year swearing profusely and switching channels every time that massive bell-end came on, bellowing about how you should thank your stars you visited a certain insurance comparison site. And yet when I sat down at the computer to start this thankless task, which website address did I automatically enter without a moment's thought, it's irritating little refrain dancing around my empty brain cavity as I did so?
Bah.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)