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