I've written this posting several times. Not completely, but I’ve drafted the introduction, imagined a middle and constructed an ending. Whether in my mind or with pencil on my Europa Major Pad or even on my BlackBerry, whilst fighting against the predictive inaneness of (the so called)Sure-Type, I’ve put sentences together. I've tested the waters with discussions about some of it's key points and I’ve impassioned it's arguments. It's become so much more involved and weightier than the actual worth of a couple paragraphs which, at best, would be read by only three people(That excludes my Mum. Never count your Mum as a fan, viewer or follower - that's just cheating.). So much so, that the other night, somewhat drunk, I over ambitiously referred to it as 'an article'.
So now I really have to post something. Anything. Publish so I can move on and away from this subject and be cleansed, sanctified and ready. Ready to write about newer subjects like the sanctimonious American tourist to my right who has just asked the small Korean girl at the cash register of this internet cafe to put the air conditioning on, despite the fact that there is snow falling and gathering on the window behind her. (Listen you bald, lump of lard - If you're feeling a little stifled by heat, perhaps you could get yourself an exercise bike and attempt to lose a portion of the couple hundred pounds you just collapsed into the chair across from me. The loss of the thick layer of fat might cool you down a little. Just an idea.....)
Before I get to it though, I just wish to note for you that I try to construct this blog using a stream-of-consciousness kinda method. These postings are a result of couple of shots of free time, mixed with computer access and an inflated ego, shaken by whatever mood I’m in at that precise moment and served over crushed ice with a pineapple spear garnish. Premeditation of subject matter would make this thing even more pretentious that it already is. I'm not AA Gill (thats for you Jim), nor am i encouraged by money, prospects or invocation to maintain manufacture of this dribble. Therefore, note taking or draft structural construct is a silly waste of time. Besides, it just doesn't work. The more I preconceive, the more convoluted my already convoluted themes become.
That's why now, as I look down now at the Europa Major Pad and the kindergardenish quality handwriting and try to decipher invented adjectives and indeterminable shorthand, I’ve become awake to the fact that I have actually written three first paragraphs. They're all quite lyrical, amusing and confessional. Each one has it's own definite individuality of tone and , whilst they would all eventually lead into the middle paragraphs that sits elsewhere (saved on my phone), the time, space and colour of those three journeys would set completely differing tones for the post.
What to do? Which route to take?
Damn, I’ve now crossed dangerously too far into 'conscious construct' territory. I don’t need this. I'm in danger of becoming as frustrated as my chrome-dome American friend, who has leap from his seat again and demanded in slower, louder and more pronounced syllables that he needs the breeze of cold air upon his creased and fatty neck. (She understands English mate. She did not put the air con on because it’s fucking winter and there is the consideration of others to consider. Besides, if she didn't understand you the first time, talking louder doesn't suddenly make a foreign language easier to understand. It's not like she has special Korean ears that can translate any dialect as long as the volume is extreme.) This blog is meant to relax me. Soothe me in a warm bath of exaggerated self-worth and then dry me in a fluffy (hotel grade) towel of contented egotism.
Man, I just need to get this damn thing out.
'Bath and Towel' metaphors???
What the fuck is wrong with me? I'm starting to write like Jeremy Clarkson! (For the record, I have never actually read Jeremy Clarkson. That would be like going to an exhibition of photographs by Ray Charles. Just because someone is famous for purveying in one field of media, does not mean they should enter another. I just assume that his book, which I see everyday splashed across a massive advertisement on the wall of Hampstead Station, is shit. Really shit and full of intentionally provocative and overtly obvious metaphors. All of which are misspelled and printed in an overlarge font, looking just like the creative writing homework of a seven and a half year old.)
Enough. I'm going to throw out all the clarion and humorous points of the aforementioned drafts. I'm also going to waste the researched portion on history and context (it's 2010 and as such a brief visit to Wikipedia can and should count as research!). I'm going to break it down into a concise and brief summing up of intent and declaration.
Here goes:
Ugg Boots.
They are shit. They look stupid. You look stupid wearing them. Stop wearing Ugg Boots. Stop spending £120 on something is sold at The Queen Victoria Market in North Melbourne for $8. They are slippers. Wear your slippers in your goddamn house and wear shoes when you're outside. You look like a peroxided, pimple ridden Bogan lining up for your unemployment benefits in some outer suburb of Western Sydney, whilst the 4 year old that you popped out at the ripe old age of 16, bashes at the Jobsearch Computers, splaying the lice laying eggs in her hair all over the paroled ex-boxer next to her.
Ok then. That about says it.
Thank you.
