Can I Ask You a Question?

Amongst my stock stable of annoying questions which I ask mainly because:

I like the sound of my own voice

I’m uncomfortable with silence 

I’m uncomfortable with questions about actual personal things related to myself

When I ask a question I’m actually just using it as a platform to tell you what I think. You know, just because I’m like that

I’m drunk

People like my questions

A combination of all of the above (not liking my questions though obviously; I only added that one because I actually am drunk)

I’m just genuinely interested in people’s views of the world (bingo!), is: what are your top five dream holiday destinations (the parameters being that you have to name a specific area – which is to say you can’t just say ‘America’ or ‘Australia’, and that you would be there for three weeks, and during that time money wouldn’t be an object)?

And as most of you know, my own top five is:

1. Alaska (mainly because it ticks pretty much all my boxes: very few people,  mountains, snow, bears, howling wolves in the ice cold night, warm fires and big steaks).
2. The Highlands of Scotland (see above).
3. New York (cool New York bars at 3 in the morning in the Empire State)
4. The London Borough of Barnet
5. Well, I don’t really have a #5

 Now those people who don’t really know me think that my fourth choice is a joke answer; while those who do know me realise that it’s absolutely not (at which point they generally tend to roll their eyes heavenwards, while wondering how their lives could have come to such a sorry lot that they’ve found themselves in the corner of a pub at 1 o’clock in the morning talking to a bearded half wit drinking Red Stagg out of an Egyptian shot glass and Jack Daniels and Coke out of a pint glass) and that I’m actually completely serious.

And here’s why (oh, I bet you just can’t wait for this one….what? You absolutely can? #RichardIsVeryHurt). I think one of the finest (if not the finest science fiction series of the last couple of decades) is Fringe. The premise of which is that most of the story arc for Fringe involves a parallel universe which mostly mirrors the prime universe (i.e. our universe), but with numerous large and small historical idiosyncrasies. A significant example of a large difference being that of the September 11 attacks; though this event also occurred in the parallel universe, the World Trade Centre was untouched by the attacks, leaving the buildings standing in the parallel universe. While there are numerous small differences, such at that airship travel is far more prevalent in the parallel universe than in our own (the prime universe) or that Coppola and not Scorcese directed Taxi Driver.

And to me that’s what Barnet is: our parallel universe; our though a mirror darkly; our Enfield but not Enfield.  The smudged parallel to our defined prime.

And I find the idea of it absolutely fascinating. That beside us, through the figurative corner of our eye, just over the metaphorical and existential horizon, is our parallel world. A universe so familiar, but so different. Their pubs alike, but unlike, their cinemas recognisable, but strangers, and their streets the same, but ever so slightly out of kilter.

And it fascinates me.

It’s science fiction brought to life, because what it means….oh, what it means… is that there’s no need for mankind to dream of journeying to the stars, to plunge the pitch black miles deep depths of the Marianas trench where no single ray of sunlight has pierced in four and a half billion years, to strive and strive again to unlock the cosmic mysteries of space and time, to – as a species – to ever look to the next horizon, the next mystery, the next glorious challenge….when we can just go to Barnet.

[That’s fucking right, Barnet]

Anyway, the reason I was prompted to recall that was because last night there were a load of blokes from Barnet in the pub – and they were very loud and annoying (but they were fine otherwise – which is to say, just some blokes out having a drink and a laugh) – although in all fairness two of them were genuinely quite funny and entertaining (in a ‘why can’t you just fall down the stairs and die’ kind of a way).

And I was struck that I’d just come face to face with the parallel universe Mark and Len. And that it was quite possible that it meant that our Mark and Len were in Barnet, and that the prime universe (ours) and the parallel universe (theirs) had had to balance things out by sending their Mark and Len to Enfield to balance our Mark and Len being in Barnet.

And it got me to thinking: does each of us have a doppelganger in Barnet, and if so what are they doing with their lives? Does each of us have a walking, breathing mirror to our soul? A living benchmark which we can never outgrow and against which our happiness and success will always – ever - be judged?

In Barnet we could find those answers, but perhaps there are some questions which should remained unanswered and some lines which should never be crossed.

An Ass Out of You and Me

I was just in the lift going downstairs for lunch and there were two people already in it - a man and a very attractive woman.

While I'm standing there, he goes to her:  Have you ever thought about doing some modelling?

[and I'm thinking, wow, this guy is seriously cheesy....cheesy, but audacious - chatting up some random woman in the lifts at the GMC with someone stood there listening to him]

And she goes: Thank you. You know I get that quite a lot from people actually; I've done quite a lot of modelling in the past

[and I'm thinking - oh God, here we go]

He goes: You know what, I could absolutely tell straight away

[at which point I'm frantically pushing the down button over and over, because it's either that or kill them both]

Then he goes: Your quarter three financial models were particularly effective I thought, would you mind e-mailing me your templates?

(Well I found it quite amusing, anyway).

One Day.....

WST is like a slinky - mainly useless but a lot of fun to push it down the stairs.

Nemesis

In Greek mythology Nemesis was the Goddess of divine retribution who met out her punishments against those who succumb to hubris – which is to say arrogance (in an existential kind of way towards life/the universe/God etc).  The Greeks being very big on punishing pride and hubris and all that (which, when you think about it, is actually quite an English trait in a red top tabloid kind of way).

And life being such as it is, and men’s (in a all mankind sense of the word) pride being such that it is, I have been brought low by Nemesis (in the many forms that she takes) on several occasions through my life. She has been a constant visitor for many years. Leaving often, but always, ever, returning…..

There's a guy in the Taps who hates me.

[yeah, why don't you try and narrow it down for us you dick]

This, I'm sure, won't come as any particular surprise to those of you who have met me and inevitably came away hating my guts. Indeed, as my favourite teacher once said to me, 'Richard, to know you is to hate you. Basically, you're a dick.'

[Which I thought was a little unfair for parents evening at a primary school]

Anyway, this guy - and shall we call him WST - really hates me.

Which I actually don't mind all that much - that is, I don't mind the idea of being hated. In fact I really don't even mind the actuality of being hated. But what I do mind is being hated for no good reason (particularly when there are so many good reasons to hate me).

WST hates me because he thinks I'm a thief.

(And just to be clear - for all my faults and failings - I'm not a thief)

Now, why does he think that? I genuinely have absolutely no idea. None at all. But he's 100% convinced of it, and he hates me for it. I mean this guy genuinely despises me. And, as I say, I have absolutely no problem with him hating me, but at least hate me for a proper reason. Not some completely spurious bollocks about me being a thief which he's vomited up from the fetid dark pits of his retarded northern brain - not some ridiculous hatred that's just come from absolutely no-where. In fact I was completely flabbergasted when I first found out about it. Particularly as I found out in such an odd fashion.

One Tuesday night I was sat at the hatch as usual and WST was sat at a table (we, along with Deon, were the only people in the pub), and he got up from the table to go outside for a cigarette. As he  walked past the hatch he stopped and put a tenner on the bar next to me and said to Deon, 'can you do me a Guinness, I'll leave the money there' then he walks off - stops in the middle of the pub, has a little think to himself - turns and looks at me for a long moment, then walks back, picks up the tenner and says to Deon 'oh, on second thoughts I'll give you the money when I come back' - glares meaningfully at me again for about five seconds and walks outside to smoke.

So I said to Deon, 'what the fuck was that all about?' and she goes: 'oh yeah, he told me and Irena that you're a thief.'

Quite aside from the fact that neither Irena or Deon thought this was information worth imparting to me, what…what the holy fuck?

How has he come to this bizarre conclusion that I'm a thief and that therefore he should hate me and strive to make my life a misery?

How?

Look, as you know, I'm no stranger to forming deep seated and long lasting [mainly irrational - the operative word being mainly] hatreds of people (in fact I hated Sophie for about two years…actually that's unfair, I didn't hate her…I despised her very being….and it was probably more like 3 years). I'm all for all encompassing mainly irrational hatreds. It’s healthy.

But there has to be a modicum, a kernel, a fucking fig leaf of logic about it. Not just random crap you make up on the spot.

It's just so entirely – so toweringly – so ridiculously - unjust.  Why can’t that stupid fuckhead just hate me for an actual real reason? Is that so much to ask? It’s not like there aren’t a few to choose from. But no, this guy’s decided to make my life a misery for no reason at all.

So now here I am, locked in a triple threat death match for control of the Perryman with a man with the body of a deformed monkey and all the charm of rape.

And why?

Why, my houseguest, Nemesis, and my downfall, pride.

New Windows

They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, in which case, given the way in which it’s been my experience that windows usually function (this is in no way to be taken as an admission of furtive nocturnal voyeurism on my part…..definitely not an admission), it must surely follow then that the soul must also be the window to the eyes.

(Tenuous I know, but it’s with such fuzzy logic that I navigate life).

(Which, no doubt, explains quite a lot).

But hold your horses, I’m not done yet.

For what then does that make the window? The window through which one may peer into the dark recesses of a person’s soul? What of the window in this transaction, this equation, this profoundly intimate conversation between eyes and soul?

What properties must be invested upon the window when it is so used? So exposed to the deepest secrets and the darkest truths.

What then of the window? The window through which one may view a soul?

A person’s soul – or indeed a pub’s soul.

(You knew I’d get there in the end)

Windows which lay bare all.

Windows through which those of us who from time to time frequent the Perryman are gaped and gawped out at, like unfortunately limbed circus freaks, by the bottom feeding, morally bankrupt, intellectually stunted, pond scum who are to be found smoking outside of Taps on a Saturday night.

Windows through which the private becomes the public. The unknown known. The Perryman revealed.

Unmasked.

Fallen.

Which is all to say that I’m not really the world’s biggest fan of the new clear windows in the Taps.

In case you didn’t get that.

You Can Blame the BBC I-Player for This One

I’ve been told on two separate occasions by two separate people (each of whom you all know very well and will have varying degrees of respect for their insights and opinions), that when I ask a question of someone I do so only to, respectively, argue with the answer that I’ve been given, and to use it as a platform from which to wax lengthy and dull on the subject myself.

And to those charges I can only say: it’s a fair cop Guv. Slap on the old silver bracelets and haul me away to the clink. Won’t ‘cause no trouble, Mister, honest.

(That’s how I talk)

Anyway, I bring this up because….

Do you guys know what morphic resonance, is?

No?

Oh well then, allow me to explain. Some scientists (by some I mean one, and by scientist I mean Dr Who) postulate the idea that, through a telepathic effect or sympathetic vibration, an event at one point in the world (or anywhere within the field) or act can lead to similar simultaneous acts occurring somewhere else in the field then, or in the future, that an idea conceived in one mind can then arise in another – or more – people’s mind at exactly the same time somewhere else within the field.

Which is to say that human beings share a kind of low level sub-harmonic psychic field with one another in much the same way that we take for granted animals (e.g. migrating birds) do.

Cool stuff, no?

Ok, only me.

Anyway, I bring this up because I was recently talking to an old friend of mine and she mentioned that last Thursday night (in Hackney) she was absolutely and unaccountably hammered – and this got me thinking, because last Thursday I (in Enfield) was also absolutely and unaccountably hammered – as indeed were my brother, Charlie and Gareth.

Unaccountably.

In general things aren’t normally unaccountable. They’re improbably or implausible. They’re coincidental and pernicious.

But they’re not unaccountable.

They’re just…well they’re just difficult to explain.

And so, following Sherlock Holme’s famous aphorism, ‘when you have eliminated all that is impossible, then whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth’ – why then naturally the only possible explanation for different people who were all drinking in different pubs to all be more drunk than they’d originally intended, had – HAD - to be morphic resonance.

I mean it’s obvious innit Guv’nor.

Think about it.

Thursdays have taken on a lethal will of their own.

Like Skynet or Herbie the Love Bug (which we now know was actually an allegory about Aids).

This idea that ‘Thursdays are the start of the weekend’ has taken hold across the country even though Thursday is quite obviously not the start of the weekend.

Friday evening is the start of the weekend.

It’s like saying celery is the start of the weekend.

Or Bob from marketing.

Just saying it doesn’t make it true….what makes it true is people acting like it’s true. And all it takes is enough people somewhere within the field to act as though it’s true and to believe it to be true, and that idea will resonate all across the morphic field.

A quite literal self-fulfilling prophecy.

So my friends, next Friday morning when you roll into work at 9.50am, stinking of flavoured vodka [and shame] and wearing last night’s lamb kebab on your shoes, and your boss asks you what on earth you think you’re playing at, well you just look him straight in the eye and you reply: morphic resonance, boss, morphic resonance.

Geronimo

Ladies and gentlemen I give you our very own Charles Curtis.

Just how he rolls, I guess.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CtppczPfBtA&feature=plcp