Wednesday, July 27, 2005

Old Money

I'm trying not to talk about my life at the moment because there is nothing at all happening there. I have reached unseen new heights of boredom, the like of which have previously only been glimpsed by people in comas. The mistake I've been making with all this is that I've been explaining and documenting this boredom here, an act which itself just causes more. As I said before this was intended to be interesting but has become a place where I leave messages about my day for people that I've missed more than anything else. I think from now on I'm going to try and put that sort of thing in Emails, most of it is pretty private anyway.

I'm not saying that this will get any less tedious but it'll probably be a different flavour of boring; pretentious, self-righteous, editorialising boring rather than the minutiae of the dull life of some middle class wastrel.

I'm not sure what that leaves me to talk about really; normally it would be politics but at the moment I'm trying to avoid all that. The news is getting really repetitive. All this stuff about the bombings, the people who did the bombings, the people who might have influenced the people who did the bombings - it's all getting pretty monotonous, it's mostly conjecture too; most of the events reported are in the realm of spooks and police investigators, neither of which are exactly known for being particularly candid. This all means that the news is mostly misapprehensions and speculation - informed or otherwise - something that is solid fact one hour can be proven to be false by the next bulletin. The poor Brazilian guy who was shot dead on the tube the other day is a good example: The reports originally said that the police had shot one of the bombers during another attempted bombing. 'Woo' think the people, evildoers foiled. But no. As the hours and days pass I've watched, between the gaps in the fingers held in front of my eyes, as this valiant defence of feedom - or life or toast or whatever it is that people hold dear - turns into a cold blooded execution of an unarmed, innocent man; whose only crime was to not have a British passport and to run away from a bunch of ununiformed blokes with guns. I'm going to leave this all for a while, sample what it's like being Howie, and try not paying any attention to current affairs, or at least the ones that concern this.

I'm not saying that I don't want to know how the story ends, I'll come back to this whole sorry situation in a few weeks, when the press actually have some idea what has happened, who did it and why. I suppose this is me just wanting a happy ending, wussing out and wanting to see the resolution without the waiting and the setbacks that all others must endure. Well, screw that, all this has affected me far more than I expected it to and more than anything like this has before. I think I'd rather just go back to being traumatised or delighted by the events of my personal life. This whole dirty affair makes me really depressed.

Ok. I appear to have managed to write a great deal about politics for someone who is avoiding it. I suppose avoiding it is a political act of its own. Sort of. Albeit a pretty passive and lazy one.


The reason that is called 'old money' is because I was going to write something else but couldn't be arsed. It's too late and I'm too stupified with boredom to think of a title so you can think of your own - pick one that makes you happy.

I'm off to bed.