Warm the Cockles of your Heart

I heard someone complain about the changeable weather recently. The fluctuations between chilly and mild weather was outrageous and apparently responsible for the colds and flu going around. I don't view things so negatively, however, as I know well that the weather is nowhere near as fickle as the political climate, where heroes of old are tossed to the side. Political revolutions can fall asunder with the slightest of blemishes on the character of their leaders. So it was with Jimmy Nugent. His oratory skills called forth an abundant, thriving economy and the prospect of a bright future. And how did we repay him? We took issue with his unregistered taxi, and abandoned him to the political wilderness. The slump in the economy is our own doing; we have nothing to complain about.

There is no point complaining about the weather, and until a couple of weeks ago I assumed we had no right either. Last month, Mr Nugent staged a comeback on the Joe Duffy Show, the place he had launched his political career over three years ago. After a political backstabbing comparable to Julius Caesar's assassination, brutal lashes from the most hypocritical of journalists, and a litany of false accusations and half-truths — most notably, the rumour that his wife and children were leaving his closed-economy house —Jimmy had the grace to return to the political arena and fight for the common man. His appearance on Joe Duffy has gone viral, as there are once again reports of the economy tentatively beginning to flourish. Joe and his insufferable cohorts were discussing how badly the government was performing in the face of mass resistance to water charges. They were unimpressed by government ministers' responses and how they were coming across to the public. Analysing some lines from members of the cabinet, they discussed how this might affect the next approval ratings poll. One caller inquired as to why they were neglecting to focus on the value of the government's policies and how they were being enacted, but he was quickly cut off. Joe reminded his audience that prank calls were a waste of everyone's time. After a commercial break, listeners were treated to pure dialectical magic comparable to the apex of Socratic interlocution. 

"We've got a caller on line two," Joe informed us, "who thinks that the government are to blame for the recent cold weather." Those of us with sharp ears, would have recognised the gravelly timbre of the voice that inspired a nation in recent history. Joe inquired as to why Jimmy thought government was to blame for the cold weather. Priming us for the complexity of his ideas, Jimmy started by reminding us that "them bollixes haven't got a clue." Joe released a hallmark sonorous 'yeah', before Jimmy pressed the issue further. "But do they though?", he rifled intimidatingly, "Do they?" After a short yet awkward pause, he slammed his preliminary point shut. "No, they don't."

"But what makes you think Enda and co. are responsible for the weather?", Joe jibed, in a manner only accessible to those who have dedicated themselves to years of being a smug, conservative prick. "Well, listen, it's freezin' out there and the government is doing nothing about it", Jimmy explained. "They're all going around in their government Mercs, and they have no idea how cold it is for the rest of us." One of Joe's pals in the studio objected to this complaint on the grounds that November hadn't witnessed subzero temperatures. Jimmy forfeited his right to point out that the objection came from the lips of a patent knob-end, and elected instead to strike the argument down in one blow. "It doesn't need to be below freezing to be bleedin' freezing." Laughter ensued, as it is so inclined to do, and the atmosphere warmed in the studio. Jimmy was thereafter given free rein to impart his ideas for combatting the cruelty of winter. "Radiators in the sky. We need to construct giant radiators and float them hundreds of feet into the air." Jimmy and the show's presenters hammered out the details over the course of a fifteen minute conversation. They differed on the difficulty in finding material that was both transparent and sufficiently able to radiate heat, but all parties agreed that it was absolutely feasible and that the light refraction would look "deadly". Within forty-eight hours, a draft proposal was on the desk of the Minister of the Environment. When asked about the idea, Taoiseach Enda Kenny said that the project seemed viable, but there were still many details to consider. The government has set aside €60 million in next year's budget for consultancy agencies on the project. It is hoped that they will be able to blueprint a scheme that will satisfy the need to create many redundant, overpaid management positions, an egregious bonus scheme, and an utterly confusing billing system certain to enrage the public. "It will be a long road before we begin launching any heaters", said Mr Kenny about the proposed stadium-sized radiators to be hoisted over Dublin City. "For now, we have to focus on amassing a baneful, wasteful bureaucracy primed for needless privatisation", he said, wiping the drool from the side of his mouth.

In any case, after recent political developments, I suspect that future winters will be the warmest on record. If you drive into Jimmy's hometown of Clondalkin, you cannot help but notice the large, ostentatious sign that reads, 'This is Nugent town'. It had begun to look weather-worn and rusted until someone gave it a fresh lick of paint last week. The temperature is gradually dropping on the thermometer, but the 'RealFeel' is much higher. And it's only 162 days to summer.

Image of proposed project

Sans Livre de Visage

I parted ways with Facebook over a month ago, deactivating my account indefinitely. I can now tell you, friends, that it was the greatest decision I have ever made. A mere twenty minutes after closing my account, I felt like a newly freed man, whose laptop and smartphone looked like broken chains. This past month, I have learned many things — exactly ten to be precise — and I shall now recount them to you in list form (as you're still on Facebook, you wouldn't understand any other format).

1. My attention span has returned

When I was on Facebook and my mind was a flittering becoming of stillborn thoughts, I was unable to hold my focus on anything for longer than a few seconds. All I was fit for was the mindless scroll of my newsfeed, and even then I couldn't recall what I had clicked on seconds before. Those foggy, meaningless days have now passed, thank God, and my thoughts are now more sustained. I can once again read books, appreciate the flavours of food, sensations against my skin, meditate, get lost in a song, contemplate the great wonders of being a sentient creature. My concentration grows larger by the minute, enveloping more and more of the world. My brain is enlarging itself, and the entirety of my grey matter will soon be nothing more than a receptacle for absorbing everything. Reality itself will be drawn into my Mekon-sized head, until it is a mere tapestry that rotates in my consciousness.

Artist's impression of what I will look like.

2. I walk with my head up

With the Zuckerburg dragon slain from my life, I no longer feel compelled to check my phone every minute. When I walk the street, I walk the street for the sake of walking the street, rather than walking the street for the sake of doing something to accompany my phone checking. The world above the pavement is so colourful, and it tells a story no number of enviable photo posts could tell. My eyes have seen things on walks no other human eyes have glimpsed — fleeting contingencies, irreplaceable moments drifting in and out of existence. Life grants us a limited amount of these moments, so appreciate them. I know well that my upright, enlarging head will eventually crush my neck and shoulders, so I in particular feel the exigency of time. Let's hope this happens before my head has absorbed all of reality, for nothing may remain thereafter.

3. I'm more interesting than you

When a man of my calibre walks into a room, he excites intrigue in the minds, hearts, and loins of the lady folk. 'Who is he?', they ask. 'What's he thinking? What burns beneath the surface of that cool veneer? Where lies the door to his heart?' Sadly, there are answers to all those questions, and they are as pedestrian as the disappointed walk away from your revealed self by stilettoed beauties. In the absence of a Facebook account, these answers remain concealed, shrouded by layers of mystery. Through the lens of Facebook, the answers are usually a worse portrayal than the reality; everything looks like obnoxious self-affirmation — even refusing to post.

4. I'm freer than you 
Nobody has been as free as I am since the prisoner who escaped bondage in the Allegory of Plato's cave. If you recall, he grew to unveil more and more of reality, finally coming to see the illusion of the shadows on the cave wall. As Socrates predicted, the other prisoners would be fearful and disparaging of the freed man's liberated mind — as Facebook users are now afraid of me — and the liberated man would laugh at the shadow reality of the cave, much in the same way that I laugh at the shadow reality of Facebook. Socrates also suggested that the other prisoners would kill the liberated man if given the opportunity. Given the prescience of Socrates's insights, I am now completely paranoid when I step outside my front door. I sometimes refer to something I supposedly saw on my Facebook feed, usually when I pass some intimidating people on the street. They give me incredulous looks for just talking at them suddenly (It's either that or my swollen cranium), but it has kept me alive so far.

5. I have more time for other things

Your time is limited, as Steve Jobs (the greatest sage of them all) once said. We are but a fleeting glimmer of light between two cold voids of oblivion. Every day counts. Our lives would be better lived by appreciating the joys that life brings - the warm bonds of friends and family; the passing of the seasons; simple joys of books, movies, walks, making love; dancing like nobody is watching, and dancing erotically like other people are watching. Life is a gift to be embraced fearlessly. I realised I didn't have enough time to report my life to an audience on Facebook. It took chunks from my time on other websites, which I can now use more frequently to report how free I am. I now have much more time for Twitter, Youtube, Reddit, Chatroulette, Pinterest, 4chan, 9gag, Netflix, Skype, WhatsApp, Google+, Plenty of Fish, Tinder, gchat, Spotify, lemonparty, suicidegirls, Amazon, eBay, RedTube, Bebo, LinkedIn, Yahoo, MSN, MNS, Ask, BroBible, trailers.apple, and zombo.com.

6. I no longer feel the need to impress anyone

I am free of the chains of your perspective. My soul is beautiful, regardless of whether you 'like' it or not. I am no longer need virtual validation. But is this far enough? Should I distance myself further from society's expectations? How far is far enough? Are we ever free from considering the gaze of others? And if we can break free, what is the cost?

7. My self-esteem has risen dramatically

Despite my gigantic, ever-swelling head, I cherish myself. In the absence of Facebook posts and affirmations, I have placed mantras all over my environment. My walk to work is littered with signs, graffiti, and pieces of paper telling me how wonderful I am and how the universe is embracing me firmly. I value this great feeling of self-worth, as I know it will soon pass. My quest to be free from others' standards will result in a dramatic fall in personal hygiene and personal grooming. If you see a urine-stenched vagabond on the bus who looks like me, I don't expect you to say hello. It would probably end up with my threatening to gouge your eye out anyway.

8. I don't have to put up with your shit anymore

Christ, do you ever shut up?! The temperature drops a few degrees and you act as though it was some great injustice. Every irrelevant issue with a celebrity becomes a feminist or political battleground. Political commentary is rarely more than one-liners and memes. Politics ought to be about developing a political ideal and striving to get there from our current situation. Everything else is mere dressing, and posts about what politicians and celebrities say, no matter how hypocritical or ill-informed, is a waste of time. Reading about celebrities, even their murder trials and deaths, and discussing the details is a waste of your intellect. The people I respect the most have resilience and resolve, and they can greet the darkest of times with an admirable light-heartedness. For most situations, seriousness is not the most mature response. Consider the child who rages at having to go to bed early; how is that any different to the adult who resents having to get up early for work or takes umbrage to the changing of the seasons?

9. I don't miss it

At no point in my day, since my liberation, have I felt the urge to return to Facebook. Just yesterday, I was thinking about how free I was. I formulated lines that I thought would best express my feeling and thoughts. The impulse came to type them into a status update, but them I remembered Facebook was gone. I thought about taking a picture of me doing lots of things in my free time, but I had nowhere to post them. The irony of my situation made me chuckle a bit, and I thought about what a quirky and funny post that would make, even accompanied by an ironic video. I think I might do it yet; pop in for a little bit, just to tell you how I'm not missing it at all. Not at all. In fact, I'm happier than I've ever been. Hahaha! God, I'm laughing! I can't believe how happy I am without you!

10. I can spread the word and make people aware

I have learned so much! It's my journey. I'm going to bring my enlightenment up at every opportunity. How many uncomfortable conversations are we going to have where I tell you about the evils of the Zuckerberg juggernaut? Many. I might even start a campaign to bring down Facebook. It will get nowhere though, because it will have no social media presence.

Yet Another Poor Observation

So, Scotland elected to remain in the United Kingdom last week, and it is the opinion of this publication that the People have made the right decision. If you are prepared to look beyond the mists of mere appearance, you will see that Scotland is a fantasy country, and the illusion, as desirable as it may seem, would dissipate in the dawn of independence. My great grandparents were Scots, and like many of past generations they held the sincere belief that the Kingdom of Scotland once resided among the family of nations. But like all legends, from Saint Patrick to King Arthur, it is viewed with a sober skepticism these days. As I have said before, it is humane to allow people some play and escapism, but there comes a time when we must put away our toys and face the world as adults. I would love to ride a unicorn across a land where men can wear skirts freely, partaking in centuries-long duels for the prize of immortality, but the sting of the thistle and the pungent taste sheep innards awakens me from my contented dream. Such things are permissible, but only under the safe guidance of Westminster. I believe it is this wisdom that swayed the vote in the right direction; it certainly had nothing to do with the 'no' campaign. Their recklessness and lack of professionalism could have had catastrophic consequences. They couldn't even campaign in the right country most of the time. An independent Scotland would have been tragic, but its advent would have encouraged others to go solo, and the Scots would have regretted everything in the wake of an independent Wales. Fantasies are contagious, and it may have led to a nation of Lord of the Rings cosplay enthusiasts emerging to the west of England.

Bagpipers growing in the wilderness, yet another Scottish myth.

Perhaps the greatest danger in this whole ordeal is that democracy can achieve anything. A dark whisper could be heard on the corners of the 'yes' campaign, rumouring dangerous notions of social equity. An independent Scotland would supposedly distribute the wealth of their oil, creating a society markedly different to that of David Cameron's vision. "Surely," I thought to myself upon hearing such rumours, "Alex Salmond isn't that stupid." Wild, bleating radicals who blabber out ideas large reforms, about liveable wages, universal healthcare and education, and investment in infrastructure, are only drawing attention to their ignorance of economics. The truth of the matter is that poor people almost never become super rich and successful. You are blind if you think otherwise. In fact, poverty is more likely to lead you to a life of crime or, at best, grinding it out for a subsistence wage.

What is the key to success then? Some of us unique individuals have cracked the code, and we scoff at those who think it's something complex. It's simple: all you have to do is be born into wealth. Yes, reader, it is that easy. Those of us who are really well-off, us elites of mind and means, have the courage and the wisdom to have been born into wealth. We use our massive means and educational opportunities to perpetuate our wealth, assuming we don't increase it dramatically. The middle classes have some vague notion of how it works, as evidenced by their being born into moderate means. The working classes are completely clueless, and those outside the First World are beyond my comprehension. I don't why anyone would choose subsistence living over excessive affluence, when it is a mere matter of being born into wealth.

To fulfil your dreams you must not delude yourself that putting a piece of paper into a box can shift the wealth of the world in your favour. You need to work hard to have been born into a family of abundant means. If you insist on not taking most straightforward path, you will have to struggle past every social, economic, and psychological obstacle, abandon much of the life you are familiar with in favour of an unknown future, and face the jeering disregard of those in higher echelons. You need to be the most productive person you can be and sacrifice all your free time. You should cast away your vulnerabilities and become machine-like in your pursuit; abandon all your desires except for that to climb into a social status, where you don't know anyone and may not be accepted by many of them. You have to learn to take with humility the jeers that you are lazy, regardless of how industrious you are.

Again, I must stress, that is the hard way, and I would advise you avoid it. Let go of your cynical neurosis for social change and embrace being born into prosperity. You must aim to be born into a higher social status and soar to your destiny on gilded wings!

One Fine Day

The following extract comes from my upcoming novel, The Untarnished Beauty of the Unbridled Soul. After four glorious months, Rapshaldeo has decided to end his passionate relationship with Miranda. She was the one, she is the one, but, unfortunately, she won't be the one, and there's only one way this is going to end.

Through a crowded street on a fine day, the two lovers drifted hand-in-hand aimlessly. Though their digits were finely knitted together, Rapshaldeo's grip was looser than usual; his light touch contrasted with the heavy feeling on his shoulders. Several bodies brushed finely by them, hurriedly rushing amid the sprawling mess of people. And what a fine mess Rapshaldeo was going to make. The lovers were parted occasionally by more urgent pedestrians, and when they were finally rejoined, they continued their silent conversation. It took some time for them to reach the fine pillars of the park gate; you can afford to take your time when you are going nowhere.

Rapshaldeo led her into the park, and she almost resisted, slowing to draw the fine strands of hair from her face. Something was wrong. His gait, his fine kisses on her hairline, the slight hint of doubt in his voice. When dealing with a man who lives his life like an actor on a grand stage, there is a fine line between true affection and forced affectation. She also knew, though she refused to face it, that he could only act for so long and the fine sands of time were sifting steadily through the hour-glass of their relationship. The hour-glass of her body, clad finely and enchantingly in her floral dress, attracted the glare of the brute lions sunning themselves on the grass. Rapshaldeo felt a pang at the thought of her in the grip of another, unwrapping her fine finery, and covetously exploring the fine balance of voluptuousness and firmness that comprised her body. He supposed he would find many other fine women, in his futile attempt to fill the void left by Miranda's absence. He would romance them with fine wines, exclusive hotel suites, theatre dates, and intricate sex games. Nearly every day, since he was seventeen, the languorous eyes of women had admired what a fine young man he still is, and the more loquacious among them would brazenly declare, "He's so fine!"

Their feet tread lightly over the fine blades of grass towards the large pond at the centre. The sadness of their steps paced themselves with a fine gentleness, as neither wanted to disclose the dramatic reality that they were sharing inside. On the outside, they were but an ordinary couple, two people having a fine time in each other's company; few people had the perception to see that their love was hanging on by a fine thread. Some kinds of sadness and uncertainty need to be expressed; others are better left concealed. There are feelings which possess a fine character, and there are those to which nobody wishes to give credence or a voice.

The news would not be fine music to her ears. What a fine time to tell her — right before her twenty-fifth birthday. He knew well that he was cutting it too fine to the date. He had to escape; it was imperative. The mystery had dissipated, like a fine powder dispersing into the air. He was jaded once more, in the wake of another fine mystery disclosing itself so easily and predictably. Would he ever remain in love with someone? He longed for it, knowing well there was nothing finer. Despair grasped him suddenly, like a fine rope around his throat, and the exigency to fill the void with chat made it all the more pressing. Before meeting Miranda, he had felt that his life was just fine and merely needed some fine-tuning, but now he found himself completely lost. Despite the fine weather and bountiful surroundings, his soul withered inside.  

They reached the fine-sized, glistening pond, where they could no longer remain silent and credibly uphold the pretence of being content. Words perfunctorily left their mouths about how lovely and fine the water was. "Look at the swans!"she chirped, maintaining what finesse she could. "So majestic. Their feathers are so fine." Rapshaldeo managed to produce some forced utterances through the fine space between his sorrowed lips. Like all shared experiences, whether they be of a fine quality of not, the pressure to confront the reality of a finished relationship was felt heavily by both partners. He glanced at his finely-tuned watch nervously, immediately apologising. "The car's quite a bit away, and I don't want to pay a fine."

"We paid for two hours.", she replied with a hardly contained shrillness. "It's fine."

They both could hear the heavy ticking of every second that passed, fine hands moving closer to the inevitable deadline. They stood as silhouettes against the glistening lake, and a passerby could say, for the first time in several fine months, that they saw only two individuals. In the sudden switch, they crossed a fine line, and Miranda felt abandoned. Hoping to reconnect, she desperately tried a subtle touch, the finest of tentative gestures. As necessary as they seemed at that moment, she loathed herself as she felt the words leave her lips: "Is everything okay?"

Their fine eyes met briefly, before Rapshaldeo took them away hurriedly. Everything around them disappeared, like a fine dust in the breeze, yet they felt they were being broadcast to the world. The miserable sequence had finally commenced, and they resented every fine second that went by. Fine finery fined fines finely. Finely and finally, Rapshadeo said they only thing one can say in such an unfine situation.  

"I'm fine."

"Fine, then."

Is Having a Tug Ever Just Having a Tug?

This week, I've been mostly concerned with the recent controversy over the hacking and publication of celebrity nudes on 4chan. While building a body of iron in the gym, I got chatting with my fellow bros about the issue. We agreed quite readily that it was quite a tangled issue, and there were many angles to consider. Despite these apparent impediments, we were sure that there was an absolute perspective, a line of thought that lead directly to the truth of the matter. Stevo cracked a cynical one about the apparent futility and self-deception of pursuing absolute truth, which got a giggle out of us. He's a miserable prick though, because his calves are under-developed. I suggested that we would have to muscle our way through the issues, pitting each perspective against its exact opposite, before pitting the amended argument against its respective opposite. The process would thereby refine our perspective until we arrived at the most nuanced and rational conclusion (or at least apply that process as much as we possibly could). If there are two things that we gym rats agree on, it's that you can't skip leg day and that no system is as reliable as the (misattributed) Hegelian dialectic for discerning the rational and the real.

Madzer Dave got us started by mentioning how he'd ride the hole off Jennifer Lawrence and Kate Upton if given the chance. Simon told him sharply that he'd be lucky to get a wank over one of the pictures, before adding that the our sexual impulses didn't merit the release of the theft of private property. We then explicitly concurred that neither celebrity was likely to be interested in Dave. Madzer, perhaps angry at our comments or affected by the hormonal changes the steroids were causing in his body, started bleating on about how it was a great victory for the hackers and that the celebrities in question had little to complain about, given they were practically naked in many photo shoots for magazines. After calming him down a bit, we were able to convince him that hacking into someone's account was wrong, and all the  sexually charged photo shoots in the world didn't justify the theft of private images. I considered confronting Madzer on using the sit-ups bench for doing unnecessary decline chest presses, while he was in a malleable state of mind, but the conversation moved on quickly. Jimmy exorcised the notion that the celebrities were in anyway responsible for what happened, eager to label such thoughts as 'victim-blaming'. The comparisons between the leak and rape soon came into the discussion, but we agreed in the end that, despite the sexual aspect of the wrongdoing, the crime was theft, not sexual assault. "To what extent are the celebrities to blame for what happened?", Simon mused, adopting a pose with his foot on the 'pec deck'. "I mean, if you're thick enough to leave your stuff in the locker without locking the door, ye deserve to be robbed. I'm not saying its right, but don't be so fuckin' stupid."  RA-head Pádraig countered that their vulnerability was no grounds for taking them, gesturing with the arm that has a tattoo of Patrick Pearse. We soon came to agree that, while it was greatly imprudent of such famous and coveted celebrities to leave their naughty pictures in a vulnerable cloud, the wrong lay only on those who hacked the accounts, even if it is hard to assign blame to faceless collective. Old Larry, who had joined the circle of  physical aesthetes, asked meekly what they meant exactly by a 'cloud'. "Is it like the internet or something?", he inquired semi-dementedly, his voice getting more distant as we muscled him out of the conversation. "He's like a scrotum on a pair of legs.", complained Gary, knowing well that Larry was still in earshot. "I feel like vomiting when I see him in the locker room", which was rich coming from a man with no neck. "The only gains that guy can hope for is the firmness of rigor mortis", I added. Nobody laughed, and Simon called me a "posh prick."

Kate Upton's career is over now we all know what her nipples look like.

Michael, whose ripped physique is made palatable by his gentle demeanour, suggested tentatively that Apple's iCloud may be responsible, as it leaves accounts vulnerable, often without the user's knowledge. We agreed that while the utility should be available, it should come with the explicit consent of the user and continual reminders of its existence. We chuckled about how nobody is likely to forget about it now, before returning to the main topic at hand.

After some more dialectical consideration and dick jokes, we found that we had not yet finished with the sexual aspect of the leak. There seemed to be something sinister in the idea of lots of covetous men and boys obtaining something sexual from a woman, despite her explicitly wishing to keep it from them. It's not sexual assault, it's not quite voyeurism or stalking, but it's wrong. Simon proffered that perhaps it was "the feeling that a woman has had some of her anatomical and sexual autonomy taken away from her. She is no longer in control of that which should be solely hers to share or keep." This, we agreed, was not such an issue for men, as their sexual powers lie mostly in different things. We left the issue of whether or not this was a feminist issue in aporia; it concerned the objectification of women, but it also concerned the nature of our sexuality. Gary summed it up for all of us, when he said, "It's okay to use or objectify someone, provided you respect them and consider them to be more than their utility." "And you don't limit them to some prescriptive definitions of their sex." We all then eyed a beautiful woman doing squats, safe in the knowledge that, while beginners would admire the form of her body, we old pros admired her more for the form of her technique.

As the group began to return to their exercises, I couldn't help but mention what went unsaid throughout the whole discourse, namely that the leak was a Pyrrhic victory for the hackers and horny masturbators. Michael smiled instantly, knowing what was coming next. The others seemed to agree, but I doubt they really understood what I was trying to convey. I explained that the satisfaction of desire, particularly of a revelatory desire, such as this, was empty, as it didn't contain the desire or longing that drove its satisfaction. To use a proverb, you can't have your cake (as a future prospect), and (have) eat(en) it. The sexuality that young men learn is never satisfied, only silenced temporarily. Actual sex, no matter how good it is, satisfies few of the intense desires conjured up by images of beautiful women. Naked revelation only satisfies by some sense of completion or forbidden insight, and that soon evaporates. The sexual currency of naked flesh, like all organic material, has a definite expiry date. This is the case with most desire, especially when revelation is concerned. Revelation, for all its vaunted value, has virtually no duration. Perhaps it's an overstatement, but satisfaction and contentment don't seem to derive from the attainment of a long-held desire.

As future projecting creatures — especially us fitness aesthetes, so focussed on obtaining a difficult goal — the thought brought much disquiet. Michael smiled again, saying he knew what I was talking about; the other slaves to muscular gains shuffled off silently, quickly returning to the rhythm of our routines. A little anxious about what I had said, I went over to Michael's house that night, in the hope of talking to someone who understood. Despite both being straight, we had homoerotic sexual relations that night in the tight grip of our musculatures. This is the inevitable conclusion of being overly preoccupied with every muscle on the male body; that and gym is like prison. Anyway, he proved that everything I had said earlier was wrong. 

A Reading from the Book of St Bro

I have decided to set up a new blog to catalogue the many, many beautiful women I have bagged over the years. It will largely be a collection of stories about clingy psychos, as deadly as they are beautiful. Despite me acting nobly and true to my heart, they always manage to reveal the ugly side of their character, spitting bitter venom over the happy memories we made together. It is less of a story of the perils involved navigating the rough sea of love and more of a story of survival. I have not only learned to survived; I have learned to waltz effortlessly from outrageously hot, yet psychologically unhinged, babe to smoking hot, yet clingy to the point of an Elektra complex, babe. Come huddle around me, my loser apprentices, and I will impart my secrets to you.

Something like this.

Before we get into the details, I should address a preliminary questions that some of you are certain to ask: 'Why not stick around longer? Perhaps you'll see more to her than her jaw-dropping good-looks and demanding emotional needs?' Indeed, I have been laid wide open by certain women in the past to he point where I would crawl and pine and beg for them (in an enjoyable way), but I'm still glad I got out. The result is always the same; a foregone victory for one of the two competing feelings. My heart says an emphatic 'yes', but my mind says monogamy is an unnatural imposition on the freedom of true individuals by a society that fears the power of a liberated soul and wishes to oppress it in sets of two, prohibiting mankind's true nature.

The trick in love is not getting into the pants of these raunchy, alluring pots of sex. Any fool can learn to seduce women and start accumulating what I call in a dazed state of post-coital zen, the "Million Dollar Blowjob". The trick is getting out smoothly. This is, of course, easier said than done, and requires a series of careful steps. I laid these out in my recent proposed article for a leading women's website, which I have reproduced here. Change nouns and pronouns as appropriate.

The first step is to ensure that your boyfriend actually knows you have broken up. As incredible as it may sound, many people miss this rudimentary step. You can have some initial discussions about it with your friends, but be sure to tell your soon-to-be no-longer-all-that-significant other as well. If, in your estimation, the first time wasn't satisfactory, try to rekindle the relationship again, long enough to merit another formal break-up. If you lack adequate motivation, mentally prepare yourself for singledom by sleeping with another person. You could try just kissing them, but you are likely to need quite a few kisses before you really feel prepared to let go. Beware the circumstances under which you cheat on your partner; a hasty encounter may leave you with cold, alienating feelings that send you running back to him. Returning to your partner with a renewed sense of commitment will most certainly run contrary to your goals of leaving them; in fact, I'm going to put my neck and reputation on the line and say that if you want to break up with someone, don't develop a renewed sense of commitment. When you do finally break up with your partner, be sure to never tell them you cheated. You may feel justified in doing so, as part of your ritualistic pouring of bilious words all over them — after all, you really liked them for ages and they betrayed you by you just not liking them any more  — but admitting you cheated can jeopardise your sense of victimhood.

"I'm sick of all this bullshit!"

This is how announce the romance is over, on every social media platform available to you. It's vague enough to hook curious readers and drag them into your new single status — and given how flippant and petty your love life is, you'll need a good hook. The enquiries will flood in, but remember to maximise your yield by only answering through private means. There are variations of the above status formula, and other words may work. "I'm quite tired of quite a substantial amount of this bullshit." may work,  but if you type out something along the lines of "I'm somewhat taken aback by the dissatisfactory taste of this baloney.", then you've wandered way off the track.

Victimhood, as many of us know, tastes so good [please insert some generic comment about chocolate or the number of calories in food or some such comment]. With most break-ups, it is particularly sweet, as nothing especially traumatic has really happened, yet you can easily attract large amounts of sympathy. Victimhood is difficult to manage, however, and its sweet nectar slips so easily through the fingers. It requires the poise of a tight-rope walker to wield the sympathy that comes from a break-up and the pride of assuring everyone that you are stronger and happier than before — the delicate balance that attracts the admiration of your strength without detracting from the sweet sympathy. What video should you choose to post online, and when? When is it time to transition from Jeff Buckey's Hallelujah to Get Lucky by Daft Punk. If the procedure is too confusing, just post a Kelly Clarkson song — all her songs are custom-made for these situations. 

Over the weeks following your break-up, post lots of photos of you online having fun with guys, regardless of whether or not you are having fun. Fun is incidental to the entire process, and if you are not prepared for the misery of spiteful, petty reprisals, perhaps you should consider joining a religious order. When you go out, always 'check-in' online and mention the male people who are with you — hopefully your ex will see it. If you must, get in contact with him and start an argument. Afterwards, post a picture on Facebook, bemoaning how other people's 'drama' is an affront to your integrity. Eventually, get involved in some rebound relationship, which you must publicise as much as possible online. Repeat the process as outlined above.

A few people have criticised my process, pointing out that it occurs almost exclusively online, rather than in 'the real world'. In response, I give these people an incredulous look, as though they had said something insane. Online and off-line are states inapplicable to the modern world. These people cannot be helped, because they have misunderstood the very premise of having a relationship.

Update: The article was rejected, as it wasn't numbered, GIF-ed, or completely obvious. They also complained that it was "WTF?"

Travelogue Türkiye

"How was your holiday in May?" I hear you ask. "You never wrote us a holiday blog, like you did last year." Well, reader, I had fun, but it was the same as any holiday taken in one's own company, which is the same as any time spent alone; you create demons to converse with and, ultimately, lose arguments to. I found a McDonald's, a Burger King, and several Starbucks [sic?], as I have done on every holiday I've ever been on. Perhaps I bear pessimism on my shoulders because of the infuriatingly long time I spent in Turkish customs and the dire consequences of my careless actions. Exiting the country takes about forty-five minutes, but I was held up for nearly two hours, explaining to the customs officers what the jar of slimy, green goop was in my luggage. I had made my own natural, anti-cancer, sun-protection cream, finding several recipes on the internet. Naturalcuresnotmedicine (a webpage that needs help with its nomenclature) recommended a concoction made with elderflower, organic kale, aloe vera, mānuka honey, nettles picked at the summer solstice, chia seeds, wheat germ, guyabano fruit, garlic, and spelt (which is spelt the same way 'spelt' is spelt). "If it isn't good enough to put in your body," I explained to the customs officers, when questioned why I didn't just buy some sunblock, "then it certainly isn't good enough to put on your body." I then spent ten sweaty minutes explaining the zero conditional, so they could understand what I had just said. One of the officers, who had studied English, said he had only heard of the first, second, and third conditional, prompting me to attest my TEFL credentials and (foolishly) elucidate how he had conflated there being no evidence that something exists and there being evidence that something doesn't exist.

Anyway, I now have several melanomas. It occurred to me on the flight back home that, despite my alternative suncream and my sunburn coming from natural sunlight, I used aloe vera that wasn't organic (inorganic aloe vera?) in my recipe and may have put myself at risk. I visited the doctor when I returned home, and then visited a dermatologist, and a melanoma specialist. None of them could diagnose me with cancer, despite my repeated insistence that I had it. These quacks are trapped in the western medical mindset that rejects the holistic view of human life. I know my body better than anyone else, as I am the one who lives here. To tell me that I don't know when I'm ill is to reject my corporeal autonomy and my dignity, and it casts me as little more than a vessel for disease. They ignore my spirit, the integrity of my heart, and the human need for inspiration. They only see the necessity of salvation from the diagnosed illness, not from the plagued life. The western medical gaze treats the body as a theatre of illness — something to be fixed — rather than a living, breathing entity. It ignores the illness as experienced, failing to comprehend the phenomenological nature of our reality. I knew I was sick; if I didn't I wouldn't have felt it.

Fortunately, I found a natural remedy on the internet, made of cloves, chia seeds, seaweed, organic omega 3 oil, tea tree oil, coconut milk, Rooibus tea leaves, fresh water cress, spring water, lentils, platonia, and rambutan. My melanomas are now retreating and I am in remission. There are variations of this recipe; if you ever wish to try your own homemade cures, remember expensive, difficult to obtain foods are best. Spare no expense on ingredients, and spare no breath on telling people about them. The body is little more than a bag of water that has taken the form of your soul, and that soul needs nourishment. People need to know that you are an interesting person, and few things feed this need better that becoming familiar with obscure foodstuffs. Feeling special is the summum bonum and the greatest realisation of what it is to be human. Self-promotion, regardless of the accuracy of the depiction, is therefore the greatest of human activities. I have felt ill this weekend, but I know that when I finally post my Turkey holiday pictures online, my health and strength will return fully. I'll glow inside, thinking about how impressed you must be with my wondrous life, where I visit the place where East meets West (not unlike my medical acumen), ate unfamiliar foods, and immersed myself in extraordinary architecture and history. Oh, God, yes. I can feel them now. All those 'likes'… They tingle all over my body like little kisses and caresses, allowing me to fantasise how impressive and marvellous I must seem. God, I can't wait. Touch me, kiss me! My soul, she needs to be fed. "Feed her! Feeeed her!"

A portrait of how profound and pensive I am. It was a selfie, incidentally.

Fat Gar

When attempting to promote my blog, I always encounter the same problem, where my would-be readers tell me that they find the subject matters 'too random'. After a lengthy explanation of how the process of writing articles is, on the contrary, a deliberate one, borne out of a variety of reasons, they then refine their objections, saying what they truly mean; they desire something topical. And who can blame them? Only one letter short of 'tropical', the allure of something fresh, and which everyone else is talking about, is difficult to resist. Human interest stories, fads, trends, farcical happenings, the dictates of fashion, political soundbites, and celebrity gossip all weave a rich fabric which constitutes the majority of our media. It is surely among the most humane products of our artifice, as it never troubles or tasks us, delivering the same, familiar formula everyday. Our minds are never strained by intractable complexities, a sustained narrative, conflicting yet equally valid views, or an aspirational ideology, as the focus shifts like a handsome country lad 'on the pull'. Best of all, we never have to second-guess ourselves, as our visceral first opinion is as deep as we are asked to go.

I hope you're happy now.

With this in mind, it may come as a surprise that I wish to address the Garth Brooks affair, perhaps the hottest topic in the land since the Saipan incident. As bad as it may seem, it could have been a lot worse had I not stepped in to de-tangle the issue earlier this week. On Thursday, an angry army of disgruntled ticket holders, clad in glittery, pink Stetsons, marched on Croke Park. They were met by indignant residents, determined not to be bullied, even by a 100,000 strong, line dancing legion. Garth Brooks himself was too busy standing outside the fire to get involved, so the burden fell on a prominent citizen to defuse the incendiary atmosphere and prevent any bloodshed. The situation was particularly dire, as evidenced by the epidemic reproduction of clichés. All the classics featured on people's lips and internet comment sections this week: "This is an outrage."; "What an embarrassment!"; "I'm so ashamed to be Irish."; "Only in Ireland."; and "We're the laughing-stock of the world.", a cliché so passé that it can only be used in the most desperate situations. I stood on a makeshift platform, and asked for the crowd's attention. I then asked for it again, asked again in funny voices, whistled hard, shouted 'Hey!' and 'Ah, c'mon, guys!' a few times, tried staring and them silently, said 'Silence!' about twenty-five times, and then tried a contagious clapping technique. Eventually, I had everyone's attention, both sides assuming I was supporting their cause. I pulled a speech out of my pocket and spoke passionately to the them, as we got battered in the relentless rain:

"A chairde,

I stand before you on this darkest of eves, where despair and desolation seem to be our only comrades. Fat Gar [This is my Dublin schoolyard handle for Mr Brooks. When addressing certain audiences, it can be helpful to show that you are 'keeping it real'.] has forsaken us. Neither the Taoiseach nor the Mexican ambassador can help us, and if the latter can do nothing, then surely nobody else can. The summer is over, as you can see, before it really took off, and there will be no country and western fest for the nation. What is left to celebrate, we ask? We have only tawdry pieces of paper, deprived of their golden value, bruised feelings, and arguments about numbers and noise. But there is surely hope for Róisín Dubh; our forefathers didn't fight for this great Celtic land only to have na páistí wailing in the street. They will sing and rejoice again, in the songs of old, including those of our adopted son, Fat Gar. 

Our fortunes are not so bleak; look at those of the Brazilians, who were humiliated at their greatest passion in their own homeland. [The crowd ooohed at how topical I was being.] If they can carry on with that pain in their heart, then so can we. They were crushed by the Germans at home, just like us, in Dublin two years ago. Our World Cup dreams crumbled before they were even built. The mighty Teutonic machinery dictated that we would not participate among the nations of the Earth. And as it was in football, so was it in economics. The ruthlessness of Merkel and company punished part of the vulnerable European system, claiming it was a solution to the crisis. Our greedy establishment betrayed us, and they bow to the cruel demands of the French and Germans. Defeated, in debt, ridiculed, we needed something to lift our spirits, but, alas, Fat Gar couldn't make it. Perhaps it's not too late for our football team to summon their strength and  compete in a major competition. We have a better manager, but do we have the players? Dunne and Keane are finished, and Stephen Ireland looks like he is never coming back. He could have helped take us to more major tournaments. Ireland needed Ireland, and in its hour of need, he abandoned us. Perhaps Ireland needed Ireland, too, but the ghost of his dead grandmother still holds too much sway with him to let him join us [or something like that]. Perhaps this is all a parable for a greater need; Ireland needs Ireland, and we abandoned us.

If we could just get the right combination of players, all playing in their right positions, we could play an attractive passing game. For once in our damn, little, transient lives, we could just stop punting the ball aimlessly up the field. For once, just once — I ask for just one brave attempt — we could continue to exert pressure after scoring one or two goals. Our manager needs to be courageous, to ask his players to play the heroic game that has given football the reputation of being beautiful. He needs to believe in our players and our abilities. Perhaps I'm being naive. Perhaps we don't have the players just yet. The golden days of Gary Breen may over, but surely a new, better team could be developed. For now, we need only a team that inspires. When the children see the boys in green on their TV, they must be encouraged to go outside and kick a ball around. They must be moved to switch off their game consoles — so called because they console our crushed aspirations — and go to the street or park. We must tackle obesity. Children are getting fatter — as fat as Fat Gar. Education is key, but we have less money to spend on it. Perhaps our government could shift its policy away from austerity and towards more nurturing policies, but I believe there is less chance of that than the shy, ugly, asexual country lad getting the shift. Parents should take to the streets, like us here, but they are less likely to do so than our children. In the heart of the ordinary Irish person lies an ancient, inerasable sorrow and a modern, crippling despair. When children look up for reassurance, what hope for the future can their elders impart? Unemployment is high and austerity chokes the spending power of the masses. Without the distraction of bright weather, alcohol, or some popular event, people can find no respite from the horrible truth of our predicament. Ireland is in debt and we are wedded to a system we have little control over. The Teutonic machine has strong-armed us into lying facedown on the ground, so that the sanctity of the Euro and the European banking system may stand on us. Our children watch their siblings emigrate, and they may never know what joy or glory mean. We may not qualify for another major tournament in my lifetime. Imagine that. All is lost, for their seems no way to return to more prosperous, confident times. Will we ever return to anything like 2007? Mika may have topped the charts that year and the first Transformers was released but at least we had dignity and money. So much money that we spent money on such awful things. Now we are poor and Transformers movies are still being made. Ah, Jaysus lads, the economy is fucked! It's all bleak, and I can see no way out. Shuffle home with your heads hanging. Your resentment and sorrow will never be extinguished, because its cause will always be with you. Ireland is forever lost, and there is nothing to be retrieved from our lives but the gnashing of teeth. We call her Róisín Dubh because all is black. Black is all there is to see. The blackness of it all. We've gone black, and we're never going back. It's black, so dark and black. Black… [barely audible] black. [Screaming] It's black! It's so damn black! It's all black!

Der Kreig ist verloren."

There Ain't No Cure for the Summertime Blues

In a cafe, deep in the depths of a hellish middle-class suburb on Dublin's south side, I sat and put the following to paper last Sunday.

The sun is out. I know this because I have my own personal barometer, namely grave, tormented feelings of nihilistic anxiety. What is supposedly a great boon can be such a crushing misanthropic experience. There is no such thing as hope on a sunny day in the suburbs, a veritable lethargic Hell, pervaded by a will to do nothing. Mankind has never achieved anything as a sloth, not even happiness, when you consider things in the long run. I'm sitting in a cafe, where a pianist plays familiar songs, each one a lament. He is perhaps harking back to another era, desperately longing to be elsewhere. Perhaps he is running his fingers along a career that never was? He wishes to roll back a decade or more, and do it over, or better yet, he wishes to wake up in a bygone era — perhaps Paris at the turn of the last century — and stay there forever. Looking at him, I wonder if he was lamenting his life this time last summer. And what about the year before that? How many years has he been doing this? How ugly it is to lament your life perennially. And how ubiquitous such a sentiment is; a yearning to find your way back to a time consigned to the past. I know far too many adults who are all ice-cream and kittens. I used to get excited about ice-cream, but then I turned nine. I can tolerate a dreamer, an idealist, or someone who holds a vision, but not if the dream is to return to childhood. It reflects poorly on your if your aspirations are virtually no responsibilities, playtime, ice-cream, lying around, fawning over the naivety of animals, and onesies. Is it not pathetic, to beat on like a  boat against the current, being borne back ceaselessly into the past, as I would so originally phrase it? 

The pain of lounging helplessly in the sun is compounded by people talking about it. Here in Ireland, we use this bizarre tone that makes our gratitude sound like a back-handed compliment. "I can't believe it's so sunny.", you'll hear one say. "I wish it was like this more often.", says a more transparent other. "It's gorgeous, isn't it?", asks the less confident one, needing confirmation when scolding the weather for being unreliable, as if the gods of the sky might hear them. Beware these wretched creatures — strange folk who resent something that clearly has no agency, often with poor, joyless sarcasm. I appreciate that circumstances anchor the conversation, but talking about how sunny it is makes me feel like I'm in a banal limbo of mindless chatter. A close runner-up is talking about food while having a meal, which, I am willing to bet, has been responsible for deaths, such is the level of bourgeois tedium. Incidentally, the sandwich I just finished here was so pretentious I wasn't entirely sure if I was supposed to eat it. Food rots so much quicker on sunny days, incidentally, as does my mood. If you like flies and dehydration, then 'tis the season for you.

Brighter days do energise people's mood, but you pay the price for the accompanying nihilism. The heat exhausts me, and I lose my cool both figuratively and literally through my sweat glands. Sunny days oblige me to do something, to make hay while the sun shines, and I have to do it then and there. The opportunity will disappear. And soon. Looking out the window, I cannot help but notice how ugly the suburbs look in the sun, uglier than the busy city centre. I would escape to the beach or the nearest patch of nature, but the suburbs always follows me. Even if I could escape them, it would bring me only limited joy. Cake and desperate longing to return to childhood are great if you like growing fat with your head buried in the ground, but some of us prefer something more difficult. There is a joy is facing the hardness of things, in overcoming a difficult situation. No flavour can compete with the satisfaction of relieving hunger or thirst, in the same way that no pleasure can measure up to the alleviation of pain, especially an alleviation borne out of struggle.

I have no doubt that many of you reading this are telling me to 'live a little' in your mind, but you most likely say this without any real thought or consideration, and you may not be familiar with the glorious feeling of taking the harder path. Deep down, you must know that life is ultimately a struggle. Physical and emotional attrition greets you everyday, even when you do nothing. Things will get worse, at least for a while, and if the universe has a plan for you, if you have a destiny, it is certain annihilation (as well as annihilation of everyone you love). Make your life harder and cast away your dependency on sunny days; not for the sake of it, but the sake of an unrivalled joy. Being a wise, venerable man of action, it is time for me to stand up and walk out of this place. I may be a nihilist with a neurotic inability to enjoy a sunny day, but at least I'm not you, precious reader.

Sarah knew what it's all about.

Hopefully Someone at Upworthy Will Repost This.

We live in uncertain times. That's not to say any time is certain, for surely all times are uncertain insofar as we never can tell what lies behind the corner of that which has yet to come. If we ever had certain times, then we could never have uncertain times, as we would see them coming. Unless you mean to say that many things seem in doubt these days, rather than a few. You see, reader, we live in uncertain times in the sense that we cannot even say when times are certain or not. Our uncertainty is mitigated, thankfully, by the reliable beacons of light that guide us through life, recurring in the same fashion as they always have. Few of these lights shine brighter and more stalwartly than a certain pint-sized, over-bitten Aussie. Kylie Minogue has remained an international superstar for three decades, and every time we assume she has retired to her former glories, she reemerges, like the proverbial queen of come back. The sum total of Holly Valance, Jason Donovan, Peter Andre, Deltra Goodram, Natalie Imbruglia, Gotye, Olivia Newton-John, Men at Work, and even Kylie's sister Dannii are dwarfed when placed next to her stardom and staying power (Dannii's problem is that she cannot spell her name properly).

I recently assumed that Kylie's run had finally ended. She is descending into her sixth decade and has to complete with a pantheon of young Über-skanks, such as Rihanna and Ke$ha, the latter who has succeeded despite having acute difficulties in spelling her name. I felt there was little hope for a star who had her renaissance around the time of Christina Aguilera's Dirty, a video that caused much controversy at the time of its release, but seems average compared to most videos of today. However, Kylie's most recent endeavour has silenced all doubters, proving she has the stomach for the sub-mediocrity required for contemporary pop. Sexercise has all necessary ingredients to be a hit in this decade. Its lyrics are rendered largely inaudible by the poor hip-hop style and computerised voice. Fortunately, the word 'sex' stands out clearly, and careful listeners will be able to pick up the obvious innuendos that comprise the rest of the lyrics. Playfully drawing comparison between sex and working out, Kylie fearlessly unveils the truth, and candidly explains that sex is a long, arduous labour of erotica. In the songwriter's office, I imagine you would a bin fill of crumpled up paper, bearing rejected, less glamorous lyrics such as, 'fat people find it difficult to find training partners', 'I quickly lose my motivation', 'this is very monotonous', 'I take drugs to enhance my performance', 'I don't like the idea of people seeing me all red-faced and sweaty', and 'I prefer not to be seen doing it in public'. The lyrics fall short of required standards, however, as they request an adequate sexual performance from her lover, implying that some sense of dignity and implying she has some needs of her own. If she were a younger woman, Kylie would most certainly recognise that her value lies solely in her body and her ability to conform to male sexual desire.




What makes this a true masterpiece is the tightly-edited video, which has all trappings a simple man lead around by his penis longs for. As well as the portrayal of exiguously-clad females in the gym, the video also boasts of a feast of obvious sexual hooks: clearly visible nipples; (w)edgy ass shots; simulated sex; wet bodies; contorted torsos; gyrating; pained, sexual facial expressions; implied group sex; nude-colured suits; faux-lesbianism (which bestows dignity on being gay like nothing else); stilettoed legs; the faint, phantasmal memory of a forbidden Oedipal-like desire. All that remained to be shown was simulated fellatio and camel toe, putting Kylie right up there with Robin #Thicke (Perhaps the greatest I-have-no-idea-how-to-spell-my-name success story), Miley Cyrus, and Lady Gaga. In a survey of horny teenage boys, 92% said they would totally chug one out over the video. "Did you crack one out yourself over the video, bro?", I hear you ask. "No, I didn't, bro.", I reply and wonder why I don't have the confidence to refrain from using the trite gym handle 'bro'. The use of the largely redundant gym balls was off-putting, and I was distracted by how hazardous squatting is in stilettos. Worst of all, one part of the video, where Kylie and her uniformed friends are kicking their legs back, reminds me of my mother's aerobics classes in the eighties. Now, you must excuse me, for I need to shift through another bunch of trashy, obvious videos to further my research.

Meanwhile, In an Alternative Universe

I would like to congratulate Liverpool on winning their first ever Premier league title and their first league victory in a generation. Their fans will undoubtedly cherish the victory, as they won in the season Manchester United fell dramatically from their pedestal. It is to United's credit that they gave way so quickly after Alex Ferguson's exit, retiring to the mid-table without any fuss or delay. Many of you are unaware of the fact, but when I was a sporting lad in my teens, I was an avid Manchester United fan. Perhaps it was the influence of friends that made me support them, or perhaps it was the noble spirit I felt pervaded the team. Perhaps it was this song. It certainly had nothing to do with the fact they won so much silverware.

For those who are unfamiliar with English football, please allow me to explain. For a long time, Liverpool FC was the belle of the ball, winning trophies galore. In the 1990s, after a couple of decades of supremacy, Manchester United usurped their tiara and dominated English football. They were seemingly unbeatable with the help of their fairy godmother Sir Alex Ferguson. Liverpool could not tolerate United's success and watched helplessly as she eventually overtook her place as the most beautiful belle of all time. Liverpool fans took a relieved delight in watching United occasionally come second, first to Blackburn (a meretricious, flash-in-the-pan stunner, who quickly succumbed to obesity and old age) then, briefly, to Arsenal (the belle with the winning personality, whose fans are like martyrs). Eventually, two real challengers came along: Chelsea (plausibly a girl's name, especially if she's from California) and Manchester City (plausibly a girl's name, especially if she's from California). Both had been average girls, but they were beautified by cosmetic surgery, paid for by their rich Russian and Saudi Arabian daddies. Manchester United could still fend off these younger models, however, much like a 40-year-old who keeps in great shape through yoga. Liverpool, in recent year, has transformed so much, it is as though the mother has been replaced by her nubile daughter (after all, it has been a generation). Other contenders include Everton and Tottenham Hotspurs, who are perennial also-rans. Their supporters are like loyal partners, who perfunctorily tell them they think they are beautiful even though its clearly not true.

Liverpool have walked alone through a difficult 24 years. A team with such a heritage was inevitably going to return to glory, even though they took the long route. Let us not forget the fallen soldiers, who toiled in times short of glory. Their hands grasped haplessly for silverware and got little more than the Coca Cola Cup (back when it was called that). Remember Phil Babb, Steve MacManaman, Robbie Fowler, John Scales, Steve Nicol, Jan Mølby, Steve Harkness, Stan Collymore, David James, Neil Ruddock, Lee Jones, Jason McAteer, and Jamie Redknapp. Great losers one and all. Despite being a former United fan, it is only right I also salute their current, victorious team. I would never want to spitefully take pleasure in the dominating team losing, especially when it bears little relevance to my non-existent title contentions. I would never want to rattle on for years about past glories or how the dominant team deserve their defeat. Now that… that would be sad. 

If the sexy pictures won't work, the cute ones certainly will.

Sneakers Looking Fresh to Death, I'm Loving those Shell Toes

When I returned to the gym this week, after several weeks of illness, I was pleasantly reminded that the Shittiest Haircut in the World Campaign had started. Regular gym-goers, who spend many hours per week perfecting every contour of their flesh, ruin their attractiveness with patently hideous hairstyles. The campaign runs from the beginning of April until the end of March every year, and the proceeds go towards combatting male body dysmorphic disorder, which plagues gyms internationally. Every year, young men fall prey to body image issues, caused by negatively comparing themselves to images of disgusting, bronzed hulks. Unable to avoid mirrors, they become completely despondent and soon find themselves taking desperate measures to get bigger. A brief walk around the gym reveals the appalling lives these wretches have eked out for themselves. Behold Jimmy, a boy of twenty-two. He read somewhere that bigger legs can only be achieved by ultraheavy, deep squats. With weight well in excess of one hundred kilos, he does six sets, with ten reps each, which annihilates his legs beyond use. Unable to cope with the pain of calf training in close proximity to his heavy squats, he riskily tries to target them by sitting iron plates under his heels during the squats. This desperate attempt to target his calves, which he fears cannot be stimulated to grow, is undoubtedly a cry for help. The gym staff fear that Jimmy may abandon the pain of heavy squats and risk breaking two sets of joints by jump squatting on the leg press machine (I have actually seen a gym instructor do this).

A Darwin Award in the making.

 Jimmy is just one of the many victims here. On this mean circuit, muscle is the name of the game, and these kids will do anything to get it. Sucking hard on protein shakes, the young males worry whether their body is in a net catabolic or anabolic state, and they couldn't say which one they would prefer. All they know is that they want the perfect exercise/diet balance to 'melt away'  fat and maximise their 'lean muscle' — no other type of muscle will do, especially that fat muscle. Swinging helplessly as they lift a barbell that weighs too much, they see no progress in their bodies and feel weak in the presence of the many Lycra-clad beauties that glide around the gym floor. (So prevalent is Lycra in the gym that a virginal male may could be forgiven for thinking it part of the female anatomy.) These young men have to make up for the discrepancy in desire with disrespect, too much respect, pining, misogyny, resentment, crying, chauvinism, self-deception, pornography, voyeurism, flesh-lights, Chatroulette exhibitionism, arguing anally about the minutiae of bodybuilding, recommending squats to women without any thought about the efficacy of squats compared to other gluteal exercises, critical comments about beautiful women's bodies made of pure sour grapes, frequenting tanning salons, and transvestism.

'But what can I do to help?', I hear you ask. There are plenty of actions you can take to lessen this dreadful scourge. Take a shitty haircut selfie and bravely post it on Facebook to raise awareness. Perhaps you could post an article or an Upworthy video about the topic, asking 'What's really happening in the gym?'. Criticise the mainstream media for not tackling this social issue, even though all you ever read in the papers are human stories, thereby discouraging them from printing more important news. Use lots of hashtags to start trending. Religious hashtags (e.g., #prayfortheukraine) might lose some of your audience, so you may want to try something universal, like eating (e.g., #chickenkievfortheukraine). Most importantly, invent simplified labels for complex issues. If the cause doesn't make you seem like a passionate, interesting person, drop it. If it does, be sure to hold on to it for no more than six months. Cringe at your posts two years later. Holding onto a political cause for too long results in situations like Kony 2012 or those people protesting outside the British parliament because Deirdre Rachid was imprisoned in Coronation Street. I'm unsure which one was worse. It doesn't matter anyway. What really matters is addressing the issue with absolute solemnity and taking offence to anyone who disagrees with you. Political causes on Facebook are there to establish your projected identity, and if you are in anyway compromising or lighthearted about things, people may not take you seriously. And before your take-offense-to-everything reflex sets you off on a whinge-fest, I will concede that there are worthy causes and people who need help in pursuing them — much in the way that your well-being is a worthy cause and some people go to the gym for the good of their health.   

I Hope One Day You'll Join Us

I hate to labour your eyes by whipping a dead donkey before you, but I am quite determined never to have children. Are my motives selfish? Yes, at least a little bit, but so are yours. Your children's most certainly will be. Given the all-too-real impending doom that resource shortages will bring, who would want to bring another human into this world? The world would be better off if I never I have children. It would at least be a little less noisy. I could teach them to be mindful of resources and abhor waste, but that is far less effective than not having them at all. It is better to have nothing with a disgustingly calorific meal than a side salad. What do we hope to achieve by having children anyway? Immortality? Legacy?  A fresh start to undo your faults? A stroll through any ancient ruins will tell you the futility of the first two. The third, perhaps, shows a lack of faith in your ability to change. Perhaps people just want the joys of a family life, or perhaps they want to revisit a more innocent part of their life. Perhaps it is an attempt to preserve our values and ensure their future. Perhaps people are just afflicted by nationalism and racism (as we will soon see). These are all futile I hopes, I'm afraid.

I have long-since yielded to life's remorseless waves. We don't live, we become, never staying in one moment, each one being as hollow and meaningless as the next. Values, which we may hope to preserve, speak of a permanence that just isn't there. Our existence is one of non-being for we never really are; we only become. It's better not to resist this idea, though that is detrimental to relationships and having children. Developing affection for a vulnerable other courses abrasively against the brutal reality of the world. When you love someone, you want to keep them safe against the dangers of the world, but you ultimately know that there is no safety from physical decay and certain annihilation. The warm, powerful bond you build with another person is subject to deterioration, just like everything else. In my relationships for the longest of times, affection was ultimately a prison for me, a hopeless rally against the way things are. To treat another as precious and will her to never be harmed, and to promise never to leave her side, are futile projects, no matter how passionately you feel about them. You cannot hold on to something in a world where nothing is permanent. It is better to allow the tide to take you where it is inevitably going.  

There is a flip-side to this, however. I have grown to see that the fear and horror I feel is just that. Against the tide, you needn't make a futile effort to cease its motion or drown under the waves. You can let it takes you where it goes, once you resist longing for permanence. Stand not as a tree, but accept that you are a leaf dancing in the wind. You are the fire, not what is destroyed by fire. Let the wind take you, like a hot-air balloon, and be above it all. Be like the fearless tiger in the jungle, or an eagle, soaring high. Use lots of metaphors to get over it — lots of them! I learned, through motivational lines, that it was okay to fear and lament, but not to allow it to cripple you; I could be with someone at last and enjoy an enduring bond in the a context free from the narrative of permanence. She saw life similarly and accepted it unflinchingly. Like two birds we flew alongside each other. I broke it off in the end ('Where else?', says you.), however, because she kept confusing 'disinterested' and 'uninterested', and her ass was a bit flat. And she used text speak.

I am digressing somewhat, but the point should remain clear: as well as the many reasons for not having children, which I delineated some time ago, it perpetuates a wishful grand narrative that grates against our ontological character. So much strife derives from the conflict of our narratives and our non-being, and we would do better to harmonise the two. Non-being is, for lack of a better expression, at the essence of, em, being. It is precisely neither essence nor being. Essence suggests a permanence which we are simply not privy to. We are future-oriented, never living in the present, never pausing in a moment. The only way out of this is by ceasing to be. Those who cannot bear this try to globalise their value-systems, in the hope of making them more real somehow, which has violent results.

Not all of you feel that way, and I doubt you would join me on asking humanity to stop having children. I hear many objections already. What about declining populations? Who will look after the elderly? I have thought of solutions for this already. Mass migration and adoption will even out the population. Millions will be lifted out of poverty over a short period of time. The only objections to this can be racism and nationalism. In the crisis of impending shortages, we will have to illuminate people that it is racist and nationalistic to want children, flipping a problem into a solution (once again, having children contributes to destructive grand narratives). Eventually, the ageing populations will have difficulty looking after themselves. By then, we should have developed robots to help us. The last of humanity will pass in peace and comfort, attended to dutifully by our loyal, mechanical friends. Their last task will be to open all the doors and windows of buildings, allowing the mark we left on this Earth to be more quickly abraded by nature. Standing motionless into rust, they can appreciate what remains — a peaceful, lasting silence.

Extracts taken from Recommendations for Saving Humanity: A Distress Call to the United Nations, by Nigel V. Fairflower.

Our faithful friends. Nobody who speaks German could ever be evil.

Come, M'lady, You're My Butterfly, Sugar, Baby

After edifying so many young men in their love lives, I have received a few messages concerning online dating. 'Is it just a refuge for perverts and fraudsters?', I hear you ask fearfully. No, my dear readers, I can assure you that the internet is a wonderful place of abundant information, free opinions, and social connections. Many young lads venture onto dating sites in pursuit of a sexual hit. However, it all-too-often turns into a flaccid, frustrating affair, void of any flirting, sexting, cam sex, or arranging of dates. So, how do you succeed in the modern, 21st century, virtual world of contemporary romance and new-trend seduction? Let me guide you though the apparent minefield and lead those with the stamina to sexual glory.

90% of women online are this good-looking and await messages on their bed in their underwear. But will they be interested in you, you little worm?

Your number one priority on a dating website is your profile pictures. You seem creepy if you don't have one, and you look like an idiot if you use candy shots of you shirtless on your bed. If you have a good physique, you must find less gratuitous ways of showing it off. Your profile pictures should be a set of portraits that show a man of great masculinity and intellect. Be sure to avoid accusations of arrogance by showing sensitivity and a sense of humour. I am a little shy about showing my actual dating profile, but I will describe the pictures for you. The first shows my creative side; I am chiselling an ice sculpture of an angel in a naturally lit studio with my shirt off, revealing my tanned, ripped musculature. The second picture offers a contrast, and shows me hugging a grateful African child. Smiles and tears of joy tell a story that other selfies don't tell. In the third, I am meditating shirtless on the side of a beautiful mountain, surrounded by nature. A wall in the background bears writing from an Asian language and a yin-yang symbol. The fourth shows me clearly having a good time in a bar with my buddies who are all smiling and not perverts or sociopaths. The fourth is a carefully lit, monochrome picture of me in a tailored suit, holding a gin and tonic. It exudes sophistication and power. In the fifth, I'm playing football with underprivileged children, clearly bring joy to their lives with my athleticism and sense of fun. The sixth is a selfie of me at a beach; I'm wet and shirtless, having decided that after my swim it was time for a selfie. The seventh, which is another black-and-white shot, shows me lost in thought over a keyboard; a copy of James Joyce's Ulysses can clearly be seen in the background. I added the caption 'Writing on a hot, summer's day' to explain why I have no shirt on. The eighth and final shot shows me on the opposite side of a table in a classy restaurant, smiling handsomely. The caption reads, 'Care to join me?'

In the 'Interests' section write everything you have ever done that wasn't illegal or very boring. This will make your life seem full. For the 'About Me' section, you need only do two things: avoid red flags and write proper sentences. Red flags include things like bad-mouthing your exes, saying you're looking for a nice girl, declaring oafishly that you don't know what you're doing here, referring to yourself as a 'cuddle monster', and admitting you listen to Linkin Park. While we're on matter, don't use "Come, m'lady, you're my butterfly, sugar, baby" as your headline. It wasn't a Linkin Park song, but everyone thinks it was, and you will be unable to salvage the damage done by proving the girls wrong. As for the 'First Date' section, be sure to suggest somewhere there will be people and will be fun for both of you. Unless you're from a culture where boy-meets-girl involves sitting for hours together silently, don't suggest the cinema as a first date.

Once your profile is complete rifle out those messages, you fine stud! Always reject any messages girls sends you. 'There's clearly something wrong with her if she's interested in me', says a voice from deep within. Trust it; it's correct. Be sure not to write anything like this:

can i see ur pussy plz?

i have a sausage delivery for u. wer will i put it ;)

cam?

She may over-look the fact that you're a sleazy, illiterate, rude, jerk-off boy, who sees her as nothing more than a sex hole, but she will never forgive your laziness. Sexting is oft-desired, but not attained so easily. Start off with a few questions and lead the conversation towards the fool-proof terrain of likes and dislikes. Once here, you must throw out a gambit to see if she'd like to talk dirty. Remember: sex is great when it's found in an unlikely place, so your chances are good. If you don't believe me, consider how ubiquitous role-playing is. Few people role-play a situation where sex is likely to be found, for example a couple having sex in their bedroom. Only narcissistic actors and literary students, who get off on the multiple layers of narrative, would enjoy that.
Forming the bait is easier than it first seems. Using something she says, turn the conversation towards the sexual. The following words can easily be couched into a sexting gambit if you have the wit and imagination to do so:

bed                                                 shower
riding                                             hard
strip                                                lick
slap                                                bold
tongue                                            pinned
bite                                                 finger
throw around                                  watching
rope                                                balls
secret                                              firm
body                                               punishing
sweat                                              tying
penetrate                                         asphyxiate
washing machine                            drilling
pumping                                          beans
kebabs                                             nappies

linoleum                                          grandma                                           

yeast infection                                cheese grater                                     

q-tips

If the gambit works, try another one, being sure not to move too fast. Repeat this process until it's three in the morning and you still have to get ready for bed and attend to your six-hour-long erection. After several rounds of this, you will probably move on to more intimate activities (cam sex, photos of your nipple, etc.), but eventually you will both want to meet. Enjoy the confidence of having already seduced your date before you have even met. When you finally start having sex with her, it will be completely different the epic, exhaustive, farcical fantasy you spent hours writing together. My experiences and the doomed nature of human existence have taught me not to expect romance to last, so be sure keep your dating profile open. 

And that's it. Now I must go and look in the mirror at length, lamenting the number of greys on my head and the barren wasteland of a life spent as an unpaid gigolo. In the words of Linkin Park, I've become so numb (but in the end it doesn't even matter).