For those of you who have already perused my last few entries (quite possibly none of you) the rapid addition of a further piece will come as little surprise. Given the profound lack of stimuli in my day to day life, a brief outline of which can be found elsewhere, I have taken to writing as a shield against what Churchill called ‘the black dog’. Right now it is half past eight in the morning, and I have been awake since three yesterday afternoon. This nocturnalism, a malady from which I have suffered on and off for a year, has recently been kept at bay by what I call ‘strategic binge-drinking’. In lieu of this my medicine of choice has been a mug of hot milk and a few paracetamol, the combination of which does to consciousness what Israeli soldiers do to humanitarian protesters.The upside of spending such extended periods of time alone is that it gives me time to think. Many of you will know first-hand the perils posed by the relentless rotating of my neurological cogs, and it will not be necessary for you to stifle gasps of astonishment to know that some of the resultant thoughts are less than cheery. I have already decided upon the conditions in which I wish to die, a decision which has provided significant peace of mind. I have come to terms with the harsh reality that none of my bizarre poetry shall ever be published without a drastic compromise of my artistic sensibilities. Over and above these contemplative gems one can find the usual tirades against the Catholic Church, some quite enlightened opinions on masturbation and, by extension (so to speak), the abysmal quality of our country’s curriculum of sex education. The product of this morning’s labours represents a thorough slating of what people call ‘respect’...I remember watching some programme or other a little while ago. It dealt with the age old question of what it means to be ‘cool’. In search of an answer to the riddle, the intrepid presenter set out to an extremely fashionable nightclub, and asked some of the guests what it meant to them to be cool. One man equated coolness with respect, and I remember giving this some thought. Respect is one of those things in life in which a huge number of people place a huge amount of importance. Having the respect of one’s friends, one’s colleagues, one’s parents, and anyone else with whom one makes contact in life, is ludicrously important to people. I am forthwith cancelling my subscription to this way of thinking. And about time too...
After all, what the bollocks do I want with respect? Respect is basically just the approval of others. Working for approval is a perfectly acceptable preoccupation for a child. Children naturally desire the approval of others because they are too young to have anything substantial upon which to build a positive self-image, and it is therefore the only option available. But for a grown man or woman to do the same is, frankly, pathetic.
How small a cock must one have to need the respect of others to justify their existence? How deserving of pity is he or she who requires validation from others to feel important? I find this a bit saddening really; imagine having so little sense of worth that the passing approval of another is the only thing preventing you from slipping into a mire of depression and worthlessness. That’s the sort of mentality that causes women to become sluttish. It’s the mentality that drives men to buy bitchin’ rims and infeasible sound systems. It’s the bread and butter of sycophants the world over. It’s the impetus for social climbers. It has been the catalyst for countless betrayals and heartaches throughout history. It’s an addiction that takes a scalpel to the testes of society and transforms it into a snivelling eunuch.
While my contempt for the concept remains white hot, I urge you, gentle reader, to grow a pair. That’s it, grow a pair. Then grab them and say: “Actually, they’re fine the way they are. To Hell with everyone else’s respect. Respect these!”
Then whip out that pair you’ve just grown and gesticulate obscenely.
Jamie
Jamie
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