I have run out of ways to apologise for the absence of Blog entries. So I shall simply say that I have been busy frolicking in whatever pastures my attentions have alighted upon at any given moment, and we can all carry on with our lives. Good day to you...
Being a twenty-one-year-old is not something which particularly suits me, not least because I don’t know how many hyphens that damnable phrase demands. If I were a bottle of malt whisky I would by this point fetch an impressive price; my assorted subtleties, characteristic nuances and the acquired je ne sais quoi of over two gruelling decades would come together to create a well-formed and nicely rounded specimen, worthy of the attention of even the most discerning connoisseur. However, I am not a bottle of malt whiskey, despite having tried on several occasions to tip the balance of my chemical composition in that direction. Malt whisky is produced according to age-old techniques, every process of its production geared specifically towards achieving some attribute or other to enhance its quality. A Glenfiddich, or a Glen Keith, or a Glen- anything else, is not permitted to suffer the unregimented, shambolic and disheartening trudge towards maturity I have traced with uncertain steps. Consequently, I feel, if it is not too abstract or melodramatic a statement, that I have rather failed to grow into a twenty-one-year-old. It is a running joke among my friends that I completely bypassed my teenage years, and emerged from puberty a misanthropic, rheumy-eyed and absent-minded fifty-something.
It is certainly true that I do not, and cannot, regardless of my best efforts, enjoy what others my age enjoy. I find ‘going-out’ unutterably tedious. Pubs I can just about stomach, provided the company is good and the conversation frivolous. Parties garner a similar appraisal. Clubs, however, are the bane of my existence. They manage to take two of my very favourite things, drinking and music, and fashion from them a rank and soiled tapestry of sexual misadventure and wanton peacockery. My laughable physique and tragic gait do not lend themselves well to either of these things, and if I should try to drown my acute physical discomfort in vodka and cheap lager, I am confronted with teaming hordes of ne’er-do-wells incapable of forming and maintaining anything even vaguely resembling a queue. I’m actually rather large when compared to the scrawny, Topshop-clad cretins one often encounters in these establishments, so I am not easily pushed aside. Yet, still I find myself, slave as always to my anachronistic sense of etiquette, willingly granting them free passage to the bar at my own expense.
Dancing, which is apparently something people do for fun, is certainly not my forte. The stance my body adopts most naturally is one of limp shoulders, pocketed hands and downcast eyes. The sight of my bony hips gyrating is one of comedic horror, and the erratic bouncing of my floppy mane is scarcely better. If I’m in the mood to elicit laughter from my friends then I am in constant possession of the means to do so, and indignity at least, is something which becomes me on the dance floor. Though I am never quite certain what to do when a girl starts dancing with me: a rare and terrifying experience. I am equally uncomfortable when one attempts to start a conversation. At the Picture House, I was once stopped on my way to the toilet by a girl who was most keen to learn how exactly I did my hair. I simply said, ‘neglect’, and continued on my way. When she stopped me yet again to ask where I was going, I replied that I was nipping to the loo but would be back soon. Upon my return I bolted to the bar, then skirted the edge of the room to avoid her, concealing myself in the little fake chapel, where I proceeded to drink heavily.
As ever, I am a Rubik’s cube of nonsense.
Jamie
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