WHAT A COMMON LITTLE BLOG

If I was forced to, I mean tied down and beaten to within an inch of pain by dancing girls with few clothes and many twigs, I'd guess that the most common blog is a list of likes and dislikes. So, as a common little slacker, I'm going to steal the idea and ride the same wave into the same beach as all the other slackers (like the imagery there, slackers equated to surfers? Seems good to me) and try to digest some of mine into bite-sized chunks. I'm curmudgeonly and cynical, old and fretful and so I don’t think I'll do this as a neat little pair of columns because the debit side will be so much larger than the credit. But now, to confound your expectations, I'm going to start with something that I like.

I'M NOT BITTER
I love going to a little country pub that does really good food and is peaceful and has no smoking and serves a really good pint of some fantastic beer, like Brakspear’s. That first bitter taste, especially if you haven’t had a pint in a while, is like no other. The rest of the pint is distinctly average, and it just gets more average the more you have, so by the fourth or fifth, it is distinctly ordinary, no longer special.

But the whole enjoyment can be easily ruined. I detest people who smoke. Even those who do it at home, in the privacy thereof. They stink; their hair, their clothes, and worst of all their breath. But when they do the same to me, as well as kill dozens of my special and much loved alveoli, I think it’s fair to loath, hate and detest them. Get out of my space. And don’t ruin my evening, my meal, or my quick drink with friends – not that many of them stay. As soon as someone lights up they look at each other and, with a kind of mild panic on their faces, find sudden urges to go to the loo, or remember a subsequent appointment. Not that I face up to the smoker and shout down their infringement of my liberty, because another pet hate is confrontation, but I do moan. Like a good ‘un.

GO FORTH AND TRAVEL WISELY
And talking of liberty: I love having the right to be able to go abroad (in the true sense of the word, I don’t mean take a trip to Paris, although that’s fun too. I mean walk about, travel, exist, be…) without someone else having the right to infringe upon my existing personal state. I'd like this to mean that I can wander about town and country without being damaged. But it's a theory only. Of course it’s not true, because we are assaulted in so many ways. To have this right would be true liberty and a nirvana we can never attain: I am offended by that shop front, redesign it: I hate your top, madam, please remove it (I might try that one): your foul breath and stinking beer can offend me you poor tramp, go forth to a place of refuge this moment: your walkman is too loud: your ipod is just not cool anymore: your jeans are way too tight: judging by your bags you shop in all the wrong places, desist forthwith. And so on (and on and on and on if it’s me).

I hate myself quite a lot, but most especially when I rip into my son. He’s better than me in so many ways, but I just can’t help myself sometimes. I want so much for him, and when I see him having something within his reach but not stretching out for it, I get totally exasperated, frustrated and the dark side comes to the front. I’m a total slacker, so it seems only fair that he might have the gene in his particular pool too. I should cut him some slack, enough to slack himself I suppose. But I can’t bear the thought of his excellent mind, talent and gifts going to waste. Don’t turn out like your dad, mate. Unless you love your son like I love mine. I do do that quite well.

DON'T RING ME ...
I can abide the telephone anymore. I mean I love it after six when it’s going to be a friend, or even if it turns out to be a relative. But during the working day, I can definitely leave it. Often do as it goes. And I remember hating litter bugs once. I saw someone at a traffic lights in west London chuck a fag packet out of their window, so I got out of my car and popped it back in through their sun roof. And of course, as soon as the lights went green, they buzzed off, and the fag packet came sailing out of the window back into the road. I say used to hate them, but I can’t be bothered anymore. Litter is ubiquitous, and I suppose I’ve become desensitised, which I know is not good, but there it is.

...UNLESS IT'S WITH ABUSE
Something else I hate is parents who abuse their kids. I don’t want to get into a row with you about where the line comes, but I’m pretty clear that smacking, or otherwise raising a hand to kids, is abuse. Actually, all physcial violence of any kind to anyone or thing is abuse (and yes, I include boxing in this, another thing I detest with all my congested heart). And most people agree with me, well the sane ones anyway, about the kids.

But I also include shouting at your child, and I’m in full hypocrisy mode here having lectured my lovely boy out this very morning (no yelling though) for not much more than being a slacker, as abuse too. I was never hit as a child, but I was bullied unmercilessly by a father who forgot where the volume control was, and the acid control, and the screaming abdab control, and who could not resist the masterly put down, well honed on a child (makes your heart burst with pride doesn't it, to be able to make a seven year old cry. Boy! That feels g r e a t). So I’m sensitised here: how come though I’m desensitised to litter by its ubiquity but not to child abuse despite its presence in much of my life (because it doesn't stop when your trousers reach all the way to the floor)? Answers on a note of large denomination please.