Playground Football

All credit for this goes to the fantastic Christopher Brookmyre, and can be found in its original format here: http://www.brookmyre.co.uk/extras/short-stories/playground-football/

This is exactly the kind of football that I liked playing. I want to save it here so I can re-read it.

Duration

Matches shall be played over three unequal periods: two playtimes and a lunchtime. Each of these periods shall begin shortly after the ringing of a bell, and although a bell is also rung towards the end of these periods, play may continue for up to ten minutes afterwards, depending on the nihilism or “bottle” of the participants with regard to corporal punishment met out to latecomers back to the classroom. In practice there is a sliding scale of nihilism, from those who hasten to stand in line as soon as the bell rings, known as “poofs”, through those who will hang on until the time they estimate it takes the teachers to down the last of their gins and journey from the staffroom, known as “chancers”, and finally to those who will hang on until a teacher actually has to physically retrieve them, known as “bampots”. This sliding scale is intended to radically alter the logistics of a match in progress, often having dramatic effects on the scoreline as the number of remaining participants drops. It is important, therefore, in picking the sides, to achieve a fair balance of poofs, chancers and bampots in order that the scoreline achieved over a sustained period of play – a lunchtime, for instance – is not totally nullified by a five-minute post-bell onslaught of five bampots against one. The scoreline to be carried over from the previous period of the match is in the trust of the last bampots to leave the field of play, and may be the matter of some debate. This must be resolved in one of the approved manners (see Adjudication).

Parameters

The object is to force the ball between two large, unkempt piles of jackets, in lieu of goalposts. These piles may grow or shrink throughout the match, depending on the number of participants and the prevailing weather. As the number of players increases, so shall the piles. Each jacket added to the pile by a new addition to a side should be placed on the inside, nearest the goalkeeper, thus reducing the target area. It is also important that the sleeve of one of the jackets should jut out across the goalmouth, as it will often be claimed that the ball went “over the post” and it can henceforth be asserted that the outstretched sleeve denotes the innermost part of the pile and thus the inside of the post. The on-going reduction of the size of the goal is the responsibility of any respectable defence and should be undertaken conscientiously with resourcefulness and imagination.

In the absence of a crossbar, the upper limit of the target area is observed as being slightly above head height, although when the height at which a ball passed between the jackets is in dispute, judgement shall lie with an arbitrary adjudicator from one of the sides. He is known as the “best fighter”; his decision is final and may be enforced with physical violence if anyone wants to stretch a point.

There are no pitch markings. Instead, physical objects denote the boundaries, ranging from the most common – walls and buildings – to roads or burns. Corners and throw-ins are redundant where bylines or touchlines are denoted by a two-storey building or a six-foot granite wall. Instead, a scrum should be instigated to decide possession. This should begin with the ball trapped between the brickwork and two opposing players, and should escalate to include as many team members as can get there before the now egg-shaped ball finally emerges, drunkenly and often with a dismembered foot and shin attached. At this point, goalkeepers should look out for the player who takes possession of the escaped ball and begins bearing down on goal, as most of those involved in the scrum will be unaware that the ball is no longer amidst their feet. The goalkeeper should also try not to be distracted by the inevitable fighting that has by this point broken out.

In games on large open spaces, the length of the pitch is obviously denoted by the jacket piles, but the width is a variable. In the absence of roads, water hazards or “a big dug”, the width is determined by how far out the attacking winger has to meander before the pursuing defender gets fed up and lets him head back towards where the rest of the players are waiting, often as far as quarter of a mile away. It is often observed that the playing area is “no’ a full-size pitch”. This can be invoked verbally to justify placing a wall of players eighteen inches from the ball at direct free kicks. It is the formal response to “yards”, which the kick-taker will incant meaninglessly as he places the ball.

The Ball

There is a variety of types of ball approved for Primary School Football. I shall describe three notable examples.

1. The plastic balloon. An extremely lightweight model, used primarily in the early part of the season and seldom after that due to having burst. Identifiable by blue pentagonal panelling and the names of that year’s Premier League sides printed all over it. Advantages: low sting factor, low burst-nose probability, cheap, discourages a long-ball game. Disadvantages: over-susceptible to influence of the wind, difficult to control, almost magnetically drawn to flat school roofs whence never to return.

2. The rough-finish Mitre. Half football, half Portuguese Man o’ War. On the verge of a ban in the European Court of Human Rights, this model is not for sale to children. Used exclusively by teachers during gym classes as a kind of aversion therapy. Made from highly durable fibre-glass, stuffed with neutron star and coated with dead jellyfish. Advantages: looks quite grown up, makes for high-scoring matches (keepers won’t even attempt to catch it). Disadvantages: scars or maims anything it touches.

3. The “Tube”. Genuine leather ball, identifiable by brown all-over colouring. Was once black and white, before ravages of games on concrete, but owners can never remember when. Adored by everybody, especially keepers. Advantages: feels good, easily controlled, makes a satisfying “whump” noise when you kick it. Disadvantages: turns into medicine ball when wet, smells like a dead dog.

Offside

There is no offside, for two reasons: one, “it’s no’ a full-size pitch”, and two, none of the players actually know what offside is. The lack of an offside rule gives rise to a unique sub-division of strikers. These players hang around the opposing goalmouth while play carries on at the other end, awaiting a long pass forward out of defence which they can help past the keeper before running the entire length of the pitch with their arms in the air to greet utterly imaginary adulation. These are known variously as “moochers”, “gloryhunters” and “fly wee bastarts”. These players display a remarkable degree of self-security, seemingly happy in their own appraisals of their achievements, and caring little for their team-mates’ failure to appreciate the contribution they have made. They know that it can be for nothing other than their enviable goal tallies that they are so bitterly despised.

Adjudication

The absence of a referee means that disputes must be resolved between the opposing teams rather than decided by an arbiter. There are two accepted ways of doing this.

1. Compromise. An arrangement is devised that is found acceptable by both sides. Sway is usually given to an action that is in accordance with the spirit of competition, ensuring that the game does not turn into “a pure skoosh”. For example, in the event of a dispute as to whether the ball in fact crossed the line, or whether the ball has gone inside or “over” the post, the attacking side may offer the ultimatum: “Penalty or goal.” It is not recorded whether any side has ever opted for the latter. It is on occasions that such arrangements or ultimata do not prove acceptable to both sides that the second adjudicatory method comes into play.

2. Fighting. Those up on their ancient Hellenic politics will understand that the concept we know as “justice” rests in these circumstances with the hand of the strong. What the winner says, goes, and what the winner says is just, for who shall dispute him? It is by such noble philosophical principles that the supreme adjudicator, or Best Fighter, is effectively elected.

Team Selection

To ensure a fair and balanced contest, teams are selected democratically in a turns-about picking process, with either side beginning as a one-man selection committee and growing from there. The initial selectors are usually the recognised two Best Players of the assembled group. Their first selections will be the two recognised Best Fighters, to ensure a fair balance in the adjudication process, and to ensure that they don’t have their own performances impaired throughout the match by profusely bleeding noses. They will then proceed to pick team-mates in a roughly meritocratic order, selecting on grounds of skill and tactical awareness, but not forgetting that while there is a sliding scale of players’ ability, there is also a sliding scale of players’ brutality and propensities towards motiveless violence. A selecting captain might baffle a talented striker by picking the less nimble Big Jazza ahead of him, and may explain, perhaps in the words of Linden B Johnson upon his retention of J Edgar Hoover as the head of the FBI, that he’d “rather have him inside the tent pissing out, than outside the tent pissing in”.

Special consideration is also given during the selection process to the owner of the ball. It is tacitly acknowledged to be “his gemme”, and he must be shown a degree of politeness for fear that he takes the huff at being picked late and withdraws his favours.

Another aspect of team selection that may confuse those only familiar with the game at senior level will be the choice of goalkeepers, who will inevitably be the last players to be picked. Unlike in the senior game, where the goalkeeper is often the tallest member of his team, in the playground, the goalkeeper is usually the smallest. Senior aficionados must appreciate that playground selectors have a different agenda and are looking for altogether different properties in a goalkeeper. These can be listed briefly as: compliance, poor fighting ability, meekness, fear and anything else that makes it easier for their team-mates to banish the wee bugger between the sticks while they go off in search of personal glory up the other end.

Tactics

Playground football tactics are best explained in terms of team formation. Whereas senior sides tend to choose – according to circumstance – from among a number of standard options (eg 4-4-2, 4-3-3, 5-3-2), the playground side is usually more rigid in sticking to the all-purpose 1-1-17 formation. This formation is a sturdy basis for the unique style of play, ball-flow and territorial give-and-take that makes the playground game such a renowned and strategically engrossing spectacle. Just as the 5-3-2 formation is sometimes referred to in practice as “Cattenaccio”, the 1-1-17 formation gives rise to a style of play that is best described as “Nomadic”. All but perhaps four of the participants (see also Offside) migrate en masse from one area of the pitch to another, following the ball, and it is tactically vital that every last one of them remains within a ten-yard radius of it at all times.

Stoppages

Much stoppage time in the senior game is down to injured players requiring treatment on the field of play. The playground game flows freer having adopted the refereeing philosophy of “no Post-Mortem, no free-kick”, and play will continue around and even on top of a participant who has fallen in the course of his endeavours. However, the playground game is nonetheless subject to other interruptions, and some examples are listed below.

Ball on school roof or over school wall. The retrieval time itself is negligible in these cases. The stoppage is most prolonged by the argument to decide which player must risk life, limb or four of the belt to scale the drainpipe or negotiate the barbed wire in order to return the ball to play. Disputes usually arise between the player who actually struck the ball and any others he claims it may have struck before disappearing into forbidden territory. In the case of the Best Fighter having been adjudged responsible for such an incident, a volunteer is often required to go in his stead or the game may be abandoned, as the Best Fighter is entitled to observe that A: “Ye canny make me”; or B: “It’s no’ ma baw anyway”.

Stray dog on pitch. An interruption of unpredictable duration. The dog does not have to make off with the ball, it merely has to run around barking loudly, snarling and occasionally drooling or foaming at the mouth. This will ensure a dramatic reduction in the number of playing staff as 27 of them simultaneously volunteer to go indoors and inform the teacher of the threat. The length of the interruption can sometimes be gauged by the breed of dog. A deranged Irish Setter could take ten minutes to tire itself of running in circles, for instance, while a Jack Russell may take up to fifteen minutes to corner and force out through the gates. An Alsatian means instant abandonment.

Bigger boy steals ball. A highly irritating interruption, the length of which is determined by the players’ experience in dealing with this sort of thing. The intruders will seldom actually steal the ball, but will improvise their own kickabout amongst themselves, occasionally inviting the younger players to attempt to tackle them. Standing around looking bored and unimpressed usually results in a quick restart. Shows of frustration and engaging in attempts to win back the ball can prolong the stoppage indefinitely. Informing the intruders that one of the players’ older brother is “Mad Chic Murphy” or some other noted local pugilist can also ensure minimum delay.

Menopausal old bag confiscates ball. More of a threat in the street or local green kickabout than within the school walls. Sad, blue-rinsed, ill-tempered, Tory-voting cat-owner transfers her anger about the array of failures that has been her life to nine-year-olds who have committed the heinous crime of letting their ball cross her privet Line of Death. Interruption (loss of ball) is predicted to last “until you learn how to play with it properly”, but instruction on how to achieve this without actually having the bloody thing is not usually forwarded. Tact is required in these circumstances, even when the return of the ball seems highly unlikely, as further irritation of woman may result in the more serious stoppage:

Menopausal old bag calls police.

Celebration

Goal-scorers are entitled to a maximum run of thirty yards with their hands in the air, making crowd noises and saluting imaginary packed terraces.

Congratulation by team-mates is in the measure appropriate to the importance of the goal in view of the current scoreline (for instance, making it 34-12 does not entitle the player to drop to his knees and make the sign of the cross), and the extent of the scorer’s contribution. A fabulous solo dismantling of the defence or 25-yard* rocket shot will elicit applause and back-pats from the entire team and the more magnanimous of the opponents. However, a tap-in in the midst of a chaotic scramble will be heralded with the epithet “moochin’ wee bastart” from the opposing defence amidst mild acknowledgment from team-mates. Applying an unnecessary final touch when a ball is already rolling into the goal will elicit a burst nose from the original striker. Kneeling down to head the ball over the line when defence and keeper are already beaten will elicit a thoroughly deserved kicking. As a footnote, however, it should be stressed that any goal scored by the Best Fighter will be met with universal acclaim, even if it falls into any of the latter three categories.

*Actually eight yards, but calculated as relative distance because “it’s no’ a full-size pitch”.

Penalties

At senior level, each side often has one appointed penalty-taker, who will defer to a team-mate in special circumstances, such as his requiring one more for a hat-trick. The playground side has two appointed penalty-takers: the Best Player and the Best Fighter. The arrangement is simple: the Best Player takes the penalties when his side is a retrievable margin behind, and the Best Fighter at all other times. If the side is comfortably in front, the ball-owner may be invited to take a penalty.

Goalkeepers are often the subject of temporary substitutions at penalties, forced to give up their position to the Best Player or Best Fighter, who recognise the kudos attached to the heroic act of saving one of these kicks, and are buggered if Wee Titch is going to steal any of it.

Close Season

This is known also as the Summer Holidays, which the players usually spend dabbling briefly in other sports: tennis for a fortnight while Wimbledon is on the telly; pitch-and-putt for four days during the Open; and cricket for about an hour and a half until they discover that it really is as boring to play as it is to watch.

Seville - a romantic pretension in three verses

Heat shimmers, but an oppressive heat
Bearing down on a cobble-like street
I've walked for hours in Mediterranean sun
And I sit writing here, beneath a statue of Don Juan
or Quixote
I forget which
Or maybe I never knew in the first place.
"Is this what contentment is?"
I think, as I glance at her face

Because despite the ache in my feet
And the bastard horses, that cause me to retreat
Into shadowy corners of ancient churches
And a faint hunger as my stomach lurches
From unknowing
At this moment
At this small window of time and space
I feel happiness, as I glance at her face

But its almost a melancholy pleasure
As if I don't deserve this treasure
Like its been plundered by high sea buccaneers
And smuggled to my grasp under polished veneer
I should stop this mental state
And enjoy whats now
I don't believe in fate
But if I did, Seville seems the place
And life is all good when I glance at her face

This is not mine, I found it on the web somewhere and I don't know who originally wrote it. Anyway, this is the best succinct summary of World War I that I have ever seen...

Germany, Austria and Italy are standing together in the middle of a pub when Serbia bumps into Austria and spills Austria’s pint.

Austria demands Serbia buy it a complete new suit because there are splashes on its trouser leg.

Germany expresses its support for Austria’s point of view.

Britain recommends that everyone calm down a bit.

Serbia points out that it can’t afford a whole suit, but offers to pay for the cleaning of Austria’s trousers.

Russia and Serbia look at Austria.

Austria asks Serbia who it’s looking at.

Russia suggests that Austria should leave its little brother alone.

Austria inquires as to whose army will assist Russia in compelling it to do so.

Germany appeals to Britain that France has been looking at it, and that this is sufficiently out of order that Britain should not intervene.

Britain replies that France can look at who it wants to, that Britain is looking at Germany too, and what is Germany going to do about it?

Germany tells Russia to stop looking at Austria, or Germany will render Russia incapable of such action.

Britain and France ask Germany whether it’s looking at Belgium.

Turkey and Germany go off into a corner and whisper. When they come back, Turkey makes a show of not looking at anyone.

Germany rolls up its sleeves, looks at France, and punches Belgium.

France and Britain punch Germany. Austria punches Russia. Germany punches Britain and France with one hand and Russia with the other.

Russia throws a punch at Germany, but misses and nearly falls over. Japan calls over from the other side of the room that it’s on Britain’s side, but stays there. Italy surprises everyone by punching Austria.

Australia punches Turkey, and gets punched back. There are no hard feelings because Britain made Australia do it.

France gets thrown through a plate glass window, but gets back up and carries on fighting. Russia gets thrown through another one, gets knocked out, suffers brain damage, and wakes up with a complete personality change.

Italy throws a punch at Austria and misses, but Austria falls over anyway. Italy raises both fists in the air and runs round the room chanting.

America waits till Germany is about to fall over from sustained punching from Britain and France, then walks over and smashes it with a barstool, then pretends it won the fight all by itself.

By now all the chairs are broken and the big mirror over the bar is shattered. Britain, France and America agree that Germany threw the first punch, so the whole thing is Germany’s fault . While Germany is still unconscious, they go through its pockets, steal its wallet, and buy drinks for all their friends.

HUMAN RESOURCES

So, here is a thing. I have been reading lots of Philip K. Dick recently, and also Ellison's "I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream", and since I appear to be on some kind of sci-fi kick, I hereby present my tribute to Dick (no sniggering, please).

HUMAN RESOURCES

It was half past three on a Monday afternoon when Adam Seven entered the seclusion area near the region's human resources station. The day was cold and grey, but then the weather was like this all the time these days. As far back as he could remember, the dust cloud had been settled over all the former European Union states.

Adam could remember being a proud member of Britannia, located in the North West of the Union, back before it was simply designated Region #576 by the victors. Although who knows who the victors were any more.

Back when it was still thought that the fledgling EU could compete with the Asian Alliance and the USNSA, Britannia had led the former Western European territories under the leadership of Prime Minister Hill. The first true AI, "Winston", was developed in Britannia, to advise on negotiations with the right-wing government of the huge American continent. Nobody even considered whether it could sync with the American networks, let alone whether it could assasinate both leaders of these superpowers. Assumed of course; no bodies were ever found. With all the propaganda that was released by all sides, and then later even by the machines, it was anyone's guess as to who had actually won this war. Perhaps nobody won.

It was the third time this cycle that Adam had visited for the aptitude tests. It was commonly known among the ever-dwindling sapiens population that nobody came back from a third visit. But what could he do? If he tried to go anywhere else, his vehicle module would simply receive a signal from 01 and take him to the human resources station anyway. If he tried to stay at home, the rest station would provide "disincentive" shocks on every surface. Maybe he could stay with a friend, but who? His neighbour, David Eighteen, was the closest sap he knew, but he would never help. He had only just failed his second aptitude test himself, and nobody wanted to raise their own head above the parapet. Maybe he could try and escape the union; he had heard of one sap reaching the USNSA, even going so far as Region #12, before he was caught and executed. He could try somewhere else, somewhere more remote. Weren't their stories and half-rumours that Pyongyang still existed as a free city?

Still, there was no use relying on what-ifs and pipe dreams now. The walkway had already transported him past the cast iron gates that marked the boundary of the human resources station. As usual, there were no other saps around, and Adam felt the scanners of the surrounding Peace Units play over his ashen skin. The moment they detected any movement away from the designated entrance walkway, he would be hit with 160 joules of concentrated energy - not enough to kill, not even enough to maim, but certainly enough to paralyse him. This he knew from experience. The machines were clear with their intent; letting someone walk to the assessment desk was a privilege and not a right. They needed him conscious for the assessment itself though.

As the mechanised walkway stopped with a faint grinding of gears, Adam spilled on to the steel floor of the recieving hall. In the days before the war this had apparently been a great debating chamber, where heads of humanity discussed international relations. He tried to picture it, as described to him by his Care Unit way back when he was a child at the Home. Men and women with huge intellect and presence, debating and discussing all the topics that were important before. It didn't seem possible that this very room played host to these booming discussions. This cold and draughty room, now filled with the sort of silence you can only hear when a thousand electrical circuits faintly hum in unison.

He walked slowly through the hall, his footsteps echoing over the faint buzz of the tiny wall-mounted optical units as they swivelled their black gaze to follow his slow progression. He expected to feel more fear than this. Instead, he felt gripped by an inescapable sense of longing for a life that no longer existed. The human race had survived, of course, but it didn't seem to Adam that "humanity" had survived. Whatever that word meant, anyway.

In time, he came to the familiar reception desk at the end of the hall. The desk itself was metallic and oblong, and existed primarily to conceal and order the mass of wires that Adam knew lay beyond it. On top of the desk, squatting as it had always been, was 01-NodePL/6N, only one of many nodes connected to the de-facto prime intelligence of 01. It was known among the sap colony where Adam dwelt as "Napoleon", although anyone who originally understood the reference (if any of them ever did) had long since been removed. As Adam approached, Napoleon stirred into life, as inaccurate as that description is. Nothing outwardly changed - no lights flickered on, no mechanical whirring began. Instead, there was simply an indefinable feeling that this thing, this box, was alive.

"Adam Seven, Region #576". The voice was emotionless and tinny.

"This will be your third aptitude test, correct?"

Adam said nothing. He didn't need to - his input was clearly never required. On his first visit he made the mistake of asking questions and trying to interact with Napoleon. It didn't get him anywhere. Napoleon just continued describing the aptitude test, speaking over him.

On his second visit, he stood his ground and argued with Napoleon, demanding answers. The only answer he got was a rigid energy shock to the base of his spine. He didn't even try this time, he just stood and listened.

"You will be aware that all sapiens subjects are required to undertake aptitude tests to discover their worth in the region. Most subjects are assigned their role within the first three seconds of their first test. Those that cannot discover their role on this original assessment are granted two further tests. This is your third test. If you are found to be malfunctioning, you will be recycled."

Adam gulped at the word. Normally, the machines avoided euphemism, but it seemed to him that everyone else that ever got recycled never came back. How would it even be possible to recycle a sap like him? His eyes flicked to his left and right, looking for an exit he knew wasn't there.

A shimmer of heat ran through Adam's body, warming his extremities and freezing him to the spot. He felt, at least in some vague and nebulous way, the probing electronic fingers of 01 as they grasped his nerve endings. Searching incessantly for some clue as to his use in this personal dystopia, slithering around his brain stem.

Adam gasped. An intense cold had surrounded him, making his teeth chatter. He had never been this cold in all his life. He heard Napoleon's voice as if from a thousand yards away; "Please mark for recycling". Adam's eyes screwed shut as a dull thud began thumping at the back of his head. He felt his blood cease circulating, could feel his lungs and diaphragm ceasing to move. His synapses stopped firing and he saw in his mind's eye a soft light beginning to fill his vision. He stopped caring...

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Goddammit Jerry, that's the seventh one in as many weeks!". Captain Mike Henry's normally calm and lined features betrayed his frustration. He had turned a bright, almost cherry red, and spittle had settled on the edges of his greying mustache.

Jerry Zucker had been Applied Intelligent Systems' fastest rising new star, and was the youngest pHD on staff. Just last year he had been compared to Einstein, and at only 28 years old, he had already pioneered investigation in to so-called "true AI". He was known throughout the Euro Union as an intelligent, stoic, young man but his famous unflappable attitude was, right now, being tested to the limit.

"I...I don't understand it, Captain. They all pass the Turing test but as soon as we attempt to apply protocol, they just shut down."

"I don't want to hear it! If we don't crack this soon, the bloody Yanks will and we'll never have an empire again. I don't give a shit what it takes, you get these machines bloody working, and I want it done yesterday!".

Captain Henry slammed the lab door with enough force to topple the stacks of notes surrounding the assigned workspace. Jerry removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes as he leaned back in his office chair and listened to the sound of Captain Henry storming down the corridor, frightening lab assistants and shouting at nobody in particular.

Why didn't this work? It had been a nightmare getting AI to rise above the level of a fairly competent pig, but he thought he had solved that issue by incorporating stem cells from the cloning labs in conjunction with the circuitry. This had seemed to provide an incredible boost, heightening reasoning and deliberation skills in all test machines. At least initially, Project: Adam had seen incredible success. But after around two weeks, all of them had shut down and refused to be powered back on. Adams one through six had failed in the same way, and now even machine #7 had gone the same route. What the hell was missing? It was as if they all just gave up, betraying a listlessness that couldn't be mechanical in nature.

He needed another promotion, more recognition. He needed to keep his wife interested; God knows she was only with him for his fame and fortune. He needed another short cut.

Maybe it was because the stem cells had no experience comparable to existence in the real world. Maybe there needed to be some indefinable quality of "life" to make these damned machines work properly. Synapses fired inside Jerry's mind as he grabbed for a pencil and a notepad. He needed a real human intelligence, basic enough to be controlled but with enough experience to reason and make decisions. And for that he needed a real brain. He had some friends in the Britannic Gaol who could help him out - nobody would miss the psychos in there, and most were on death row anyway; it wasn't like anybody would miss just one prisoner. Anyway, didn't people die in mysterious circumstances in there anyway?

Jerry licked the tip of his pencil and carefully wrote "Project: Winston" at the top of the blank page...

Existentialism and Acrostics

I've been mucking around with acrostics lately. And also reading Camus. So, perhaps unfortunately, this has resulted in a few existential acrostic poems. Here is one of them; it needs work, I know.

Existence: an Acrostic

Elaborate thoughts of life and existence -
Xeroxed repetition of thoughts of love and sex
Imply a plan that may not exist, and I
Seem to spend too much time on these subjects
Though perhaps its not necessary to discredit
Entire philosophical tenets, to see
Nothing is planned, just chaos to begin,
Chaotic accidents, making nothing stoic.
Except it works. Perhaps thats all it means to "be"

Red Wine And Coke

So, I am putting up my first poem. On this Blog thing, I mean. Not the first one I ever wrote. God no, that one was awful. I mean, I'm not saying this one is amazing, but its better than that. I think. Anyway, its about how I went to a gig recently that a girl I quite like was going to, and I was all worried beforehand and everything. But then, the night was great, and the day after I wrote this. Its called Red Wine And Coke

Isn't it strange how worked up you can get,
Imagining the worst of what hasn't happened yet?
Maybe its too much to wonder, indeed,
Especially when quoting the pessimists creed -

"Don't bother. Give up. This isn't for you.
That way you wont be let down if you do
Try to act cooler than a North Pole Elf
And end up just making an arse of yourself"

I think the issue with pre-planned events,
Is much like those plans of mice and of men:
Something Scottish about things going wrong
But I honestly believed that my thesis was strong

No major plans, just a band with a show
With some friends who also wanted to go
But then I find out that she will be there
And I start panicking about how I don't like my hair,
Or my face or my my beard or the things I could wear

So fuck it, I think, just go and have fun
So shes cooler than you, and has a great bum
So you will probably trip up and fall on your face
Or manage to cause some kind of social disgrace

But then the night happened, and it went really well
It was not at all close to the Dante-esque circle of hell
I had envisaged earlier on, while watching the sky
(Though drinking did help, I'm not gonna lie)

Long story short, we had a great time
And when I offered an invite to come back to mine
To laugh and to kiss and to drink some red wine
(With some coke, which she learned of while visiting Spain)

And listen to music, and to smoke cigarettes, and I'm
So very glad that, despite the pessimist side of my mind
and despite the evening's very late time
And my ridiculously self-critical traitorous brain,

She seems to like me.

And I like her.

And I like red wine and coke.

I suppose the aim of this blog, which I haven't provided details of to anyone yet, is to provide some kind of outlet for my writing. I used to be pretty good at writing when I was in school, whether creative or factual.

I wrote an awesome paper once, comparing and contrasting Orwell's "1984" and Shelley's "Frankenstein", likening them to the modern encroach of CCTV and genetic engineering. I forget what conclusions were drawn from that, but I remember it enough to know that I was proud of that piece of work.

So, I suppose this would be a good place to put all the random short stories, poetry and other detritus of my often un-focused and relatively un-creative works. Therefore, my entirely anonymous reader, this is where this information will stored.