Fearing the Soup Nazi

I am beginning to realise that with each passing year the odds are lengthening on me discovering a cure for cancer, treating the nation to a number one pop ballad or even a fantastic new recipe for waffles.  Perhaps ‘adulthood’ in part is the acceptance and the identification of the parameters of our lives, to not see them as constraints but to at least recognise them.  None of this prepared me for when my life became a scene from the American television series, Seinfeld.  I innocently visited the local tip to get rid of the branches from last Christmas’ tree.  I’d entertained the idea of letting the tree wither for a spell and then using it our wood burning stove. After 4 months spent in a refuse sack in the garage they remained in peak condition and I feared introducing it to the wood burner would have been like the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark – a lot of bright light and rapidly escalating regret.  Whilst not a feared of whimsy it is rare for me to entertain ornaments, mascots and the like.  One such exception is the small toy marmot that sits before me on my car’s dashboard. It stares ahead, permanently vigilant of my future journey, an alpine figurehead.  On arriving at the tip I was greeted warmly by a member of staff.  They’re a convivial bunch but this was friendly indeed.  “I have something for you” she said.  She began searching through the seemingly endless array of pockets in her luminous orange overall until she unearthed a small soft toy dinosaur.  “There”, she said, “a friend for that guy in your car”.  A friend. For the marmot. From the tip.  An exemplar of politeness and also that middle class trait of “not causing a fuss” I graciously accepted the dinosaur and gamely sat it on the dashboard next to the marmot. So there it was, sitting proudly, a dinosaur. From the tip.  A generous gift, there was no uncertainty about that and one from someone eponymously described as a “cracking bird”.  I was struggling to separate it from its environment, which to put it bluntly was a tip.  What if the dinosaur was tainted with something? Cholera. Fleas. Rabid dogs?  Worse still, was I now obliged to have the dinosaur on my dashboard for every visit to the tip risking being sent away in disgrace for being a deceitful receiver of dinosaurs, my boot full of tree cuttings and empty plastic bottles, my soul full of shame.  And if this was causing me this level of consternation how was I supposed to contribute at work, society or even put my shoes on the right feet.

It's difficult to gauge the pitch of these digests. You're not physically separated from reality, just conceptually. I do need to congratulate you on your prowess at dancing on bars and I’m sure your sea faring skills are improving at a similar pace. On the off chance that your WiFi raiding is mostly hodor based then I'll endeavour to share a flavour of "current events"...

First, as always sport.  Fulham's relegation, like the ascension of Man City and pretty much the whole order of the Premier league table was more a tedious procession rather than a rollercoaster of sporting drama. Liverpool's 3-3 draw at Crystal Palace in the final week which effectively handed the trophy to City highlighted the trope that you need to defend as well as attack. Man City's championship reinforced that being the richest club allows you to buy the best players and win. Whither sport?  Currently we reside in a sporting graveyard. The play offs and Champions League finals offer at best modest succour to the masses' morphine we know as football. The world cup remains far, far away.  Not enough time for the Brazilians to actually finish building the stadiums mind.  A visit to BBC's sport pages details school sports days, formula one and something called tennis. In desperation I have resorted to talking to my family.

Amidst the tales of faffatroning and teenage reclusion there have been episodes involving close contact with puffins, the formal start of BBQ season, guitar glasnost, renewed campaigning for spaniels, the taming of gardens, procrastination over decorating, cycling (of course), lives lost to work, GCSE options, expeditions in the dales and lamenting largess.

Speaking of the reconciliation of unachievable objectives against inarticulate disinterest it's the local and European elections this week.  It would be unfair to represent rural constituencies as homes to nimbyism, subsurface racism and a trenchant I'm alright Jack ethos but yes the Conservatives lead locally by some margin.  Meanwhile in Europe, but of course I mean nationally the debate has been derailed once more by the likes of UKIP who with bitter irony appear to be following the National Socialist's playbook from 1930's Germany. Of course with the representation of such polarising views this has created the perfect arena for a debate on our country's relationship with Europe. Strangely there is next to none. I may have misheard but Labour's stance appears to be that whilst they regret the need to burn Romanians in pyres at the border they were committed to doing it with locally sourced biodiesel.  The economy is on an upturn apparently. Maybe in your old lair. The age of boarded shop windows and pound shop parades continues elsewhere. As news of the latest stock market corporate takeover drifts through the middle order of the news I feel obliged to steal from Lewis Black and say "someone's getting rich but it isn't fucking you".

Meanwhile in popular culture giant lizards and superheroes dominate at the cinema, offering limited counterpoint to the assertion that we’re dumbing down.  On a note of minor triumph I recently finished a book detailing the major advancements in Quantum Mechanics over the last century.  In parts baffling but mostly inspiringly brilliant I have to confess I read it at a pace that in turn would challenge people’s conception of time and the infinite.  Much like your good self in awaiting the next installment of this blog.