Wednesday, July 18, 2007

I’m going to Hell apparently, so I’ve been told. Told directly, not by someone shouting or screaming at me, but by someone who actually doesn’t want me to go there. So I’m headed there, not because I’m a bad person, but because I don’t believe. I don’t believe that Jesus is the son of God, and also part of God, along with the Holy-spirit, who is also part of God, as of course is the Father. Three of them, all distinct and at the same time all one God. You can see how difficult it’s going to be for me qualify for Heaven.

And I know I sound like I’m taking the piss, but I really don’t know how to start believing, which I sort of want to do if it means I have the opportunity to avoid being thrown into an eternal fire. I do try, and I think I sort of did believe a bit until I bothered to look a little closer at the whole religion thing. Then I found that I really couldn’t, which is sort of the opposite of what’s supposed to happen isn’t it?

God created the universe and the planet Earth, I can sort of handle that, maybe even consider attempting to believe it if it wasn’t for the following: He created human-beings, and now sits up there reading our thoughts, deciding upon whether we go to Heaven on Hell based on whether the brains He is wholly responsible for, decide that He and Jesus exist or not. This is totally fucking unfair!!!

The people who’s brain chemicals are capable of flying about and deciding that in fact, yes, it is indeed possible that Jesus was(or is?) the Messiah, have an incredible advantage over the unlucky ones like me, who, however I think about it, decide that it’s probably a load of old cock.

So I find myself in the position of not believing in God, being pissed off with God I don’t believe in, and facing the prospect of spending eternity burning in Hell. Fucking Wednesdays!

Sunday, July 15, 2007

I open the door and take a quick glance behind. Now this glance is only to check that there is no one directly behind me. It’s not some grand commitment to hold the door open for whoever might next come along. But whatever the intention of the glance, it can bring with it clumsy etiquette baggage.

The problem occurs when there is someone walking towards the door behind you at what is called middle-distance. That is they are stuck between two categories, these being, A) close enough so that it’s clear that I should hold the door open until they get there and B) being far enough away that I can move on and let the door close behind me without having committed any kind of social spunk.

Trouble is, it’s not always immediately obvious as to which category the person may be in. Often the second taken to ascertain this may have moved them from category B to the dirty cusp of category A. Uncertainty means I often just have to stand there and bare it. Now you may be asking ‘Why is it a problem to lose seven seconds of your life holding a door open?’ although your probably asking ‘What the fuck you going on about Matt?’, either way let me tell you. This assumes the person the door is being held open for is unknown to me, or at the very most a distant acquaintance. In this situation, holding open a door for someone for over five seconds puts undue social pressure on both parties.

One of the worst case scenarios is that I, as the holder of the door put unwelcome pressure on the person, who never asked for a door to be held open for them, to arrive quickly. The person may affect a clumsy mini-jog, as they feel it is only good manners to limit the time I am standing there. But this mini-jog will trigger a resentment in them, an angry flash in the eyes at me, the person who forced them to move quicker than they would want to. This makes me then feel worse than if I had slammed the door in their face or murdered their cat.

One option I call “Don’t Look Back”. I called it that because I‘m sad enough to have named options available to people when they open doors. Here you just stare resolutely forwards, your mission is to get through the door, all other considerations are brushed aside. This is military, this is focus. Open the door, don’t look back, go through the door. Yes you can hold out your arm behind you as you walk on giving the door an extra second of open if you sense that someone is very close behind you, but chances are that door may have closed in someone’s face. It doesn’t matter, you didn’t see that happen, and if you didn’t see it, it might as well not have happened.

The only real solution is to avoid walking through doors altogether. I know this sounds drastic and impractical but sometimes it seems in life there’s every need to be drastic and impractical. So until somebody comes up with a better idea, I’m not stepping out of bed.

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Life in a box of chocolates

Forrest Gump said "Life is like a box of chocolates; you never know what you gonna get." Why do I mention this now? Don't expect me to answer that, I have no idea. I can barely remember my name or what my name is. Anyway, I've never understood what it meant. I'd never really spent any amount of time pondering it, although I'd always meant to set a side a week for intensive contemplation on the subject. And that week has just come and gone.

I’m pretty sure that Gump was wrong. Things were different in 1994, but the way people handle boxes of chocolates remains unchanged. With a variety box, people are all too aware of what they're "gonna get". Hours of staring at the chocolate key sheet ensures the only surprise they experience while chewing on the selection they arrived at after hours of careful deliberation, is that an "Almond Surprise" delivers no specific 'Surprise'. Maybe the surprise was intended to be the presence of the almond, and the makers assumed that people would still be following Gump’s just pick out a random one philosophy. How wrong they were.

It’s also true to say that most people don't like coffee flavoured Quality Street. To be honest you can't blame them, they taste of Mondays. So what is the point in them? Why do Nestle still nestle them into their distinctive cardboard box of lovelies?

The almost unanimous consensus on the nastiness of the coffee flavoured Quality Street has created a small sub-group consisting of the people that made the use of the word 'almost' earlier in this sentence necessary. These people have never stood out and rarely had much to say that anyone’s wanted to listen too. They’ve lived in the shadows of others who have hobbies and a nice kitchen. They may never have had anyone giving them the briefest glance of impressed amazement in there long beiged-up life. And they see their chance. An opportunity to be served up a thin slice of attention pie. Maybe even have a surprised exclamation of "Do you?" directed at them from those that usually look through them and into the sky. So after the general sigh that accompanies a chocolate information bulletin stating that all that there's left are 'the coffee ones'; these people stand tall, open their body language to a never before seen glory, and say, "Actually…I quite like them!" It would be a cruel company to take this opportunity away from someone, and even Nestle aren’t that evil.

To be fair to Forrest Gump, he may be a little simple and not actually exist, but at least he'd just stick his hand in a box of Thorntons and shove in his mouth the first one he pulled out. Maybe his comment about life was based around his understanding that contemplating which chocolate to eat next, for extended periods of time, brought little more enjoyment than a random shove-the-hand-in selection. He wouldn't know that what he had in his grasp had an almond in it until he shoved it in his mouth and tasted almond. At which point he could quite rightly exclaim, "Fuck me - Almonds!"