Throughout life we’re all told to behave a certain way. Be it table manners, how to behave in the presence of others or how to get your hair cut. As we grow up these things become ingrained in us and we soldier forth finding a path that best suits the training that we’ve been given thus far. In an ideal world this means that those instilled with sound ethics, leadership skills and a nurtured intellect will find gainful employment in whatever path they’re most suited to. Be it army officer, artist, librarian or brain surgeon. Others who haven’t had the necessary “water and sunlight” needed to flourish will find their own path or fall from it. Some of the strongest leaders of men came from poverty or hardship and flourished due to finding their own sense of inner strength and the power to use it.
Then there’s the poor bastards who have a mixture of both sets.
As I grew up I was told specifically that fighting under ANY circumstances was wrong. Self defence or unprovoked assault, the result is still the same. A boy who nobody would like and who would be permanently marked as aggressive and unlikeable. Problem was that there wasn’t a Plan B, meaning when I was attacked I had nothing to fall back on except blaming myself for not being “nice” enough to whichever festering cunt had decided to steal my favourite toy or punch me in the face.
I was also told that arrogance and “knowing it all” were attitudes that would forever mark me as a trouble maker and someone who a manager or boss wouldn’t want to promote. I had to be humble, polite, subservient, obsequious, sycophantic, toadying and overall work hard and keep my mouth shut. This would make sure that those in power saw me as a guy they could rely on, who was hard working and trustworthy and above all DIDN’T HAVE AN OPINION. Result = No one wants a timid, frightened wretch in a managerial or director’s position. Highest you’ll ever go is supervisor if you don’t have the courage to speak your mind.
Certain music was out. Heavy Metal (or “heavymettle” as my mother used to pronounce it) was nasty, aggressive noise full of smelly, long haired layabouts who would mug old ladies for 10 pence and had no respect for other people’s desire to not look at smelly, long haired layabouts thrashing guitars to death. Classical music was however, the music of saints (along with Abba and the Grease soundtrack of course).
Horror films were “nasty, and violence for violence’s sake”. Dipshits the world over don’t seem to grasp the concept that violent movies are fuses that prevent people committing crimes. Watching latex/ CGI gore is a great way to unwind after a shitty day. The Romans had the amphitheatres. We have Friday the 13th and Saw.
Hair was important. Too long and you were a hippy/ layabout/ thug/ someone who’d never get promoted. Too short and we were into the territory of “looking like a bricklayer.” And as for dyed…forget about it.
Ripped jeans were the accessories of “a group you don’t’ belong to” and earrings for girls and queers (“Lance you haven’t started, you know…you don’t like…do you?”)
Certain people are to be admired. Money is a god after all. Those who are high in the world of finance are there to be respected. Never mind that they’re morally corrupt scum with character traits that in chavs would be called “predatory” or “brutal”. No, no. They have suits, fast cars and big houses. They have “made good”.
Morals are there to be absorbed as they’re needed. There is no moral compass worth dying for, or even suffering discomfort for. To make good, you have to be a vacuous shit bag with a strong sense of self preservation.
As I now sit here, long into adulthood, I feel the chains of all that shit finally unlock and crash to the floor. Let’s beef it up a bit. Like Spartacus escaping the ludus at the climax of Blood & Sand, I can finally feel that I’m free to make my own decisions without the nagging doubt of a metaphorical lanista’s whip on my back. However, I’m well aware that by the climax of War Of The Damned (which I saw last night. It’s awesome but it still pisses me off), Spartacus is dead and many of his followers crucified.
So let’s get real now that I can rub my wrists and finally express myself.
1). I’m not really a fighter. I’ve always had a problem with violence from the age of 4 and only recently have I overcome this. However it’s now brilliant to do Krav Maga and find ways to disengage from fighting, without feeling the need to stand my ground and get a kicking, just to prove I’m not a fairy cake eating poofter who runs away in tears at the sight of a clenched fist.
2). I have absolutely no problem with the UK age of consent being 16 and would quite happily shag a girl on her 16th birthday.
3). I am quite at peace with my “dark fantasies” about what I’d like to do to: some of my old teachers; school bullies; former bosses. This usually involves torture and humiliating death. I am 99% certain I couldn’t actually do this to them, but hey! A repressed soul needs an outlet for its desires.
4). I like having tattoos and will probably get loads more done at some point. The advice “what about when you’re 60 and it’s down by your knees” is fairly surreal as I don’t have tattoos on my chest and moobs don’t usually sag that far anyway.
5). Telling rude, horrible cunts to fuck off is immensely satisfying and bags more fun than “taking the moral high ground”. Don’t want to be insulted, don’t be a rude twat.
6). Why is it that “cunt” sends certain people and mainly women, into paroxysms of spluttering indignation? Is it the sound of the word that’s ugly. Why not “fuck” or “bollocks”? Just makes me all the more determined to say it to be honest.
7). While “Pay It Forward” (as a philosophy not the film) is awesome, I draw the line at letting some homeless bum sleep on my couch. There’s a certain hygiene issue here. Homeless people tend to stink, on account of the fact that they’re homeless. Be realistic about this shit for Christ’s sake.
8). I don’t feel guilty about threatening to put the boyfriend who came after me (did you see what I did there?) in hospital. It’s not like I did it and wouldn’t have done it unless you’d been stupid enough to put us in a room together. As I loved you and was heartbroken when we split up, do you seriously think I want to meet the guy who now puts his penis in your vagina? Get a grip.
9). No I genuinely don’t give a fuck about the company reputation. I do this job to pay the rent and buy food. Your poxy job is a means to an end. No more.
10). Judge Dredd, Gene Hunt, Daryl Dixon and The Punisher are cool because they’re badasses who hurt bad people. I know they’re fictional and I aspire to be them over Bond any day. Why? Well why don’t you tell me what’ so fucking special about Christian Grey? Actually don’t bother I know why. It’s because it’s everything I’ve just said but you’re being more covert about it.