Fighting Fair

I should preface this with the fact that I have never been in a fight in my life. I've wrestled with friends, family, fashion choices, the decision to keep my no shave november beard (I think I might, sorry Granny), but none of that has turned into a fully fledged fight.

I talk. I talk and talk and I say the right thing to avoid a fight. It's not cowardice. Not by any stretch. In the back of my mind I am actually scared of hurting people. Okay, so, I'm not massively physically imposing, but I think I could hold my own long enough to leave an actual physical impression on the guy I'm hypothetically fighting against. And there are all these horror stories about some guy punching another guy once and that guy falling down, cracking his head and dying.
How would I even begin to go about dealing with that?

So as I said I talk. I've talked my way out of hundreds of fights. And it's not that I get into these situations myself. On the contrary. People and I get on very well usually. But sometimes some of my friends display their less than admirable qualities and regress to their baser natures of the neanderthal and have to fight someone to present their alpha male status to the world.

This always confused me. I have found that on the burger of my life, I wasn't given any Machismo. And thats okay. It makes me gassy anyway.

There are few times I get riled up enough that I want to hit someone and they only occur when a) someone starts talking crap or is disrespectful about a friend of mine or a family member or b) whenever one of my friends is in a fight. I always miss it when they get into fights. It will have been a night I haven't gone out with them or something like that but I get angry knowing that someone took a swing at them.

There was a time recently, I was outside a club and a friend of mine got started on by some guy. I stepped in between them and told the guy to back down. This guy was having none of it, nostrils flaring, swear words flying, insightful questions thrown about enquiring about the nature of my participation and whether or not I suffered from the Freudian disorder known as an Oedipus Complex (look it up, you'll get the joke).

His friends on the other hand were perfectly reasonable and told me he was drunk and whatever. I was perfectly polite to them because they were so to me. I hadn't moved from in front of this angry fellow as I told his friends I completely understood and that I had friends who were exactly the same.

I tend to dwell on potentially violent events like this and wonder what I would do. I wouldn't hit him first. I just don't have that in me. I suppose I feel I need so kind of tangible, personal justification to hit a guy. I wouldn't fight fair either. I would hurt him in any possible way until he fell down, but I absolutely draw the line at kicking a guy when he's down. If he went down I would give him the option of staying down. If he got back up and kept going, I would keep going, and so on.

There's really no such thing as fighting fair. There are winners and losers in a fight. There are also no good guys in these random ass fight. It's simply two people who can't keep themselves in check and on some level that seems to offend me.

On the subject of fighting, at the beginning of the year I went to the introductory class for boxing because it's supposed to be really good for fitness and as well as that it would teach me the basics about fighting.

As it turns out fighting is really tiring. Like, I mean, Who would have ever known it could be so draining. It was awful. But my testosterone loved it. Eventually I actually came to enjoy myself (the instructor said I was really good, just saying) until the instructor called us all round and said

For all the women around here, and some of the guys, a broken nose is almost a given in boxing

And I haven't went back since. 

People Don't Change

Well isn't that a dirty rotten lie? People constantly change based on their environment, present company, hell even their diet changes people. People change every day to accommodate new information, beliefs, television advertisements and those warning labels on the sides of washing up liquid.

But on a grander scale, do they really change? Do they change their base nature? Is this change simply growth?

I like to think change is not only possible, but probable and occurs every few years. Here's a quick run through of my personal timeline.

Born shy, my mother likes to tell the story of how when I was 2 or 3 (or whatever the appropriate age for sentences is) I asked a friend of hers who was visiting at the time "are you not going home yet?" Even at this young age, I was not a social creature.

Fast forward to primary school. I was still not crazy sociable. I got along with everyone at least a bit, I had some close friends, but primary school was surprisingly challenging. It was, more than anything, a seven year long popularity contest where I was never the winner, but never the loser. For a lot of it I was stuck very much in the middle, the physical manifestation of an "Average Joe". Average James as it were. Worst super hero ever. "Quick come help us Average James! There's a fire!" I would stand at average height and run to the scene at the average running speed of 8 mph and inform everyone that the fire brigade would be here soon.

That quickly became the most boring hero ever...

But yeah primary school was your typical be-friends-with-the-cool-kids fiasco. And I remained the overweight, introverted kid who's talents lay with a pen and paper rather than with, say, physical exertion of any kind.

I stayed that way until the end of my 4th year at secondary school. That year, the french classes were offered the chance to go on a trip to France for a week. Officially it was to help us absorb French culture and test our french speech. Really it was a trip to Disney Land. Who could turn that down? You look me in the screen and tell me you would turn that down. I dare you! I'll control alt delete and end task your ass.

Anyhoo, on this trip I began to realise that people outside my comfortable group of friends and outside of the library weren't as scary or as crappy as I had thought. Other people were actually kind of cool. There was a swimming pool at the hotel we were staying at and I, having done swimming lessons for many years when I was younger, wanted to give it a go. I had my old trunks I hadn't worn in a few years and it never even occurred to me that they wouldn't fit. In retrospect it wasn't my brightest move. Oh well. But I did one length in this pool and thought to myself "swimming didn't used to be this hard did it?"

So when I got home I took up swimming again. Every Friday after school I would toddle on down to my local leisure centre and swim as much as I could. This was the first time I'd decided to physically change something about myself. Before then I just didn't care how I looked. I was comfortable with my permanent bed head that made my sisters cringe, I was comfortable wearing the same old jeans and t shirt that, again, displeased my eldest sister who craved variety in my fashion choices, and I just didn't care that I was wearing trainers with jeans just because it was comfy. I'm a function over fashion kind of guy. Still am, and all of those things I still do, except the hair, it just stopped going that way. So yeah first physical change.

Soon after that I made my first personality change. And it wasn't a personality change to fit in with a group of people who I thought were "cool", it was just something I wanted. I wouldn't go as far as to say I hated the kind of person I was, but I was by no means happy with it. This is the part I'm the most silently proud of. When I simply decided to become confident. People can and do change. All it takes is the will. And it didn't hurt that I lost a metric crap-tonne of weight. I decided to be confident and make new friends and that's exactly what happened. It's what I consider to be my greatest achievement, proving to myself that I can literally be whatever I want.

Secondary school contained the biggest changes for me sure, but even at University now I'm fine tuning things. I'm learning to be less passive, as in if something bugs me I don't just shake it off, I think hard about whether than actually bothers me and if, later, I'll regret having not said anything. I won't sit there and be yelled at anymore. If someone yells I will yell right back and then some.
And I'm swimming so much more. I got a membership for the year so I can just walk in whenever I want.

So the moral of the story is, don't let pessimists (like me) and cynics (like me) tell you people don't change. Don't let them shake their head and say "even if they do, they don't change much". I am a completely different person from even 5 years ago. God that wasn't that long ago. But there you go. Change is capable in the greatest and smallest of ways.

You just gotta want it.


Well that one got serious didn't it?

Difficulty Level - Authority

It's occurred to me recently that I have a problem with authority. However given past evidence, I probably should have realised it sooner. I mean any job I've had I've resented whenever my employer got serious and told me to do things, rather than ask me. If they were to ask me to do something then I would have no problem whatsoever doing it. But as soon as they told me outright to go do this or that, the next hour or 2 would be spent silently cursing them and grinding my teeth.

Let me tell you about A-Level history. A-Level History was taught to me by a man named Colm Morgan, the bane of my existence and reason for my raging inferno of hatred that now runs through my veins instead of blood. I got along famously with my other teachers. My English Literature teacher was crazy easy to chat to, my Business Studies teacher thought I was hilarious, but Morgan was everything they weren't.

He was abrasive; he was discriminative; he was repetitive and above all he was a self-righteous bastard. The mans favourite phrase was "pull your finger out" because he was the most eloquent man in the world. He only got along with you if you were a) athletically inclined (and even then it had to be Gaelic or hurling) or b) really really good at history.

I was, as it happens, neither of those things. Here's a list of things I was in his class: 1. Sarcastic 2. Able to see his massive gaps in knowledge when it came to the English language 3. Sat next to someone who was infinitely better at the subject than I was 4. Late to his Thursday morning classes because I kept having to wait for the coffee machine to heat up.

I couldn't start my day without 2 shots of espresso. I just couldn't function in any way. So whenever Thursday rolled around I would walk to class sipping at too much caffeine and walk into his classroom, mutter "sorry I'm late" and sit down. "Why were you late?" he would ask in his virtually indecipherable coalisland growl. To which I would casually reply "I had to get my coffee, sir". For some reason he never seemed to think of this as a viable reason for being late.

No it seemed he and I were never destined to get along. There were few others who shared my opinion of him though. Most of my friends were sporty and viewed Colm as some sort of God in trousers that were far to tight, a shirt that was vaguely translucent and, more often than not, shoes that didn't match. We didn't get on to the extent that whenever he even vaguely displeased me, I would steal from him.

Yup

At the back of his room there were all sorts of goodies. There were file pads and poly pockets and such but the cream of the crop was stacks upon stacks of bottles of water. That year the school had been selling this over priced water and giving the money to charity. Eventually Morgan stopped selling it and the water just lay there, slowly beginning to stagnate. And so, when I felt displeased with him (or thirsty) I would walk into his room when no one was around and take a bottle or two, sometimes a file pad for when I was running low, a spare pen if it was handy.

I should let you know that this was wildly out of character for me. Sure I'll pick up discarded things, lost pens, pennies on the ground, anything free. But I wasn't one to steal. The closest I came to stealing anything in my life was when I was 8 years old and I took a penny chew from a pick-and-mix stand. Morgan just inspired such massive amounts of loathing that I had to take things that were his and make them mine.

I will never in my life regret those actions. He was the first person to tell me I had an attitude problem. I didn't have an attitude problem. I just hated him. He had to pay.

I almost ended this post on that last sentence. But then I realised it sounded vaguely murdery and blood vengeancey, so I'll end it with an evaluation of myself.

Okay, yes, I have a problem with authority. I am a cynical, sarcastic, judgemental ass hole. But I'm also a pleasant guy, good conversation, mildly funny if the stars align and Saturn's moon in closest to the sun and a lamb is sacrificed to the great god Ra on the summer Solstice. I'm quick to help people, I can turn a clever phrase now and again.

It's just Colm Fucking Morgan...

Oh Stop, You're Making Me Blush!

I can't take a compliment.

Or a present.

Or a kind gesture.

I don't know what it is but for as long as I can remember I have never wanted to accept something that I didn't think I could justify receiving. And it's not as if this was some deep seated psychological issue stemming from a poor upbringing. I had a very pleasant upbringing actually.
And in actual fact it's usually my dad trying to give me stuff that I feel I can't accept. Every so often Jim would hand me a tenner and say it was for petrol for the car (which he had filled the day before) or for cutting the grass (a chore that I did for free) or even because I was young and needed money (I've never in my life been flat broke. I'm very good at saving).

Birthdays and Christmas are an awkward time for me. I mean I love the events and I love having stuff that people give me and people having things that I give them. But the whole process of giving and receiving that old yuletide tradition makes me squirm so violently I rip a whole in the space time continuum and see the untold trillions of other James's in parallel universes who all coincidentally hate the giving and receiving thing.

Now the Multiverse Theory stipulates that there must be a version of me out there that actually revels in the process. But I looked. He doesn't exist.

I love being a universal anomaly. It gives me a warm fuzzy feeling in my belly.

Honestly, my ideal situation is where we lay presents down in an empty room, like a saucer of milk for a stray cat, and open the presents in solitude so we can have our true reactions and practise the ones that make the gift giver feel the best. Okay, yes, that sounds really weird and a touch socially awkward but hey, I'M weird and a touch socially awkward. So it's all good.

As for the compliments thing I'll tell you this. Whenever I get bored or I get a really good idea I start to write a book. I've never finished one and the passion fades quickly but I've written the starting two chapters to 3 different books, only two of which I would ever consider carrying on. So eventually I let some of my friends read these chapters and I got a really good response. Sure, they could have been faking it to protect my feelings and that was good of them. But when they came to me and told me they thought it was really good, I got all shy and looked at the floor and shrugged saying "awwwww it's okay I suppose".

Then I would proceed to point out all that was shit in it. Because no one criticises my works quite like myself.

One day I'd really like to finish those books, even if I just convert them into short stories. Hell maybe someday I'll put them up here. But that's for another day.

The More Things Change

You know how this goes. I'm bored, I should be doing something else and yet some how I find myself with too much time on my hands.

Let's do this!

So let me tell you about the the first few months of university life. I had a tabula rasa, the chance to trick brand new people into believing that I was cool, funny and generally a joy to be around. Boy did I mess that one up.

I'll back up and give you some context. On the first day, the parents were there for a few hours, helping to unpack and whatnot, staving off the moment where they would have to leave their child in a foreign country with nothing but a bank card and a foot that he can fit in his mouth at any given time.

I went to the kitchen, the place various sources informed me that "all the best craic is had". Moving on pure faith I went in and introduced myself, all the while hoping the dark stain on my crotch was spreading slowly enough that no one noticed. Sitting there for around an hour, I realised that this was not my kitchen. I scooped my food from the incorrect fridge and ran to the other kitchen.

Now here's the funny thing. I had spent a year thinking of what to say to people. An entire year to invent the perfect set of words that would wow all of my would-be friends and show to them that this guy that had just walked in the door was going to be the most interesting and funny guy they would ever meet.

This all went down the toilet when I ran into the appropriate kitchen with an armful of assorted Tesco's own brand food items and a stupid grin on my face accompanied by the words "I've just spent the last hour in the wrong kitchen". I got a laugh and apparently tricked one of them into thinking I was cool, confident and an altogether carefree person.

So I at least got the tricking part down.

I also started swimming a lot more than I used to and so I accidentally led people to believe I was sporty. Who would have thought? I also became less uptight about my sleep. I mean I still have to have it at least once a night, but there are so many noises here that I just got used to it. Outside my window, there is a tree. Not just any tree. This tree was evidently planted by Lucifer, lord asshole of the damned because every, and I mean EVERY morning that tree comes alive with the unholy noise of a million crows cawing as one. Never before had I heard such a cacophonous din that made me so angry at a deep psychological level that I can no longer look at a dark feathered bird without clenching my fists.

Does that make me racist?

It's not just the crows. The radiator, for reasons I can't understand, makes a thunking noise at 6 am every morning. I discovered the secret to my blessed silence was to kick it. Hard. The clunk becomes a click. The click gets kicked. The click goes away...for a time. It always returns. But what the hell could be making that noise? Good God!

And then there's the fire alarms. This week there have been 6 fire alarms, most of them in the middle of the night or really early morning. Some funny funny bastards have been pulling the alarms with stupid regularity. Because, as we all know, pulling fire alarms is the funniest thing a person of low intelligence can do. In fact I'd go as far as to say it's ranked up there on the hilarity scale with drowning puppies and having to work for a living.

But I'm not bitter about it.

But as the title of this post suggests, there's a lot that has not changed. I still lift pennies whenever and wherever possible. If people have food they are throwing away because they don't think they'll eat it by the sell by date, you KNOW that I want in on that action. So I'm still a scrounger.

During secondary school at the start of every year I thought to myself "I'm going to really buckle down this year and work right from the get go". This was no different when I started uni 2 months ago. But if you look at my note books you can see just how quickly my notes move from "very detailed" to "quite detailed" to "bare bones" to "notes are gay". Classic work ethic for me.

I adapted to the new diet fairly well. I mean I could always make breakfast and lunch. The secrets of dinner time regularly confused and angered me. However pasta is so easy to make and its makes me feel like some sort of culinary super hero whenever I have the ingenuity to put bits of cooked sausage or bacon into it. My diet will always have pig. I can't always afford cow, but pig is easy to come by, thank the gods.

And on that note I think it's time for me to go and do this work I've been avoiding for quite some time. Wish me luck, or a swift and painless death. Or if you're feeling really generous, a non-fatal excuse as to why I don't have to do work.

The real world is going to kick the crap out of me and leave me a bloodied mess on the floor.