The hat made me do it.

Well, I guess I've always wondered how a restaurant critic would view his life. I mean, say, compared to a doctor or a conservationist, or a teacher; how can one go on from day to day pretending your life is in any way meaningful, when your job is to nitpick food preparation and presentation, in the full knowledge that half the world would be grateful for just SOMETHING to eat, anything. Yet here he is complaining that his fois gras was a little too mealy, or the mix of fresh ingredients in his compote au bollocks had slightly too much cardamom. Perhaps his Chablis was slightly too acidic. If that was me I don't think I'd wait for the revolution. I'd be hanging around on the streets of Hackney at 3am insulting the crack dealers, just to get it over with quickly. In many ways my life is pretty meaningless at the moment, but at least I do nothing at all during the day. Gill's job renders his life even more meaningless than mine: to put that much time and effort into something so steeped in hubris, so detached from reality... How does he do it and have a heart and a healthy moral compass?

Today we have our answer. He has no heart. He has no moral compass. He proudly writes about shooting a baboon, Yeah, why not? To shoot a baboon or not to shoot a baboon? Well, that's a discussion I'll leave to others. Incidentally, he thought it was because he was wearing a hunter's hat that he wanted to do it. What strikes me really though, is not his attempt to shift the blame to the milliner, but really, how far divorced from reality do you have to be to think that writing about it in your restaurant review column is a good idea? Writing, and writing proudly. He would have run it past his moral compass, but, of course, not having one he fell back on the old "Gilly knows best" routine. Why didn't he blow up a few aid trucks whilst he was at it and blame it on high jinks? Maybe order the most expensive food he could find in Africa, walk past all the slums and then pour it into the sea, all because a fuzzy wuzzy didn't show him due deference? Then he could tell us all about it in his column. Come on Gilly, that would be BRILLIANT.

Wanting

I don't really want much. You know, on a day to day basis. In the same way that whilst many may idly dream about Ferraris, private jets, being rock stars, living in mansions, we don't get frustrated and angry that we can't have these things. We have our own level of 'reasonableness'; the point (working downwards) where things stop becoming idle fantasies and we treat them more as realistic goals.  A career?  Marriage?  Children?  I just feel that my own level is so low at the moment, there is nothing I want.

I wrote that first paragraph this afternoon, then, lost for ways to articulate what I was feeling, drifted off to procrastinate elsewhere. It's now 10pm and I've just finished watching "The Real Cabaret" on BBC4. It featured the actor Alan Cumming visiting Berlin to see what survives today of the rebellious decadent spirit of Weimar era cabaret. In the programme he interviewed some of the surviving cabaret artists about their experiences, many of them Jews who had survived the camps. One recalls how the Nazis got them to make a propaganda film about life in the camps to show to the Red Cross; music, smiling, laughing and dancing. Alan Cumming asked the man how he felt about, in so many ways, playing along for the Nazis. He replied that life was so terrible, the future so bleak that you just lived for the moment; the opportunity to play and hear music was something that just couldn't be passed up, for there may well be no tomorrow.

I felt instantly that I knew how he had been feeling at that time, that I understood. This turning off of hope, aspiration and ambition; for him because of the reality that it may well be his last day on Earth, for me because I just can't see myself succeeding at anything ever; I feel incapable of anything but the simplest of tasks, and often even they are beyond me. I simply don't try to push myself, I feel like right now I can't handle the pain of any more disappointment, so the way to cope is to set aside my emotions, my hope and go from day to day feeling neither sadness nor joy, no desire, until I feel strong enough to test my resolve and abilities once more.

Cobwebs

Haven't posted anything here for so long; this I think is a metaphor for my life. I resist doing stuff until I'm 100% convinced it's exactly what I want to do, which invariably means doing 4/5ths of 3/8ths of fuck all. On the occasions when I damn the torpedoes of indecision and just write/do stuff I generally find it rather satisfying. Quickly followed by 'you should do that more often' kind of thoughts.

So, my intention was to come here and merely blow away the cobwebs and show my blog some love, but then I go and start being all thoughtful and shit. Fuck this, I'm off to do nothing again.