Dear Octopus,
I think I have dementia. A bold, unnecessary and highly-exaggerated statement, obviously, but indicative of how seriously I'm taking the catalogue of errors that today has so far been. Firstly I mislaid both mine and Clare's laptops. Tried to fix Polly's screen resolution (to a manly / vain rendition of 'I know how to do it, don't bother reading the instructions....I am the instructions.....plus I don't come in Japanese') but quickly broke it, irreversibly. Arranged a meeting for the wrong time and date. Invited Jeremy, who is on holiday. As penance for all of these misdemeanours - trivial as isolated incidents but worrying when assembled into one terrifying brain-mulch-resembling whole - I've removed myself to the friendship bench for some much-needed quiet time.
The Friendship Bench
A Short History
Simon's son Harry briefly attended a primary school in Hammersmith which used the aforementioned 'furniture of amity' as a means of promoting social harmony. The concept was that if a dejected, mistreated, lonely young scholar was feeling particularly friendless and alone, they could retire to a particular corner of the playground and sit on the bench. There they might meet other dejected, mistreated lonely young scholars with whom they could share common ground (a love of science fiction was predominant.....perhaps unsurprisingly) and as such make some friends. Match.com for the common nine-year old, essentially. Needless to say it was the brainchild of a particularly militant troupe of Guardian-reading / champagne-socialist housewives, whose ideas on educational best-practice were at best deluded and at worst child abuse.
It may then be cruel of this world-weary Squid to comment; but to this uninformed mind the friendship bench - quite literally - seems like the worst idea in the history of everything. Encouraging a child to visit is the equivalent of forcibly gluing a plastic sign over his or her face saying:
HI. YOU DON'T KNOW ME BUT
I'M A PERENNIAL FUCKING LOSER.
NEVER
EVER
EVER
STOP BULLYING ME.
.....and as little as the principles of champagne socialism, appeal to me, I don't think anyone wants that.
Needless to say, the communal noodle bench over by our library has now been labelled the friendship bench. And today I am its only resident. Read into that what you will.
Catfish told me last night that she took out a credit card solely because it came with a free popcorn-maker, and she fancied 'a salty snack.' When her father confiscated said kitchen apparatus 'for his own personal use' she used the new credit card to buy another one. Testament primarily to her latent stupidity (and the poor level of conversation that constituted the evening), but also to the fact that despite all our cynicism, all our pseudo-intellectual / pop-psychology arrogance, advertising works. Big time.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Thursday, 31 March 2011
Tuesday, 29 March 2011
Tough Weekend In The Violet Deep
Dear Octopus,
So.....the Mountain Goat left for Manila at the weekend. A whole year without him awaits.
It's fine, obviously. I don't care. I never liked him anyway, let alone respected him. In fact my week so far has been mostly occupied with gleefully imagining him and the Chipmunk failing to adjust to their monstrously opulent palatial residence in those far-flung, exotic climes: the Goat hotly lambasting the house boy for mishandling his nine iron while the Chipmunk admires the alien upholstery and fuses the labouring ceiling fan.....imperial overlords sweating in linen suits sipping imported Pimm's on the veranda......tennis at sunset......mosquito nets draped over candlelit beds. It's like something out of a Kipling short story.
(.....and reminds me of the days Party Squid and I spent in Borneo, traipsing the jungles along the Kiulu River then straining to hear the local band playing Careless Whisper over the chirping of an assembled militia of crickets and tree frogs out in the airless night. Rest assured that those last dying embers of colonialism are still burning, and I'm sure the Chipmunk and the Goat will fan them a little longer. Subject of course to the fan not being fused.)
All this tribulation raises a wider issue I suppose: how strange it is to be separated from those that you love. First the Cub departed for Chicago, now the Goat and Chipmunk to Manila. Even Party and Inky Squids are away roaming those long-forgotten fields of the West Country (wheat) or Caribbean (cane sugar). Everyone I've ever known is seemingly intent on relocating to the most distant corners of creation, to speculate digitally on the collapsing flan of my London-based existence and garner a healthy tan.
It makes me wonder who will be left in a year-or-two's time.
The Bear will probably be kite-surfing back in Antigua. The Toad dead (cause: 'by misadventure'). The Dragon disappeared a while ago. Clare will have returned to Australia, pursued by a chain of toxic debt and the violent 'good riddance' of Interpol / Her Majesty's Revenue & Customs. Honksy and Fobbs elsewhere. And of course you're long gone. The only remnants of the Summer Of Love will just be Pongo and I.....freezing our knackers off in some sooty Dickensian bedsit, eating dry-packed noodles and watching Karate Kid Part III for the 856,000th time. A grim future.
If you speak to the Goat before I do, tell him I hope they're settling in to the new world, and that everything is making sense. Tell him that despite my constant denials he knows he's my best pal, and I'm looking forward to hearing soon how it's (really) going. Things aren't so dim or dire as these grey letters allude to - obviously - so conclude with the safe and inviolable truth that there is no cause for concern from our nation's capital.
Tell him I miss him, if you must.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
So.....the Mountain Goat left for Manila at the weekend. A whole year without him awaits.
It's fine, obviously. I don't care. I never liked him anyway, let alone respected him. In fact my week so far has been mostly occupied with gleefully imagining him and the Chipmunk failing to adjust to their monstrously opulent palatial residence in those far-flung, exotic climes: the Goat hotly lambasting the house boy for mishandling his nine iron while the Chipmunk admires the alien upholstery and fuses the labouring ceiling fan.....imperial overlords sweating in linen suits sipping imported Pimm's on the veranda......tennis at sunset......mosquito nets draped over candlelit beds. It's like something out of a Kipling short story.
(.....and reminds me of the days Party Squid and I spent in Borneo, traipsing the jungles along the Kiulu River then straining to hear the local band playing Careless Whisper over the chirping of an assembled militia of crickets and tree frogs out in the airless night. Rest assured that those last dying embers of colonialism are still burning, and I'm sure the Chipmunk and the Goat will fan them a little longer. Subject of course to the fan not being fused.)
All this tribulation raises a wider issue I suppose: how strange it is to be separated from those that you love. First the Cub departed for Chicago, now the Goat and Chipmunk to Manila. Even Party and Inky Squids are away roaming those long-forgotten fields of the West Country (wheat) or Caribbean (cane sugar). Everyone I've ever known is seemingly intent on relocating to the most distant corners of creation, to speculate digitally on the collapsing flan of my London-based existence and garner a healthy tan.
It makes me wonder who will be left in a year-or-two's time.
The Bear will probably be kite-surfing back in Antigua. The Toad dead (cause: 'by misadventure'). The Dragon disappeared a while ago. Clare will have returned to Australia, pursued by a chain of toxic debt and the violent 'good riddance' of Interpol / Her Majesty's Revenue & Customs. Honksy and Fobbs elsewhere. And of course you're long gone. The only remnants of the Summer Of Love will just be Pongo and I.....freezing our knackers off in some sooty Dickensian bedsit, eating dry-packed noodles and watching Karate Kid Part III for the 856,000th time. A grim future.
If you speak to the Goat before I do, tell him I hope they're settling in to the new world, and that everything is making sense. Tell him that despite my constant denials he knows he's my best pal, and I'm looking forward to hearing soon how it's (really) going. Things aren't so dim or dire as these grey letters allude to - obviously - so conclude with the safe and inviolable truth that there is no cause for concern from our nation's capital.
Tell him I miss him, if you must.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Sunday, 27 March 2011
If This Is The War Of the Worlds
Dear Octopus,
When we were boys our mother used to say to us: ‘there’s a whole world full of awful things one can do to turn the tide in this life. It’s bad to steal, or to lie, or to be a coward in the face of trouble. It’s very bad to hate other people, and it’s very, very bad to hate me. But the worst thing you can do is hate each other. You are brothers, and you must always be brothers. No matter what.’
Everyone knows that boys fight and fuck around, with that headstrong steel of misappropriated youth. The vanity and pride flow like crimson blood from cut lips or loosened milk teeth. Sometimes we’d fight, as brothers do, and sometimes even we'd fight until she cried. But a little boy seeing his mother cry - on his account no less - is an awful thing. One time I said to her ‘mamma I’m ssssorry,’ (lisping due to a fat lip) and she turned to me and said very calmly, ‘don’t lie to me. I taught you not lie.’
I said, ‘I’m not lying mamma.’
I think that's important. Sometimes people say sorry without even considering change, and I hate to see them lie.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Tuesday, 22 March 2011
Labour And Rest That Equal Periods Keep
Dear Octopus,
Last night I awoke suddenly at 2am, having no idea who I was or where I was sleeping. Bolt upright in an instant, the whole situation was deeply, deeply troubling. Whose sombrero was that over by the picture frames arranged on the floor? And whose bedroom was this? Mine? If not......why was I there? And where was its actual owner? Downstairs making me a hot drink......or sharpening a machete with which to gut me (then drink the hot drink themselves)? Did they erase my memory? And who said there was a downstairs anyway? Was this a bungalow, or a high rise tower block? What type of person forgets who they are, and whose room they are in, and whether or not they live in a single, double or multi-storey domestic residence?
It's a strange thing to forget your own name, even stranger then to forget every facet and tenet of your personality. As my District Line train merrily rolled over Putney Bridge after the sun rose from its hazy reverie (having remembered myself enough at least to know that I get the tube), I looked out the window and got to thinking: if I hadn't successfully remembered who I am, who would I have chosen to be instead? This moment of total amnesia was a clean slate after all, and it would be foolish not to wonder.
My primary character selections were as follows:
Not really sure who I'd choose, now that I look at it. They're all a bit high-profile. Something tells me it would be none of these, and in actual fact secret choice number five: a nameless hermetic farmer on a Scottish island so remote that I can only see other people on television, and the television only works on Wednesdays because that's the only day the one satellite that reaches me passes overhead. The rest of the week: just me, a huge field and - as a treat - the BBC World Service on the wireless before bed.
Is that depressing? I just don't know any more.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Last night I awoke suddenly at 2am, having no idea who I was or where I was sleeping. Bolt upright in an instant, the whole situation was deeply, deeply troubling. Whose sombrero was that over by the picture frames arranged on the floor? And whose bedroom was this? Mine? If not......why was I there? And where was its actual owner? Downstairs making me a hot drink......or sharpening a machete with which to gut me (then drink the hot drink themselves)? Did they erase my memory? And who said there was a downstairs anyway? Was this a bungalow, or a high rise tower block? What type of person forgets who they are, and whose room they are in, and whether or not they live in a single, double or multi-storey domestic residence?
It's a strange thing to forget your own name, even stranger then to forget every facet and tenet of your personality. As my District Line train merrily rolled over Putney Bridge after the sun rose from its hazy reverie (having remembered myself enough at least to know that I get the tube), I looked out the window and got to thinking: if I hadn't successfully remembered who I am, who would I have chosen to be instead? This moment of total amnesia was a clean slate after all, and it would be foolish not to wonder.
My primary character selections were as follows:
- Otto Blintz: Eastern-European shipping magnate and patron of the libertine expatriate community. Daredevil multi-billionaire, with a town house in Belgravia, vineyard in Florence, apartment on the Upper West Side and villa overlooking Holetown. A cooler, more refined Tony Stark / Bruce Wayne crossed with Alexander Lebedev and the Duke of Westminster. Dabbles in art, motor racing and Victoria's Secret models
- Jango J Jasper: owner and proprietor of small beachside recordshop-bookshop-cafe-hybrid, in either Brighton, Budleigh Salterton or Biarritz. Spends the day hanging out and mediating pretentiously on Borges and Janis Joplin while his geeky yet adoring female student work-slave vigorously scrubs the clogged innards of the neglected cappuccino machine propping up a stack of first edition Dahls (The Witches)
- Ranulph de Moulham-Burgess: libertine, adventurer and anachronistic 1960's cold war spy. Essentially a poor man's James Bond, but with slightly more sneering / clinical assassination techniques and a lot less open brawling. A ruthless, semi-alcoholic, cold-blooded killer, driven by an inviolable sense of national duty (but with an awesome car). Advantage: bit of a cliche. Disadvantage: massive cliche
- Stig van der Graaf: CEO of hugely successful international whaling fleet. Made his name at sea, as the most fearsome hunter of nature's most fearsome leviathan off the coast of Okinawa. After having his eye gouged out by a particularly right-wing sperm whale, retired to the confines of the London headquarters office and quickly took his killer instinct from actual killing into metaphorical business killing.....becoming as revered for his strong leadership and brutal management techniques as his scarred visage and intensely gravelly voice
Not really sure who I'd choose, now that I look at it. They're all a bit high-profile. Something tells me it would be none of these, and in actual fact secret choice number five: a nameless hermetic farmer on a Scottish island so remote that I can only see other people on television, and the television only works on Wednesdays because that's the only day the one satellite that reaches me passes overhead. The rest of the week: just me, a huge field and - as a treat - the BBC World Service on the wireless before bed.
Is that depressing? I just don't know any more.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Monday, 14 March 2011
Dog Days Are Over
Dear Octopus,
Yesterday was a good day. Due to the now semi-permanent residence of a particularly odious Irish houseguest on our sofa (not necessarily odious for being Irish, but it certainly doesn't help), I spent the morning busying myself in the kitchen: washing up, drying, loading, unloading, cleaning, scrubbing, dusting and singing deliberately loudly to the assorted back catalogues of Belle & Sebastian, Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons and Bright Eyes. After an hour's hearty toil though, the Irish squatter was showing no signs of imminent departure, and considering that I was now sole custodian of a spotless and sparkling kitchen with no further maintenance required, I resolved to defrost the freezer by way of keeping myself busy. We're very fortunate in 'The House That Love Built (And Then Forgot)' to have two fridge/freezers, so I transferred what little edible whittles Fobbs and I still had in ours (a lot of condiments and not a lot of actual food, apparently) over to that of Pongo and Honksy, who observed the operation with disdainful leers. After switching off the appliance it was then relatively straightforward to establish a base perimeter of bin liners on the floor, which was then added to with a layer of towels, thereby achieving my aim of recreating the structural template of the earth's crust (ie: bin liners as upper mantle, towels as tectonic plates).
This took longer than I had anticipated, by which time the Irish traveller had changed out of Honksy's spare pyjamas, drank all of our milk and departed. Spying a slender thread of privacy I seized the opportunity and put on the '40 Great Power Ballads' CD recently given to me by Magic 105.4, and start work on my scrapbook.
The first ticket stub I believed worthy of retention was that of Tottenham Hotspur versus Leeds, at the Lane, 98/99 season. Sol Campbell equalised to make it 3-3 in the 92nd minute, with a bullet header on the six-yard line, right where we were sitting. It was the greatest day of my life (admittedly since relegated to ninth, due to the fact that Sol Campbell went on to betray everything I stood for, and forever blind me to the concept of future happiness). But from then on I kept my tickets as a means of meagre tokenism; so that I could go on to brag rakishly about my exploits in later life. It's not unfair to say that my aspirations were unrealistic. In fact now that the true fiscal, physical and emotional poverty of adult life has set in.....this ragtag collection of sundries is more a dusty shelf of failed romances and lost friends than it is glorious trophies' cabinet. However, some half-notable entries included:
After that, the day took all the necessary features of an ideal Day of Rest. Pongo watched / swore at the rugby while I read Moby-Dick in my armchair. Then we did the usual 'Double-Up Sunday'; this week by watching The Mask (matinee) and The Disappearance of Alice Creed (main feature). Pongo cooked a roast in between; a delightful side of beef with Yorkshire puddings, potatoes roasted in goose fat, vegetables including his wonderfully-mashed parsnips, and of course his signature red currant gravy. It was an outstanding feast, and far more advanced a dish than my cooking abilities could adequately, or inadequately, replicate. My cup overfloweth (with aforementioned gravy).
After the film Honksy and Fobbs were so scared of kidnappers (exacerbated perhaps by Pongo and I hiding in Honksy's bed and trying to force a bag over her heard when she came in) that they camped at the top of the stairs to 'watch for entrants' as we carried out the rubbish and recycling. A pleasant evening to draw the blinds on a pleasant day; reaffirming of half-forgotten idylls, and quietly persuasive of something approaching fulfilment.
Also, the titles of these letters are often obscure at best, but today's is a clear truth. The dog days are over. Crass, maybe. But Lord knows this Squid needed it.
Maybe Sol Campbell's vile defection hasn't blinded me completely after all.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Yesterday was a good day. Due to the now semi-permanent residence of a particularly odious Irish houseguest on our sofa (not necessarily odious for being Irish, but it certainly doesn't help), I spent the morning busying myself in the kitchen: washing up, drying, loading, unloading, cleaning, scrubbing, dusting and singing deliberately loudly to the assorted back catalogues of Belle & Sebastian, Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons and Bright Eyes. After an hour's hearty toil though, the Irish squatter was showing no signs of imminent departure, and considering that I was now sole custodian of a spotless and sparkling kitchen with no further maintenance required, I resolved to defrost the freezer by way of keeping myself busy. We're very fortunate in 'The House That Love Built (And Then Forgot)' to have two fridge/freezers, so I transferred what little edible whittles Fobbs and I still had in ours (a lot of condiments and not a lot of actual food, apparently) over to that of Pongo and Honksy, who observed the operation with disdainful leers. After switching off the appliance it was then relatively straightforward to establish a base perimeter of bin liners on the floor, which was then added to with a layer of towels, thereby achieving my aim of recreating the structural template of the earth's crust (ie: bin liners as upper mantle, towels as tectonic plates).
This took longer than I had anticipated, by which time the Irish traveller had changed out of Honksy's spare pyjamas, drank all of our milk and departed. Spying a slender thread of privacy I seized the opportunity and put on the '40 Great Power Ballads' CD recently given to me by Magic 105.4, and start work on my scrapbook.
The first ticket stub I believed worthy of retention was that of Tottenham Hotspur versus Leeds, at the Lane, 98/99 season. Sol Campbell equalised to make it 3-3 in the 92nd minute, with a bullet header on the six-yard line, right where we were sitting. It was the greatest day of my life (admittedly since relegated to ninth, due to the fact that Sol Campbell went on to betray everything I stood for, and forever blind me to the concept of future happiness). But from then on I kept my tickets as a means of meagre tokenism; so that I could go on to brag rakishly about my exploits in later life. It's not unfair to say that my aspirations were unrealistic. In fact now that the true fiscal, physical and emotional poverty of adult life has set in.....this ragtag collection of sundries is more a dusty shelf of failed romances and lost friends than it is glorious trophies' cabinet. However, some half-notable entries included:
- Coldplay, Crystal Palace, 2005. A fine relic of The Golden Summer. Party Squid gave me my first true taste of London
- Cubs v Pirates, Wrigley Field, Chicago, 2008. Felt like I was in Rookie Of The Year. Pretzels were too salty, beer too diluted. The Goat, the Bear, the Toad and the girls on wonderful form. One of the most fun days I'll ever have
- Rain Man, Apollo Theatre, 2008. Got chatting to Josh Hartnett in the bar afterwards. Told him my dad thought he was a prick in Pearl Harbour for tapping his best mate's missus. He said, 'yeah mine too.' Bloody good lad
- Crazy Golf, Nerja, 2009. The day I got sun-stroke at the waterpark and then called you saying I thought I had either meningitis or concussion
After that, the day took all the necessary features of an ideal Day of Rest. Pongo watched / swore at the rugby while I read Moby-Dick in my armchair. Then we did the usual 'Double-Up Sunday'; this week by watching The Mask (matinee) and The Disappearance of Alice Creed (main feature). Pongo cooked a roast in between; a delightful side of beef with Yorkshire puddings, potatoes roasted in goose fat, vegetables including his wonderfully-mashed parsnips, and of course his signature red currant gravy. It was an outstanding feast, and far more advanced a dish than my cooking abilities could adequately, or inadequately, replicate. My cup overfloweth (with aforementioned gravy).
After the film Honksy and Fobbs were so scared of kidnappers (exacerbated perhaps by Pongo and I hiding in Honksy's bed and trying to force a bag over her heard when she came in) that they camped at the top of the stairs to 'watch for entrants' as we carried out the rubbish and recycling. A pleasant evening to draw the blinds on a pleasant day; reaffirming of half-forgotten idylls, and quietly persuasive of something approaching fulfilment.
Also, the titles of these letters are often obscure at best, but today's is a clear truth. The dog days are over. Crass, maybe. But Lord knows this Squid needed it.
Maybe Sol Campbell's vile defection hasn't blinded me completely after all.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Saturday, 12 March 2011
I Was Part Of Something Special
Dear Octopus,
There was a very nice girl who used to work on my old team back when I did (sometimes casually referred to as 'The Whorey-Glory Years' among the elder and more vaunted statesmen of said auspicious department), and I learned last week that said colleague recently left, with no leaving drinks and little of the deserved fanfare or sentimentality. 'Gone to another agency presumably,' says I, whilst leaning back in someone stranger's chair and idly doodling a cartoon sperm whale on their notepad with a speech bubble saying 'I SUPPORT COMMUNISM AND REFUSE TO RESPECT WOMEN'.
'Indeed not,' replies Zara, candidly observing my endeavours from across the way. 'No?' inquires a now curious Action Squid. 'Magazine? Creative house? Production company? Some meagre digital PR agency burrowed away like last year's Christmas baubles in the attic of a decaying Soho loft conversion?' Zara shakes her head. 'That’s a negative Captain.'
(Frustrated now) 'Well where then?'
'She's gone to start her own company, selling rare and antiquarian doorknobs.'
At first I was aghast. Who on earth does this girl think she is? Doorknobs indeed. Not just a gross and perverse deviation from this luminous media industry - which to me now seems so 'unleaveable' - but it's so left-field; so daring, so brave, such deft, brazen, admirable entrepreneurialism, via such a thoroughly unknown quantity. Maybe I was wrong about her. Maybe she’s one of ‘those.’ A few days meditation followed. Then I realised that it's fascinating. Not because of what it is: obviously trading in rare doorknobs is a great thing, far more fulfilling than advertising at least. It's fascinating because I never had the slightest clue that my colleague was inclined that way. No-one could have known. But this episode is allegorical of all the hidden diversity that perpetually lies dormant in and around the places we frequent more than our homes. Just because we share the same tiles of carpeting with someone, drink from the same water fountain and perform the same set of arbitrary roles.....it doesn't mean that we ever really know them. I look around these white walls now and see new faces; with whole wild worlds of adventure, romance, intrigue and knowledge all submerged beneath grim corporate masks.
I know that there are / were only 15-20 people in the office of your so-called 'charity' my dear Octopus, but your homework assignment this week is to ask someone what they're into, that they might not otherwise volunteer. Maybe it'll be archery, maybe taxidermy, maybe cross-dressing on a Saturday night and asphyxi-wanking to the theme tune of Maid Marian & Her Merry Men. You just don't know. What you will know though is that it'll invariably be different, and you might be surprised by what you hear.
It's depressing really...and not just the thought of certain nefarious individuals wilfully preparing horrible hybrid jizz-nooses in their dim, curtained bedrooms. Why do I not have some exciting double-existence waiting for me as I leave the office? The word 'doorknobs' will now forever be a metaphor for all the unlived lives still coursing through these veins, and the declining number of hours in which they will never see the light of day.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Tuesday, 8 March 2011
Early Exchanges Of Cannon-Fire Atop Davy Jones's Locker
Dear Octopus,
My lovely old PC is sick. I awoke on Sunday to find that a virus - spawn of some sweaty, attic-based bounder with diagnosed anti-charisma and chronic halitosis - has infected my poor desktop Serena (named in 2005 after the equally lovely Serena Bishop, of Neighbours fame), rendering her start-up modules destitute and manual operations seemingly without hope. I turned her on and she bleats incoherently, mournfully, like Shadow trapped down a muddy hole at the end of Homeward Bound: The Incredibly Journey. It would be heart-breaking, if it weren't so utterly fucking infuriating that I've potentially lost all of my music and the only recent copy of my book.
Last night I naively sought to battle The Kraken attacking Serena's central nervous system, with weapons no more advanced than my iPhone and a few choice words of severe frustration. What could go wrong, I thought; I have a degree in literature (Woolf mostly, with smatterings of Flaubert), I know my dessert wines, and this is nothing more than a few tangled digi-knots in an electronic ball of string. How hard can it be?
The battle was bloody and brief. I'm ashamed to report that the early spoils of war belong solely to The Kraken, with this poor Squid little more than a bag of damaged pride, broken bones and partially ruptured organs. Everything came to naught. After the slaughter was complete I skulked downstairs to watch the scene in Entrapment where Catherine Zeta-Jones practices her aerobics among all those wires with bells on......by way of meagre consolation. Today at work I plaster my scars and suture the wounds, finding that no amount of smoked cigarettes nor vanquished vanity will thwart this terrible affliction, nor save dear Serena from the clutches of the vile beast.
It matters not. Tonight I return to the information battleground (my bedroom) with a memory-stick full of highly potent spyware removal programs and a righteous heart. If The Kraken paints my floral print wallpaper with my blood again tonight then tomorrow I will just keep fighting, and returning, and fighting again and again, every day until one of us is either deleted or dead. I owe Serena that much. Her hard drive has gone flaccid, her interior fan clogged with dust, and her memory would be frail for a semi-retarded goldfish. But she is my computer. And I will see her through.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
My lovely old PC is sick. I awoke on Sunday to find that a virus - spawn of some sweaty, attic-based bounder with diagnosed anti-charisma and chronic halitosis - has infected my poor desktop Serena (named in 2005 after the equally lovely Serena Bishop, of Neighbours fame), rendering her start-up modules destitute and manual operations seemingly without hope. I turned her on and she bleats incoherently, mournfully, like Shadow trapped down a muddy hole at the end of Homeward Bound: The Incredibly Journey. It would be heart-breaking, if it weren't so utterly fucking infuriating that I've potentially lost all of my music and the only recent copy of my book.
Last night I naively sought to battle The Kraken attacking Serena's central nervous system, with weapons no more advanced than my iPhone and a few choice words of severe frustration. What could go wrong, I thought; I have a degree in literature (Woolf mostly, with smatterings of Flaubert), I know my dessert wines, and this is nothing more than a few tangled digi-knots in an electronic ball of string. How hard can it be?
The battle was bloody and brief. I'm ashamed to report that the early spoils of war belong solely to The Kraken, with this poor Squid little more than a bag of damaged pride, broken bones and partially ruptured organs. Everything came to naught. After the slaughter was complete I skulked downstairs to watch the scene in Entrapment where Catherine Zeta-Jones practices her aerobics among all those wires with bells on......by way of meagre consolation. Today at work I plaster my scars and suture the wounds, finding that no amount of smoked cigarettes nor vanquished vanity will thwart this terrible affliction, nor save dear Serena from the clutches of the vile beast.
It matters not. Tonight I return to the information battleground (my bedroom) with a memory-stick full of highly potent spyware removal programs and a righteous heart. If The Kraken paints my floral print wallpaper with my blood again tonight then tomorrow I will just keep fighting, and returning, and fighting again and again, every day until one of us is either deleted or dead. I owe Serena that much. Her hard drive has gone flaccid, her interior fan clogged with dust, and her memory would be frail for a semi-retarded goldfish. But she is my computer. And I will see her through.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Sunday, 6 March 2011
Shore Leave
Dear Octopus,
Whilst having lunch today in a shadowy Soho bistro with the architects of my Squid ancestry (les parents), I was reminded of the following recent altercation, which I have since felt you may find readable, if not amusing. It all started in the excessively loud and densely populated branch of HMV off Leicester Square, which I attended with with my faithful (if long-suffering) Worcesterite sidekick Al. Having an excellent ear for dialogue I can faithfully report that all of the following transpired exactly as recorded.
I approached a callow youth behind the counter:
ME: Good day
HIM: Good day sir
ME: I would like to exchange this copy of Cemetery Junction on Blu-Ray please
HIM: Is it faulty?
ME: It is not. The item was a gift from a relative who – although cherished to me – unfortunately lacks the technological acumen to distinguish between relevant entertainment formats
HIM: Do you have a receipt?
ME: I do not
HIM: Then with deepest regret I must desist. I cannot help you
ME: [Quickly] I realise sir that this might seem the way of it on the bare surface…but having checked your existing stock this Blu-Ray retails today at £20...all I want is to exchange it, useless to me as it is, for the corresponding DVD, which today retails at £8
HIM: So?
ME: So…by exchanging one disc for another I leave this store satisfied, and the store is capable of making £12 of pure profit just for the labour of placing a mere sticker
HIM: I see the direction of your entreaty sir, but I cannot change the rules
ME: I might remark sir that your stubbornness seems remarkably short-sighted, given the minimal risk and evident potential for immediate fiscal return…
HIM: …fiscal return is not the aim…
ME: …surely for a business fiscal return is always the aim…
HIM: I repeat, I cannot change the rules
ME: I’m sure your adherence to the rules varies greatly by their convenience to implement...
HIM: You dishonour me sir…
ME: …you dishonour yourself sir. I am offering nothing but fair trade; fairer than fair given this product's exceptional retail value
HIM: I am not interested in ‘fair trade’; I am interested in buying and selling
ME: So you do buy?
HIM: Only with a receipt
ME: …a receipt means next to nothing…
HIM: …it means nothing when you have one handy. When a receipt is sorely lacking it appears to mean everything
ME: Your philosophising does not help our predicament…
HIM: The predicament is all yours 'sir.' No amount of world-weary homilies or partial recollection of statutory law will make a story at which I might even sniffle, let alone sob. You have no credentials here. And as such...you...have....no....pedigree
ME: [Gulp] I’ve been told before
HIM: Maybe you ought to have paid heed
ME: My ‘stories’ are not intended to be sobbed at sir, my intentions are purely transactional, and the pursuit of fair treatment. And since you refuse to recognise justice I see this quickly developing into a quarrel…
HIM: …if there is a quarrel sir then I will happily pay my way in delivering one, but be aware that you are its custodian and instigator…
ME: …and you sir are denying a paying consumer his civil liberties! If not on my side then the law will certainly not be on yours, and I will have my say...
HIM: You are becoming a nuisance to the harmonious tranquillity of our shopping environment! These happily zeitgeist climes would be demonstratively improved by your immediate and permanent removal!
ME: And you sir are turning private parley into a most unpleasant exchange…and all in the presence of your other customers no less! If encouraging voyeurism is your requirement then allow me to oblige your design for a performance. You sir are a villain! A defrauder of decent folk in search of fair commerce; a sly sneak-thief, a brigand, a desperate charlatan drunk on the intoxicating nectar of his own meagre power! In plainer ages you would have been swept from the banks of this great river like the weeds brought on the evening tide!
HIM: I will not tolerate this onslaught of malicious slander…
ME: In that case sir allow me to release you from it! I demand to speak to the proprietor of this establishment at your earliest convenience
HIM: My convenience will not be coming early…
ME: Then I suggest you summon him immediately and I can beg forgiveness for your lost convenience at the satisfactory resolution of our business!
HIM: Fine!
ME: Fine!A frustrating dead end. A brief interview with the manager however resolved the situation to a satisfactory conclusion. Not only was the Blu-Ray of Cemetery Junction exchanged for the DVD equivalent 'sans' receipt, but I was given two further DVD's of my choosing by way of profuse apology.
I cannot take any credit; Al's vital temperance ensured a fair negotiation that adequately negated my rambling and ineloquent polemics. If he'd gone to a better school he'd be my hero.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
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