Dear Octopus,
A friend of a friend - for the sake of the story let's call him Barney - was backpacking through South America some years ago, and late one October night arrived in Bogotá looking for a good time. He'd heard and dismissed all of the grim, whitewashed warnings of the ethereal city's reputation for trouble, and due to both a curious nature and strong constitution for hard drugs found himself partying in the vilest, dingiest and most unpleasant bar in all of Colombia, if not the whole world. (Or so he said. Clearly he's never been to Bob and Maureen's Karaoke Bar, as we have.)
Testament perhaps to the robustness of his aforementioned constitution then that he managed to keep a healthy pace with the HIGHLY intimidating locals in what apparently became a thoroughly serious and equally debauched drinking competition, perhaps reminiscent of the Nepalese event of similar ilk portrayed so colourfully in Raiders Of The Lost Ark. Barney flew to the challenge with verve, consuming an inestimable volume of spirits over the course of the evening, and although not winning the competition formally, at least ingratiated himself enough with the locals to be considered welcome. Lucky Barney.
As is often the case in these situations though, the important thing is to know when to quit. Happy would have been the traveller who thanked the patrons of this establishment for their hospitality and went on his way. Sadly, this was not Barney. Riding high (very high) on the wave of the party he challenged his drinking rival to a re-match. Mere minutes into the second competition - the opening salvos only just fired across his bows you might say - and Barney was on the cusp, literally, of being violently, violently, violently, violently ill. It was perhaps fortuitous then that he ran to the bathroom with his hand already over his mouth, as had he not done so it would have ended up there anyway, so disgusting was the scene that confronted him behind the rusty tin door. A sink; overflowing with unidentifiable flotsam. Walls covered in graffiti that contained - even with his limited grasp of Spanish - some very crude sexual imagery. A single toilet cubicle, locked.
And nothing else.
Fearing that vomiting on the walls or floor may burn some of the diplomatic bridges that he'd so merrily forged with the locals already (locals that were not to be antagonised unless absolutely necessary, he was quite sure) Barney decided that his only option was to kick the cubicle door in and hope it was empty.
It wasn't.
A man was sitting on the toilet. And Barney was sick, all over him. Exorcist sick. Sicker than you or I in all of our idle, London-based misdemeanours could ever hope to fathom. He was sick on the cubicle's occupant from his throat right down to his lap. He made the man a living Jackson Pollack.
Now this presented Barney with a dilemma. Highly inebriated as he was, he calculated that there was a 90% - 95% chance that this was an ordinary, God-fearing fellow, who happened to be taking a dump in the wrong toilet on the wrong day. A wife, children, a clapped-out Volkswagen with no exhaust. A good guy on the ragged edge; who would be appalled and probably quite angry, but ultimately would prefer cleaning himself up and going home to making a fuss. On the other hand though, there was a remaining 5% - 10% probability that this man was a 'not to be el fuckoed with.' It was a rough bar after all. There was a chance - slim as it may have been - that this man just happened to be a gangster, a ruffian, a psychotic drug-dealing desperado or associate of one such character, whose first and natural reaction to this previously untested sleight would be to pull out either a knife or a gun and have Barney returned to London by air freight.
In his mind, he figured it wasn't worth taking the risk.
Barney punched him in the face.
And ran.
Hideous as these actions may seem to us, armchair observers as we are, punching this man in the face after having vomited on him may have saved Barney's life. The man could have been anyone. He had enough time to get away, just. But then again, he may have just added injury to a very real insult; to a hapless guy who must have gone home to his wife that night wondering why the Good Lord had so scorned him.
Who knows. But it's a good source for debate. What would you have done? What would I?
It's all hypothetical I suppose. You always hated tequila. I only bring this up because I think I got vomited on and then punched-in-the-face-by-way-of-apology last night, metaphorically at least. It's okay. Like with Barney, it'll make a good story one day.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Monday, 30 May 2011
Friday, 27 May 2011
When Illusion Spin Her Net
Dear Octopus,
A frayed and threadbare Action Squid this morning. The gravity of a heavy week has pressed, crushed and forcibly condensed this shallow mind like the giant-steel-Venus-Fly-trap / car-destruction-apparatus that so effortlessly demolished my first motor vehicle (SEAT Ibiza: Salsa Edition, neon pink, street name: 'The Panther'). I am tired beyond tiredness. My capacity for meaningful thinking has been reduced to almost nothing.
That being said, it's inadvisable to say these sorts of things lightly. So allow me to elaborate.
Life Problems
Life Solutions
I know what you would say on most of these points. It's all in hand.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
A frayed and threadbare Action Squid this morning. The gravity of a heavy week has pressed, crushed and forcibly condensed this shallow mind like the giant-steel-Venus-Fly-trap / car-destruction-apparatus that so effortlessly demolished my first motor vehicle (SEAT Ibiza: Salsa Edition, neon pink, street name: 'The Panther'). I am tired beyond tiredness. My capacity for meaningful thinking has been reduced to almost nothing.
That being said, it's inadvisable to say these sorts of things lightly. So allow me to elaborate.
Life Problems
- Work is eating me alive
- Housemate situation temporarily fucked
- Boiler still working only sporadically and as if on its own agenda
- Cheryl Cole dropped from US X Factor
- May have lost my magnifying glass
- Family
- Suffered crippling indignity of super-hot receptionist in my building today asking me why I've been listening to the same song on my iPod so loudly as I walk past her in the morning that she's been counting the days I've had it on (seven)
- Annoying clicking sound in my knuckles which could be indicative of future arthritis
- Largo
Life Solutions
- Cope
- Sort it
- Sort it, aggressively
- Call Simon Cowell and beg for clemency
- Buy another magnifying glass for detailed search around the office for missing magnifying glass
- Sort it, diplomatically
- Get some new music / enter office by different door
- Stop 'o knucklo redentor' - my intensive all-encompassing knuckle cracking regime
- Cope
I know what you would say on most of these points. It's all in hand.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Sunday, 22 May 2011
Just A Day
Dear Octopus,
This weekend I was honoured to receive the most noble and prestigious of house guests; none other than Vino Squid, steely-handed matriarch of the dysfunctional Squid family and much-vaunted in many an Action Squid anecdote, reminiscence or paltry piecemeal parley. The sheets were clean, toilets bleached, Barbie securely manacled to a water pipe in the cupboard under the stairs (with a rag soaked in drain cleaner firmly reducing her capacity for inappropriate speech / breathing), and towels arranged by size in a neat stack on the end of her bed. A pity then that upon arrival her first intuition was to get 'utterly shitfaced'; leading to her, myself, Honksy and the malodorous Irish imposter briefly mentioned in previous letters into the back of a taxi in search of a local restaurant. I can't but help but think now that Honks and Irish had no idea what they were in for.
She is, after all, called Vino Squid for a reason.
This dim sense of foreboding was realised several hours and six or seven bottles of wine later, when I re-entered the living room to find my mother forcing assorted cooking utensils and kitchenware into the girls' hands (ladles, spatulas etc) in order to more 'realistically' sing the collected hits of Joan Armatrading, Elton John and Paul Simon at inordinately loud volumes for such an advanced hour of the evening....or early morning.
This though, was only the beginning.
Often in life there can be differing version of reality, dependent on the size and shape of the prism through which one wishes to view the facts. I sometimes think that it's a strange idiosyncrasy of the human experience; that truth can vary so distinctly in either the generosity or paucity of its telling. For example, if anyone at work tomorrow asks me how my Saturday was, I'll probably reel off the following prepared list with a glib sense of disinterest, or even apathy:
Facts
All in all though, a fun weekend. Today we had lunch before I saw her off to the station, over which we discussed celebrity. 'Forbes announced this week that Lady Gaga has become the most powerful celebrity in the world,' says I, making conversation.
'Rubbish,' replies mother. 'What do they know? Geoff Capes is old now I imagine but he'd still kick the shit out of that little harlot. Is your lamb alright? Mine looks like an advert for Canesten fucking Duo. Don't pull that face darling, look at it. I genuinely wonder if living in London has made you go soft. It's all the oestrogen in the bloody water mains...'
Soon after she sauntered off to Paddington, where she had a stand-up row with a fellow first-class passenger - disabled no less - who had the nerve to be in mother's seat. It was only when they compared tickets did she realise she was on the wrong train.
She asked after you, as always. I sent her your love, as always. Who knows, maybe you are actually sending it.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
This weekend I was honoured to receive the most noble and prestigious of house guests; none other than Vino Squid, steely-handed matriarch of the dysfunctional Squid family and much-vaunted in many an Action Squid anecdote, reminiscence or paltry piecemeal parley. The sheets were clean, toilets bleached, Barbie securely manacled to a water pipe in the cupboard under the stairs (with a rag soaked in drain cleaner firmly reducing her capacity for inappropriate speech / breathing), and towels arranged by size in a neat stack on the end of her bed. A pity then that upon arrival her first intuition was to get 'utterly shitfaced'; leading to her, myself, Honksy and the malodorous Irish imposter briefly mentioned in previous letters into the back of a taxi in search of a local restaurant. I can't but help but think now that Honks and Irish had no idea what they were in for.
She is, after all, called Vino Squid for a reason.
This dim sense of foreboding was realised several hours and six or seven bottles of wine later, when I re-entered the living room to find my mother forcing assorted cooking utensils and kitchenware into the girls' hands (ladles, spatulas etc) in order to more 'realistically' sing the collected hits of Joan Armatrading, Elton John and Paul Simon at inordinately loud volumes for such an advanced hour of the evening....or early morning.
This though, was only the beginning.
Often in life there can be differing version of reality, dependent on the size and shape of the prism through which one wishes to view the facts. I sometimes think that it's a strange idiosyncrasy of the human experience; that truth can vary so distinctly in either the generosity or paucity of its telling. For example, if anyone at work tomorrow asks me how my Saturday was, I'll probably reel off the following prepared list with a glib sense of disinterest, or even apathy:
Facts
- Lunch at J Sheekey (I had the monkfish and tiger prawn curry, which was excellent)
- Shopping at Selfridge's
- A single slow revolution of the London Eye
- Dinner in Patara, Soho
- Noel Coward's 'Blithe Spirit' at the Apollo Theatre
Is this what really happened though? Well yes, technically. But this lean, lithe itinerary omits certain key elements that if not adding meat to these bones certainly give them a little colour. And it is in these nuances that any kind of story actually builds its humble nest:
Additional Notes
- I spent most of the lunch at J Sheekey trying to convince her not to steal or 'accidentally purloin' any of the menus, napkins, cutlery or silverware
- She successfully convinced me to spend the entire time in Selfridge's pretending to be her bodyguard - including having one of my headphones in and keeping my sunglasses on indoors - meaning I had to walk no closer than six feet behind her at all times and answer any sales assistant's pertinent enquiry about my behaviour with the disconcertingly obtuse: 'I'm afraid that's classified'
- Considering my irrational fear of heights (Party Squid will happily and enthusiastically testify to my 'condition' at the top of the Empire State Building), booking us onto The London Eye was probably a fool's errand, but for reasons too boring to transcribe here I was determined to go on. The ride itself was uneventful enough; but so harangued were we by a combination of the altitude, heat and a pair of champagne-gilded hangovers that when we both sat down on the grass opposite said infamous attraction to get our bearings....we both fell asleep. For over an hour. On the heaving South Bank. In the middle of the day. Between the second and third bases of quite a large game of rounders
- After that, dinner was a quiet affair. It felt more like breakfast, for one thing
- The show itself was excellent, but our attention to it was inevitably wrestled away by the bizarre and predatory intentions of the local bewildered nutter, who seems to attach herself to my mother at any available opportunity. In this particular instance, a brazen middle-aged divorcee from Dover whose sole role in life appeared to be cruising around the back rows of West End plays in search of men who were either too disenfranchised from their dignity to resist her violent sexual advances or similarly transfixed with similar violent sexual advances of their own. Either way, Vino Squid adeptly thrust her in the direction of an American tourist with a powerful moustache, who was either both of those things or neither, and we avoided her skilfully for the remainder of the evening
All in all though, a fun weekend. Today we had lunch before I saw her off to the station, over which we discussed celebrity. 'Forbes announced this week that Lady Gaga has become the most powerful celebrity in the world,' says I, making conversation.
'Rubbish,' replies mother. 'What do they know? Geoff Capes is old now I imagine but he'd still kick the shit out of that little harlot. Is your lamb alright? Mine looks like an advert for Canesten fucking Duo. Don't pull that face darling, look at it. I genuinely wonder if living in London has made you go soft. It's all the oestrogen in the bloody water mains...'
Soon after she sauntered off to Paddington, where she had a stand-up row with a fellow first-class passenger - disabled no less - who had the nerve to be in mother's seat. It was only when they compared tickets did she realise she was on the wrong train.
She asked after you, as always. I sent her your love, as always. Who knows, maybe you are actually sending it.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Tuesday, 17 May 2011
Changing Ocean Tides
Dear Octopus,
Last week I returned to my indigenous corner of the deep and terrifying ocean. I won't say why. But not doing so makes the story difficult; so let's say that all the reasons and necessities for which I returned come under the umbrella-euphemism of the name 'Largo,' the villain from Thunderball. So anything that involves him relates to that.
My inauspicious return to southern coastal climes was heralded with an ultra-violent thunderstorm; rain lashing the roof of the train carriage like a troupe of schizophrenically-enraged ASBO schoolchildren trying to batter their way inside. Party Squid met me on the platform and showed me to his latest and most extravagant purchase; a sassy white BMW sadly missing its external radio aerial. When I pointed out that white was a colour for hairdressers and drug dealers he replied, with a disconcertingly sinister intonation I might add, that 'it's the only thing sleazier than me.' We then set off in search of his missing aerial, which - after a series of convoluted and morally dubious adventures too juvenile to describe here - we ultimately exchanged for a pair of The Rat's glasses purloined in a previous encounter, the details of which also remain shrouded in both secrecy and ignominy. The fiery, tempestuous thunderstorm got us thinking though.....about the nature of life, death, and Largo. After the aerial was reinstated atop our ride we debated the changing seasons of age, maturity, spirituality and wisdom whilst eating Happy Meals, before listening to the Fleetwood Mac song after which this letter is named. Highly relevant when considering one's place in the world, which unfortunately was always going to be an unrequested by-product of my trip.
Having at least started to deal with the ubiquitous Largo if not actually confront him, the next day I meditated further on the nature of happiness whilst lying on my stomach holding a massive rifle. I'd never used a firearm of this calibre before (my previous experience being more of the Nerf sponge-dart variety), so the whole process was both alien and exhilarating. Now I'm not one to rampage through my home or workplace indiscriminately slaughtering anyone, but I did come to understand why some people come to like guns. There's a huge amount of concentration required, a Jedi-like focus even, which gives you a feeling of calmness as you control your breathing. I might buy myself a SuperSoaker and shoot water at Honks from the top of the stairs. Inky Squid has a natural mastery of this sport far in advance of any to which I could aspire, which I congratulated him on extensively when we were out drinking.
The first time you get truly drunk is a horrible experience. This was quite literally the case for 'Bobbles': Inky Squid's junior colleague who for some reason decided to shatter, squash then vomit his alcohol-cherry in our lurid company. He was only a few weeks past 18.
The results
were
DEVASTATING
Admittedly, I am morally remiss for force-feeding him the tequila slammers. Inky Squid is equally remiss for making him down a pitcher of cider for spilling the smallest drops of his Jager Bomb. I don't know why I told the bouncers he was my father.
We lost him sometime between two and three in the morning. To this day I literally don't know what happened to him. Even now I sometimes lie awake at night wondering if he ever made it through to morning.
He's probably still lying in a gutter somewhere, dying but not dead, along with Largo.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Last week I returned to my indigenous corner of the deep and terrifying ocean. I won't say why. But not doing so makes the story difficult; so let's say that all the reasons and necessities for which I returned come under the umbrella-euphemism of the name 'Largo,' the villain from Thunderball. So anything that involves him relates to that.
My inauspicious return to southern coastal climes was heralded with an ultra-violent thunderstorm; rain lashing the roof of the train carriage like a troupe of schizophrenically-enraged ASBO schoolchildren trying to batter their way inside. Party Squid met me on the platform and showed me to his latest and most extravagant purchase; a sassy white BMW sadly missing its external radio aerial. When I pointed out that white was a colour for hairdressers and drug dealers he replied, with a disconcertingly sinister intonation I might add, that 'it's the only thing sleazier than me.' We then set off in search of his missing aerial, which - after a series of convoluted and morally dubious adventures too juvenile to describe here - we ultimately exchanged for a pair of The Rat's glasses purloined in a previous encounter, the details of which also remain shrouded in both secrecy and ignominy. The fiery, tempestuous thunderstorm got us thinking though.....about the nature of life, death, and Largo. After the aerial was reinstated atop our ride we debated the changing seasons of age, maturity, spirituality and wisdom whilst eating Happy Meals, before listening to the Fleetwood Mac song after which this letter is named. Highly relevant when considering one's place in the world, which unfortunately was always going to be an unrequested by-product of my trip.
Having at least started to deal with the ubiquitous Largo if not actually confront him, the next day I meditated further on the nature of happiness whilst lying on my stomach holding a massive rifle. I'd never used a firearm of this calibre before (my previous experience being more of the Nerf sponge-dart variety), so the whole process was both alien and exhilarating. Now I'm not one to rampage through my home or workplace indiscriminately slaughtering anyone, but I did come to understand why some people come to like guns. There's a huge amount of concentration required, a Jedi-like focus even, which gives you a feeling of calmness as you control your breathing. I might buy myself a SuperSoaker and shoot water at Honks from the top of the stairs. Inky Squid has a natural mastery of this sport far in advance of any to which I could aspire, which I congratulated him on extensively when we were out drinking.
The first time you get truly drunk is a horrible experience. This was quite literally the case for 'Bobbles': Inky Squid's junior colleague who for some reason decided to shatter, squash then vomit his alcohol-cherry in our lurid company. He was only a few weeks past 18.
The results
were
DEVASTATING
Admittedly, I am morally remiss for force-feeding him the tequila slammers. Inky Squid is equally remiss for making him down a pitcher of cider for spilling the smallest drops of his Jager Bomb. I don't know why I told the bouncers he was my father.
We lost him sometime between two and three in the morning. To this day I literally don't know what happened to him. Even now I sometimes lie awake at night wondering if he ever made it through to morning.
He's probably still lying in a gutter somewhere, dying but not dead, along with Largo.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Friday, 13 May 2011
Change Your Heart, Look Around You
Dear Octopus,
Barbie is moving out. We are all decidedly sad at losing her ludicrously complex love life, the equally demonstrative screaming with which every incident of her life - no matter how large or small - is declared, and of course the fact the fact that she hasn't cooked a single meal in over six months of residence. Her tenure has been memorable though, and we watch her leave with heavy hearts.
Daunting then is the search for a worthy replacement. Given that preparation is the precursor to metropolitan if not divine providence, I wanted to start by drawing up a list of preferred attributes in prospective new inmates of our strange and ignoble residence. What Honks would most want, and Pongo, and I, to see where interesting corollaries might run parallel, if not actually intersect. But said document has, dans ecriver, somehow mutated from the idylls of perfection for prospective housemates into the more general requirements for 'the perfect person' (ie: romantically....chronically and hideously single as we all are).
As follows:
Pongo
A Spanish exchange student, 24-26, passing through London in pursuit of education: both academic and 'miscellaneous', which to me is disconcertingly sinister. Possibly a part time dancer (but not stripper), enjoys politics (but not a 'champagne socialist'), technology (but doesn't have a more competitive monthly phone plan), Formula One (but McLaren rather than Red Bull) and a strong regard for, if not training in, public school, barracks-style lavatorial humour. Devious, sultry, unattainable and utterly beguiling.....but more than prepared to cook us a three course Mediterranean dinner and then wash up to BBC Radio Four.
Looks like: Penelope Cruz in Nine
Honks
A laconic, pretty, waifish nancy boy. A cross between Mr. Darcy and Pete Doherty. Repressed and yet lyrical, with borderline personality disorder and dubious personal hygiene. Very tall, very artsy, very intellectual, sad eyes hinting a deep reservoir of unspeakable melancholy (although I may have just stolen that metaphor from High Fidelity). Rebellious / idealistic / stupid enough to smoke rolled up cigarettes and abhor all forms of necessary commercial enterprise, but conformist / lazy / hypocritcal enough to shop at Waitrose and wear ripped jeans ripped deliberately in their Eastern manufacture. A fop, a libertine, an anachronistic half-punk, half-Byronic anti-hero.
Looks like: Aidan Turner in Being Human
Me
A humdinger of a pickle. Well....funny, for one thing. And pretty, obviously. Good eyes and a good smile and fiery, so that she's attractive when she's in a mardy strop (which if she's going out with me she'll be in a lot). A sound knowledge of European literature 1580-1965 is essential, with particular emphasis on 1900-1925. Ideally also a lover of: films, Borough Market (and its wondrous salted caramel / pistachio ice creams), musical theatre, lying to strangers, impulsive travel, inventing indoor house games and of course Tottenham Hotspur. Being adept at handling the eclectic aquarium that is the Squid family would also be a bonus. Someone who can tell me to shut up when I can't, but will make me speak when I won't. Loyal, caring, endlessly sweet, and capable of winning an 'ugly-face-pulling competition' over dinner in an expensive restaurant. In short: someone nice.
Looks like: Mary Elizabeth Winstead in Scott Pilgrim vs The World
The downside of course to all this posturing is that no-one will ever be capable of actually fulfilling all of these way-too-specific criteria.
Probably why we're all still single.
Still....at least we have each other.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Barbie is moving out. We are all decidedly sad at losing her ludicrously complex love life, the equally demonstrative screaming with which every incident of her life - no matter how large or small - is declared, and of course the fact the fact that she hasn't cooked a single meal in over six months of residence. Her tenure has been memorable though, and we watch her leave with heavy hearts.
Daunting then is the search for a worthy replacement. Given that preparation is the precursor to metropolitan if not divine providence, I wanted to start by drawing up a list of preferred attributes in prospective new inmates of our strange and ignoble residence. What Honks would most want, and Pongo, and I, to see where interesting corollaries might run parallel, if not actually intersect. But said document has, dans ecriver, somehow mutated from the idylls of perfection for prospective housemates into the more general requirements for 'the perfect person' (ie: romantically....chronically and hideously single as we all are).
As follows:
Pongo
A Spanish exchange student, 24-26, passing through London in pursuit of education: both academic and 'miscellaneous', which to me is disconcertingly sinister. Possibly a part time dancer (but not stripper), enjoys politics (but not a 'champagne socialist'), technology (but doesn't have a more competitive monthly phone plan), Formula One (but McLaren rather than Red Bull) and a strong regard for, if not training in, public school, barracks-style lavatorial humour. Devious, sultry, unattainable and utterly beguiling.....but more than prepared to cook us a three course Mediterranean dinner and then wash up to BBC Radio Four.
Looks like: Penelope Cruz in Nine
Honks
A laconic, pretty, waifish nancy boy. A cross between Mr. Darcy and Pete Doherty. Repressed and yet lyrical, with borderline personality disorder and dubious personal hygiene. Very tall, very artsy, very intellectual, sad eyes hinting a deep reservoir of unspeakable melancholy (although I may have just stolen that metaphor from High Fidelity). Rebellious / idealistic / stupid enough to smoke rolled up cigarettes and abhor all forms of necessary commercial enterprise, but conformist / lazy / hypocritcal enough to shop at Waitrose and wear ripped jeans ripped deliberately in their Eastern manufacture. A fop, a libertine, an anachronistic half-punk, half-Byronic anti-hero.
Looks like: Aidan Turner in Being Human
Me
A humdinger of a pickle. Well....funny, for one thing. And pretty, obviously. Good eyes and a good smile and fiery, so that she's attractive when she's in a mardy strop (which if she's going out with me she'll be in a lot). A sound knowledge of European literature 1580-1965 is essential, with particular emphasis on 1900-1925. Ideally also a lover of: films, Borough Market (and its wondrous salted caramel / pistachio ice creams), musical theatre, lying to strangers, impulsive travel, inventing indoor house games and of course Tottenham Hotspur. Being adept at handling the eclectic aquarium that is the Squid family would also be a bonus. Someone who can tell me to shut up when I can't, but will make me speak when I won't. Loyal, caring, endlessly sweet, and capable of winning an 'ugly-face-pulling competition' over dinner in an expensive restaurant. In short: someone nice.
Looks like: Mary Elizabeth Winstead in Scott Pilgrim vs The World
The downside of course to all this posturing is that no-one will ever be capable of actually fulfilling all of these way-too-specific criteria.
Probably why we're all still single.
Still....at least we have each other.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
Monday, 2 May 2011
The Common Sense Checklist For Surviving Shark Attack
Dear Octopus,
You always had your life in pretty good order. But in the highly unlikely and therefore highly calamitous circumstance in which you might find yourself ostracised by your family, and/or not getting on with your friends, and/or maybe even suffering relationship issues - and/or in fact any of the rich and seemingly inexhaustive tapestry of crises which the metropolitan existence so systematically delivers with such horrifyingly ruthless efficiency - all you need to find your way back to exactly the point you started from is my simple five step programme. I would say it's patented, but apparently you can't say that unless it actually is. And sadly it isn't.
As follows:
Stage One: Contemplation. Draw the curtains, switch off the phone, stop poking and posting on that grim internet. Get on your sofa and watch a lot of deep, serious, very long and very moving films designed with one purpose in mind: to get life into perspective. Lists available on request, but Scent Of A Woman is a good place to start. Al Pacino won an Oscar for it. The point is to step away from yourself and realise that there are bigger forces at play every day, creating far worse problems for people far worse off than you to begin with. So get over yourself.
Stage Two: Three words here....martinis, martinis, martinis. Three measures gin, one of vodka, half a measure of kina lillet. Shake with crushed ice until cold and serve over a thin slice of lemon peel. Repeat. Over, and over, and over.
Stage Three: Make a change. A big one. And not necessarily relating directly to your life problem (or what used to be a life problem, now that you're 40% of the way to forgetting it). Get a new job, start or end a relationship, move house etc. Upset the rhythm. Routine can become so habitual that you end up thinking you can't break out of it. So break out of it. The change can be terrifying, sure.... when I stopped getting my same seat on my same District Line tube every morning I literally lost the ability to urinate. For about three days. But that's what's so exciting! (The change, not the inability to wee. That was awful. It finally ended in a meeting with Facebook and I had to do that waddling, legs-a-bit-crossed-but-still-trying-to-run style run. It was only because Catfish ran ahead and held open all the swipecard doors for me that I made it.)
Stage Four: Write letters to the people involved in your life problem, explaining how you feel. It's good catharsis. However, DO NOT SEND THEM. I've never known anyone who's actually done this, but I can't imagine the results are / were / would be satisfactory. No-one wants to hear your shit, really. In fact, destroy any 'faux' correspondence as soon as they are written. Security in this programme is priority number one.
Stage Five: Deny it ever happened. To everyone. Anyone mentions it, it didn't happen. Simple in principle, tricky in practice. So get practising. But you do it enough times and it becomes true. Even for you.
Net result: Total memory erasure.
All in all, a pretty robust methodology for dealing with blunt head-trauma, if I do say so myself. I could be an American-style life coach, like Tom Cruise in Magnolia, or Greg Kinnear in Little Miss Sunshine.
As you can probably tell I'm mighty pleased with myself.
Maybe it's because I've had a martini.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
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