You Don't Need.... A Big Holiday

Humanity needs a break. If 2016 has created any kind of societal mindset, it is that everything is just too much and we want to shut it all off. Like, literally, we want to find the fuse box for this year and take a hatchet to it, screaming bloody murder, foam coming out the side of our mouths. We want to hide from th world, form troubling issues, from work and its endlessness (shout out to Howard Moon) , from family and their nonsense. 

Holidays have taken on a special quality in today's society. People will quite happily slave away all year long, scrimping and saving and suffering, just to have ten working days to themselves.  

YOU DON'T NEED ....to make friends

First day of school, what is the most important thing a kid thinks about? It's not education, or the passage of childhood. It's not worries about teachers, or homework, or even losing your school uniform. I tell what it is. 

Making friends.

Kids want to make friends. They want to go up to a person, find a thing you like about them and base a relationship on that thing. And that thing can be utterly ridiculous. Bros become bros because when you were both seven, you like dinosaurs, or the colour purple, or purple dinosaurs, or the movie The Colour Purple. Maybe not that last one. Kids don't care. They want to connect, they want to interact, they want to express themselves. 

And if you're not friends with anyone? 

What do you do when you don't make friends? What happens when you look around as the dust settles on the first few months of school, and you realize you are not paired off, you're not part of a group of bestest buddies? You shrug your shoulders and figure "it will come." Your parents worry, putting more pressure on you to make friends. Your siblings think you're a freak for wanting to hang out with them and their friends. They made the effort, they reason, so they should reap the reward. Besides, who wants to hang out with a younger sibling? In front of their friends? Not many. So, pressure grows ....

And grows....

And you have a birthday party and your parents invite everyone in your class because they know you don't have any friends. So now you're the guy who has a giant swimming pool party with some awesome octopus slide in the Centre, and your school friends show, and they have fun, and they leave, and no one wants to talk to you on the playground. Nothing changed.

And you have another party and your father asks you who you want to come, and you look around and realise you kinda have no problem with one dude, so you go to watch Dick Tracy at the movies, and he has fun, but you know he thinks it weird that you asked him to do something with you. He won't talk to you for a month on the playground, just to be sure..

And this goes on and on and on. School, university, work. You're the guy who packs his own lunch, and eats it in the corner table alone. The other chairs at the table get taken by people who want to sit down at other tables away from you, loud, garrulous people whose opinion of their opinion is often worth far more than their actual opinion. Your desk is nothing more than a hurdle for their voices to be thrown over. Your very corporeal presence gets treated as part of the furniture. Worse, since furniture is used, appreciated, owned by these people. You ever see how vital a stress ball is to a person's daily well-being? You wish you were that stressball. Meanwhile, you're on the phone trying to do work, or look busy, as these apparently fellow human beings are shouting to each other over your desk, into your space, through your soul, about how great it is going to be to get shitfaced at the local pub. Of course you're not invited. It's not even that you're not invited. It's that they don't consider you a viable DNA strain.

And you feel sad, and lonely, and hateful, and hated, and worse.

Stop.

You don't need to make friends.

What is that, anyway? Making friends? Making? Like we are going to build a friendship together? Then I am making a friendship. Make a friend?  No, a friend is already there. Make someone to be suitable, shape them, mold them, they end up being something different to the thing you saw before. There is talk in relationships of finding a fixer-upper and changing them. One, no you can't. Two, even if you could, why would that changed being want anything to do with you? Or, why would you want anything to do with them? Make something, it changes it from what it was before. There are no guarantees the final result is is worth it.

I'm not saying that you're perfect, or awesome, or even okay. You're probably massively flawed, with either a G-d complex, or a clinging need, or you smell. You're pretty awful, really. And that's great. I guarantee you someone out there wants those things in their life and at this very moment they wish they knew someone who is not just like you, but actually you.  And yes, nine billion people, or a tiny backwoods village. The numbers are not in your favour to find them. 

However, if they do find you, it would behoove you to be yourself. If they are going to be your friend, if they are in the for the long haul, if they are going to hang out and do things with you, even if that thing is playing golf, or watching movies, or drinking coffee and quietly draw the girl from accounts that haunts your dreams, I they are going to do those things, it is probably better that they accept you, warts and all.

Make a social circle if you want, make an effort to put yourself out there. Make a blog, or a JDate page, or a Tumblr account. Make nice with the fools in your office, if only to one day improve your opportunity. Make sense of your life, if you really, really have to. But don't make friends. They should come ready assembled.

5 Times Role Playing Let Me Experience Sports ... Differently.

As is well known, Sporting Heroes have lorded it over Dramatic Geeks for all time. Movies consistently show the Jock in a position of power, and the Geek only rarely succeeds. Sports movies do better than Movies about acting. When the most popular medium to express your form does it best work emulating another thing, that other thing is better. 

And lo, the lesson was learned. My geeky, acting, role playing behind was to forever kowtow to the big bully that is outdoor pursuits. I learned my place in the pecking order of most life choices. I clung to the library as a child, playing my D&D , my Warhammer and my Blood Bowl. When I lived in Korea, Board game cafes such as Noretah (owned by the very excellent Hailey) let me play Catan, or even better, a whole host of role playing games. My thanks on this occasion to Anthony, Seth, and Jeremy.

But in both landscapes, sports would always make an appearance. My body would think about sunshine and running and how lovely it all sounded. I would sign up for tryouts and I would make it. I'd be part of a team and there would be much butt slapping. Unfortunately, I would start playing and , well, this happened...

Rugby

Rugby was a big deal at Watford Grammar school for Boys. And, no, it wasn't *that* posh. We were just better than you. And, every year there would be an Inter Form tournament of rugby. So, each class of thirty boys would make a team of seventeen players, allowing for two subs. I would have to be worse than just over half the class to avoid playing. This would mean being worse than people with asthma, or people who could only look one way. So, I would find myself in the Full Back position. This is the last defensive man on the field. He is the rugby equivalent of an American Football Safety. I have no idea why my class gave me the position. All I know was that I ended up being savagely run over by Edward Lewsey. Ed's older brother, Josh, would go on to represent England. Ed was lined up to be a better player.  And he HATED me. So, once he had run around all the rest of my team, he would make a bee line for me en route to scoring a try. Here's the thing, As he charged me down, my myopic vision presenting me with a blurry angry tosser, I suddenly thought of my Dwarf army. I became as slow as them. And as he ran me over, and I fell, I held on. I held on as I thought a dwarf would hold on. And Ed went down. Every. Single. Time. My performance was so good I got a tryout with the Second Fifteen. Of course I failed that almost immediately, but for a brief glorious moment, my dwarf army spirit stood me in good stead.

Paintball

Let me tell you about my friend Jon. Jon is one of those nut bags you meet in a pub one night and he seems quiet enough, relaxed enough, that you allow into your life. Then you find out he is an ex circus aerialist who loves making cosplay swords and building armour. I know, it just gets better and better. He is also the premier go to guy with regard to paint balling. Eventually, I found myself attending one of his day trips. Once we had put on all the gear, I became quite claustrophobic. I couldn't move freely and the visor I had to wear was covered in scratches, impairing my vision. I then thought about real  soldiers and the gear they have to carry. Rather than continue the thought trail of 'Just how weak am I?' I focused on role playing as a n00b soldier. This was a terrible idea. As we set up for the first game (Ha!GAME!WAR AIN'T NO GAME!) my team was in a dusty corridor. I hyperventilated, freaking out. When I thought I saw another soldier I dove into the next room, a bee-yoo-tee-full Hollywood dive that would have impressed Michael Bay. Unfortunately I then landed and it felt like I had crushed my ribs. I lay there gasping, until someone shot me in the back. The next game my team held someone hostage. I lay down on the ground and waited to ambush someone. Of course this meant someone crept up behind me and strafed me with about twenty paintballs. I hit the ground with my head and played dead. Only, this time, I really role played it. I imagine my life blood draining from me. I lay there, an out of focus black stone the last thing I was going to see. My breath shortened, the mud flecks touching my quaking lips. I died that day, alone and scared. My friends had to come and get me when the game finished. I had to pretend I had hit my head on a stone and temporarily concussed myself.

Softball

Man, I was NOT good at Softball. However, I never missed the ball when I hit and I ran through the bases pretty well. I never hit a homer, but I also never hit a pop up. My problem was fielding. What do you call that place deeeeep behind First Base? I called it home on Sunday afternoons. And the thing is, under the sun, all alone with nothing to do, aided by an inevitable Soju hangover,  my mind wandered. Which is superb if I am chilling under the stars, or alone at home, or pretty much anywhere that is NOT raining softballs. So, in my mind wandering, I became separate from my corporeal form. I floated a few meters away, judging my skinny frame and joke of facial hair. (Don't worry folks, both filled out admirably.) I floated up and away. High above the field , I could see all. I was able to judge all I decided this would make me an umpire. I observed a powerful <THWACK!> and a ball rose up into the air, It hung for a moment next to my form. As it fell, I thought I should run to that, just to make sure it was a foul ball. I managed to run right next to the ball as it fell to the ground. I did not think for even a second about catching it. I was a goddamn Umpire, and umpires don't catch balls. As it landed , I judged it to be a foul ball, shouting 'safe' and performing a 'six" cricket symbol. Everyone laughed at the Englishman trying to do American Sports. I laughed along with them, hiding the shame that was to Sports badly in front of other Sportoes. My friends, Ole E and Big Mike ( My friends have the coolest names) then took me aside one night and taught me how to catch pop ups. It was one of the most fun nights I had that first year and they probably don't even remember it. 

Ultimate Frisbee

Yes, it *is* a sport. Right, got that out of the way. The ROK-U league is one of the best times I ever had, and I learned quickly this was a game at which you could suck and no one cared. My first season I played with my good friend Tony ( <---Where's your cool name, Tony?) and I realized, I couldn't throw well, I couldn't catch well, I couldn't run fast, and I couldn't run for. Long time. I suuuuuuuuuuuuuuucked at frisbee. I still went, but by the second season, my role had been clearly defined. I was very much a last resort for a substitute, but a bloody good heckler and drinker. So I role played. I thought about which person I would hate, if I were a lifetime fan of the team I was supporting. I would think about what they had done to earn my undying animosity. In my head, I would create sports news headlines, saying this player has been accused of acting like a pompous ass, throwing money around and thinking they were the bee's knees.  I shit you not, both 'pompous ass' and 'bee's knees' entered my mind as part of a process to get enraged. We call that English Gentlemanning Level 80. Anyway, I would then deliver a monologue of negative vibes and bad karma upon some hapless fooled. Usually it was Daejeon Pandemic who were so good, or Paul Groba, because shit happens, Groba. Shit happens. Thing is, off the field, I loved these people. They would hang out and we would drink. It was Korea. Of course we drank. I once asked Groba if it bothered him when I would heckle him. He'd chuckle and say it was a part of the game. And I, the real me, would desperately hope that to be true. But the Character I had created in my head wanted to see a fucking tear in his eye.

Mixed Martial Arts

So, if you have ever lived in Daegu in the last decade and you were a working emigrant, sorry, ex-pat, you probably know about Fight Club. That's because Nick Heroux's Fight Club is not a secret club designed to make white collar workers alive by beating the snot out of Meatloaf. It is a mixed martial arts society that meets to train, spar and develop fighting, self defense, confidence, health yadda yadda yadda. Honestly, I hated going to Fight Club. It was full of guys who were always going to be healthier, and apparently happier. I cannot think of one long term member who seemed withdrawn. Maybe Fish ( <---again, with the cool names) , but I think that was Probably because he was a former WetWork CIA agent, and how do you not feel sad about those memories? But that was not the real problem. I could not disengage from the act of sparring. I was always going to have to stay mind alert, body alert, mind aware, body aware. Do you guys have any idea how hard that is for someone like me? I have enough trouble focusing on writing a book. Now, instead of an iPad and keyboard in front of me, I got some bald Canadian punching me in the nose. And he is grinning about it. I lost focus at Fight Club a total of five times. The first time, Jamari (cool name) threw me up in the air and then jumped up to land his linebacker body all over me. THe second time, I got punched in the nose. The third , I rolled my ankle so badly I couldn't walk right for a week. That's right, I was one of Bad Santa's Mall Whores. The fourth, my knee went. The fifth, my ACL tore and my Meniscus shredded. My wife made me promise not to go to Fight Club again. Say what you will about those near naked sweaty dudes rolling around on the floor together in a cage, they are paying attention.

So, look, in a world suddenly filled with Pokemon Go, and geeks suddenly feeling okay about moving abut outside again, I say great. Just do it properly, role play that son of a bitch. Just, you know, focus. Don't walk into the the middle of the main road. Even if your character has decided this is a great way to further their back story. I'll understand, but you'll still be dead. 

Ten People You Meet Working at the Convenience Store

Convenience store workers receive general denigration by the public at large. It's not a hatred, nor really even a dislike. It's simple societal placement. No one wants to e considered at the same level as a convenience store worker. If your career path has you working at one, you tell yourself it is only a temporary stall on the way to eventual success, or more depressingly, the inevitable result of your failures earlier in your life. School children work at the convenience store. Immigrants work at the convenience store. Has been send also ranks work at the convenience store. And currently, so do I.

Working the tills all day, you get to see all kinds of shoppers. The co-operative has split these shoppers into their own designated descriptions. The weekly shopper, the newspaper collector, the person on their way home, and so on. I know because I have read the same newsletter that's been posted on the wall in the tiny excuse for a break room umpteen times. I disagree Witht the politically correct terms the shop uses. 

The Drunk - I hate you so much. You are the worst. You come in, stinking the place up, breathing smoke and liquor in my face. You find the most pathetic excuses to come into the shop. You once bought toothpicks, claiming you were hosting a dinner party. You made sure to buy your alcohol so that dinner party must have had a liquid dinner. I don't even care that much about your debilitating disease. I serve other alkys throughout the day, pouring their change into their shaking fingers. The difference is just how pathetic you are, jsut how determined you are to be the center of attention. Who drops their shop t the till, get half way through , and realise you want to buy another ten items a scattered throughout the shop? Who else does not know their PIN number? Who else screams at the attendant to take your contactless card becasue you don't know how it works, despite having been shown how to put a card against a EPOS? Who else looks bac a the line of people behind them, as they flail about, and laugh at their own failure? Man, I hate you. I find ways to not serve you. When I see you walk through the entrance, I hope I have a fifteen minute break available. I will look down at my till if you are the next customer in the queue. I will tell my current customer the receipt is slow, the card is taking its time. I will not use that enter button until one of my colleagues take the bullet. You are the worst.

The Kid - You rock up to the counter, with one or two sweets. You want a bag. You have the exact change. I love helping you work out wha the change is going to be. If you are white, you invariably do not know the answer. If you are black or Asian, you are usually correct. You always want a receipt, or never want a receipt. You are quite frankly, adorable. And then, one day, you become a teenager and you are loud and giggly. You are asking for cigarettes, rival and lighters. You are offensive when I ask you for I.D. , as if your scraggly excuse for mustache hair is enough. Dude, my mustache is straggly but at least I can back it up with a passport. You need to go home and study for your GCSEs. Hope that you do well enough in your exams that you do not come in with an application form. However, you will. As far as you are concerned, your parents and neighbouass have made it clear this store is the center, the hive, the apex of Life.

The Overwhelmed Parent - Hooray , you showed up at my till with a full trolley, AND a pram filled with groceries. The child is the original spawn of Satan, screaming, cackling with malicious glee as it runs around the store, grabbing Kinder eggs and throwing them into the chilled bottles section. It even gives you the Oushka Oushka look, mouth in an ancient ROmany curse, despite not being to form English words beyond 'I WANT THIS!", MUMMMMMMM" and of course, "No!" You poor bitch. You know every person in the shop is judging you but here's the thing. You are broken. The child has taken you into their corral, and destroyed your spirit. You only live for the day they will move out, or more likely, get arrested for setting a bus full of nuns on fire. Until then, as your shop comes to a merciful close, the screams and wails from your Daemonseed reverberating off the pot noodles, you whisper through cracked lips just what brand of cigarettes you need to make it through the day. It's probably Mayfair Smooth, isn't it?

The Overindulging Parent - You arrive at the till just like the previous parent. However, your child roams free. You read books that talk of letting your child explore their surroundings. You talk of letting them have their little adventures. Nice. Thanks. Their adventures include putting make up in the cold meats section, taking the KInder Eggs (Seriously, Kinder Egg company? Can you make your POS a little less child friendly? It's their version of an insect blue light.) and putting them in actual egg boxes. It even includes running around and kicking members of staff in their knees, which may or may not have had surgery. Meanwhile, you are so slow with your groceries. It's almost as if you are dragging out the time you are spending with a human being , and not just with your own lil' adventure. Well, don't. I didn't have sex with you with a cheap condom, and I sure as hell am not in love with you or your family. Hurry up, take your shopping, take your child and fuck right off.

The Foreigner - Shit may get racist here. You come into the store, often wearing a bicycle helmet or ceremonial clothing without any trace of irony. You walk through the crowds with the heavy tread of someone who is only just getting used to the overwhelming despair of living in British society. You buy fresh vegetables and meat. You don't go looking for bargain basement, products that are about to go out of date. You are better than your English counterparts. You dress better, you are more polite, you have better hair and your eyes have hope still flickering within them. I bag your food and watch you ride out on your scooter, again without a trace of irony. Internally, I beg and plead for you to take me with you to what I can only imagine is a hidden Tuscan Villa estate, resplendent with drum circles, amazing fruits, and bonfires on beaches. Watford has never looked as sexy.

The White Collar -  Entry level workers, surging from their call centre, holding their meal deals in their arms, chatting to their co-workers in the line, letting the rest of the world know, they are all successful office workers. Fuck you guys I did your gig. Your gig is awful. Don't pretend your life is better than mine. We are all pawns. Enjoy your Prawn Mayo Sandwiches as you sit at your desk, bordered by skinny walls designed to make you feel as isolated as possible. Sip your Fanta Zero (WHY!?) as you grimly realize you will never get that Team Leader position, and even if you do, that's it for you. Enjoy your egg slices, you Failed Man Walking.

The Blue Collar - Pain on your coveralls, hard hat at a jaunty angle, dirty , calloused hands. None of this makes up the fact you think being rude is the same as being working class honest. Turn all your words together, you talk about scores and ponies instead of actual money denominations. You are not a Cockney. You are not a Guy RItchie gangster. You are a man who probably went to Bushey Meads School. Grow up, learn glottal stops. Stop claiming to be that which you aren't. I do like it when you go through this whole rigmarole, then at the till you have a bottle of the Chenin Blanc, along with smoked salmon and bagels. Faker.

The Regular - You are great. You know what you want, you know where it is. You do not cause a fuss. If you catch my eye, you acknowledge me as a fellow human being. You might even ask how I am as well, which of course will blow my mind.  You let me know I am doing a good job, or even that I am the best part of your day. The conversations we have will last for months, four or five sentences of dialogue a day. It's lovely. You're lovely. You are the breaths of fresh air I need to suck down to survive the olluted dross that is the rest of the shopping populace. You make my day. Don't you dare change.