Social what now?

If you are reading this, it means you're on the Internet.  Hell, the fact that you can read it means that I'm on the Internet too.  Hi!  How are you?  What brings you here?  &c &c...

Whatever the Internet was originally conceived for, that premise is no longer the priority.  Military intelligence network?  A way of opening the Peer Review process out to potentially the entire world's Scientific community?  Mind Control?  Who knows!  Actually, a lot of that still goes on, unbelievably.  I know, right?  In the mid-ninties, something else happened.  Google was born.  Now the entire world could look for the entire world while comparing stocks and shares, or whatever serious people use the Internet for.  The order of the day in this rip-roaring 21st century, as I'm sure you're already aware as you read this from a holographic display in your flying car piloted by your robot butler, is Wikipedia, Instant Messaging, free Pornography, Twitter, reading newspapers, "Web logging" (Blog), and the real bread, onions and beer of this particular soliloquy (at least I think it's a soliloquy...): Social Networking.  Oh, and comics.

What is the point of "Social Networking" then?  Answers on the back of a postage stamp to the usual address as standard please (more on that story later).  All of the major sites (or more accurately, the ones I know about/can be bothered to remember), Bebo MySpace and of course the mighty Facebook all follow the same pattern.  You sign up, and depending on your real age and the service you're registering for give a real or fictionalised account of your date of birth, marital status, &c &c  You fill in your sundry details and put up a picture of yourself so you may attract the people you know and can recognise you by sight to your page/profile and attract people you don't know with your handsome face, interesting hobbies, witty quotes and so on and so forth.  This process continues until you can basically talk to anyone you want, and several people you don't want, with out actually speaking or committing word to page.  Brilliant!  All the hard work taken out of being sociable right?  Wrong.  You can't have a drink, be that coffee, alcohol or coffee with alcohol in it over the internet.  You cannot share an impromptu song, or the smell of perfume or a scribble on a napkin or anything like that.  Don't forget you can't make eye contact.  Very important.  Or a handshake, for that matter.  

Am I just being old fashioned?  I mean, sometimes it's the closest you can get to someone when they're on another continent, I guess.  Or it's the middle of the night, and you happen to be on an IM service.  False situations are created, I'm not saying they're all bad but they're still false.  Black and White, are they right or wrong?  OH GOD I DON'T KNOW IT'S A GREY AREA NOOOOOOOO *a-hem*

All said, I rather enjoy writing this crap.  I know I don't have a massive readership by any measure, but some people are reading this somewhere, and I don't care if on reading my Vignettes you think I'm some whiny emo kid suffering a terminal case of being an ass hat, because I am quite an ass hat and I rather feel as if I'm suffering a terminal case of heartbreak as well so go figure pal.  

Ironically enough, as an internet-based nerd with crippling social difficulties and a mental disability, I rather relish the challenge of meeting people in the flesh.  Yes, I have to listen to someone else's stories, share my precious personal space and usually spend refreshment for myself or them as well, but I rather like it on balance.  Hell may well be other people, but if heaven were peaceful I'd find a way to get myself kicked out.  The uneasy monster of dating is looming nearby, but what with my recent record I'm in no fit state to talk about it so openly.  Let's just say for now that I don't date.  

What about writing though, that ancient medium?  As much as these are words that you are reading that I have wrest into order, nothing beats pen (or pencil) on paper.  It's easily my best method of communication, the written word, which is how these blasted posts manage to be so long.  There's an almost unbroken brain-to-hand trail, unlike brain-to-mouth, which is tricky at best.  That vital second of thought makes all the difference for writing/typing/signing &c.  I rather like letters.  Who out there wants to correspond?  Handwritten as standard.  There is one particular person I really want to write to, but I'm actually frightened to ask, for once.  Sorry, I meant AS USUAL.  I haven't even seen them online for days, and the wonders of the Short Message Service haven't been effective.  Anyway.  If anybody out there who is reading this crap wants to get in touch, do it.  If you show me yours, I'll show you mine.  Of course I meant address, you prevert.  

Social Networking, Old School Stylee.

There's no place like...

After a night with my back line at HQ, I made the plunge earlier today.  Saddled up and ready to take the ever-shifting road system on, I took the Dawes out to cycle down to the armpit of the midlands.  You will never a more wretched hive of scum and villainy...than Derby!

That's right.  Urbs Natalis is once again Urbs Currens.  The bastards couldn't kill me, not when I have THIS to return to.  There's something vaguely comforting about almost being mown down by bright yellow taxis, the 01332 area code, the tacky pubs and clubs...I could go on.  The surrounding countryside knocks a lot of the rest of this country into a cocked hat, what with stunning vistas and thrilling valleys, quaint villages with their churches and so on and so forth.  At some point I will even venture out to the aforementioned tacky locales, populated as they are by the fleshpots of Derby...Ugh.  But you know, it's good to be back.  I mean, really good.

As we reached the end of the academic year, I rather began to run out of chutzpah.  Unsatisfactory housing, lack of food and a lot of upset, mostly emotional, do not agree with people of my delicate temperament.  Oh, best mark that down on your calendars or something, because I'm not going to refer to myself as delicate very often.  Capisce?  Anyway.  I think I got a bit cabin feverish towards the last few days, it still hasn't quite left me.  The cycling helps, as concentrating on the road leaves little room for anything else, and I get a break from the unbearable lightness of being, especially after the last week.  Those who know, know.  Some things...just never go my way.  

As far away from Norfolk as I am, I still have a lot left to do before I can really rest up.  I have to salvage my housing situation, which is bloody complicated to say the least.  Watch this space, eh?  I need to get in touch with several relevant parties and basically break to bad news, which won't be pretty.  I need to arrange the tour as well, and hopefully it will take me even further away from the East Anglian part of England, in a geographical sense anyway.  I almost don't want to go back at all now.  I really really don't.  This year has been one of the hardest I've had the fortune to survive, and I can quite comfortably say I don't relish the idea of any more like it, especially if next year will follow the same pattern.  I've never been so ill in all my life!  I genuinely thought I was going to die when a Ginsters Deep Fill Chicken & Bacon sandwich gave me food poisoning, the malicious bastard, and let's not forget my very own dalliance with the Swine Flu.  The upset, the failures, the backstabbing, the junior handshake clubs and financial ruin have taken an almost fatal toll on me.  Why would I want to put myself back into that situation?  Why do I have to?

But I will.  The time will come in September when we pack me up again and shift me across the country to Norwich, to see off the final year, the last hurrah.  And it really will be the last as well.  I plan to move up North and find my fortune not on stage, but as a Layclerk, hopefully with some sort of archive/library job on the side.  London would chew my up and spit me out, I don't have the wherewithal to cope with the Bog Smoke just yet, but one day I will.  It's just that I'm going to take my time over it.  

There are many people I don't want to leave behind from Norwich, and indeed Norfolk.  The people and places, on the whole (with some notable exceptions) are fine.  The situations I find myself in though, are deplorable.  Unfamiliarity breeds contempt, and I would rather soak up the radiation from the free wi-fi outside the Big Blue Coffee Shop than anywhere Norwich has to offer.  This is my home, as much as my mother has abandoned Derby for "Skeg Vegas", this is still my place.  You could accuse me of being small minded and having no ambition, but seeing as I have a desire to escape Norfolk I urge you to reconsider.  At a push, there are even people I would want to bring back here...both to add to the back line but also to stand at the forefront with me...but I'm getting ahead of myself.  

I'm glad I'm back.  Almost happy...(more on that story later)  The tour continues.  It's just nice to be able to have a rest again.

Vignette IV

It wasn't so much time that was the problem.  It was tone.  Or timbre.  I can never tell.  

In fact, that I can never tell is the problem.  What can I say?

God damn it.  I thought it was right but it wasn't.

"Lunch is so wonderfully simple, let's keep it that way"

Fair enough, I guess.  What to do now though?  

Die like a dog, and laugh it off.  Just like every other day then.

I wish I wasn't so alone.  Would it kill to hold my hand and make me feel like a person?

Shift expectations and change the world.

I'll be waiting for you with a grin as wide as the truth.

Vignette III

Time.

There's never enough time.

Now's not the time.  When is it ever?

What happens when time runs out?

I never do these things at the right time.  It's like I don't know what's happening.  Or maybe I do, and my subconscious is so frightened of change that I unconsciously put stumbling blocks in my way.  

However, there is still time left...just enough to make a difference.  I will make time to come back. 

One more time.  The Last Hurrah.  Two day's time.  This is it.

Time.

Vignette II

Lying devalues the truth.  Or does it? 

White lies...well, maybe not.  That's how it goes though.

Bare and shamed faced lying on the other hand, and indeed, looking at the shadows on my cave wall, getting other people to lie for you, absolutely fucking stinks.  In a way, I retch, but in another way I don't in the slightest.  I no longer feel enslaved, under the thumb, on a leash, or any other similar image you'd like to present.  Entries on the back of a postage stamp as usual.

Over the last few months, I really have had my eyes opened as far as character is concerned.  There really are very few actual real people round here.  I think the final nail in the coffin came earlier today.

The manipulation, the back-stabbing, the guilt-tripping.  All of it can come to an end now because I saw what was going off behind the green curtain and realised I'm free.  Released.  Never again will they cross my path.

You forfeited your right to be my friend when you wouldn't even have the courtesy to look me in the eye.  You forfeited the right to speak to me when you started ignoring me.  Piss off you stupid hypocritical martyr.  Oh, and you forfeited the right to be a person when you got people to lie for you when you couldn't even muster the spine to speak to me yourself.  Go, child.  Get out.  You'll get everything you deserve one day, and not necessarily by my hand either.  The funny thing is I'm not upset that I can see you clearly for what you are, but that I couldn't see that earlier.

One of my best and most trusted friends turned out to be nothing short of a disgusting and pathetic whelp.  If I never hear your name again it's all the same to me.  

"What are you doing here, Peb?"  Looks like the real answer was 'wasting my time'.

And as you close your eyes...

"What are you doing here, Peb?"

Actually it's a good question.  Taken out of context it looks strange, but to be fair in the context it was more than relevant.  The unfortunate nature of my badman cyclist tactics (and that means at high speed (speed limits don't apply to cyclists, right?)) means I need a short breather after such distance is traversed, and thus I was still around to be questioned, but to be honest we're straying into less-than-abstract commentary on reality and more into analysing the shadows on the cave walls, so enough enough.  

Not only was I asked that question earlier with good reason (my reaction was a little overblown and hardnosed though.  In my valiant attempt to not be bitter I have acquired a certain...insensitivity), but recalling the experience reminds me of an episode even earlier in the evening (look at that cave wall go), with the inimitable J of N.  During a usual conversation about the poor end of the stall, and I was pretty wound up, I recounted my continual pride of having left the house, and indeed leaving the house every single day.  "Pardon?"  Utter confusion reigned over my compatriot's reply.  Indeed, why should I be proud of such a mundane act?  Perhaps you should ask why shouldn't I be proud of it.

Ladies and Gentlemen, you are reading the handiwork an adult living with a disability.  SHOCK HORROR NERD HAS CRIPPLING FEELINGS OF SOCIAL INADEQUACY AND WRITES ABOUT IT ON THE INTERNET.  Get over it.  

I'm not a cripple (not just yet anyway, but I'm heading that way for sure), but rather I "suffer", if you are closed-minded enough to think of it in that way with Asperger's Syndrome, or Autistic Spectrum Disorder.  Or if you're really ignorant, I'm some freakish nutjob who can't tie his shoelaces properly.  (True fact though)  Not only that but I have a list of symptoms as long as your arm (even you, Mr. Fantastic) and also put up with Attention Defecit Hyperactivity Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Dyspraxia, Dysgraphia, and Synesthesia.  Also due to my Autism I have an inbuilt disregard for authority short of total disrespect, which can often reflect in my language.  No, not my fremdsprache but more the fact that my usual patter is peppered with more expletives than your body has room for, spun off the tongue with the same casual attitude as a simple "how do you do".  Well, that and I genuinely believe there is respectable mileage in Anarchism.  ANYWAY, ON WITH THE SHOW.

Last I heard, and indeed, as I tell anyone who will listen, when I started at University, in a the clement September of 2008, the drop out rate for students with Asperger's was 80% within the first month.  Ok, you can prove anything with statistics, but still, 80%?  An almost overwhelming majority feel that the strain is too much, and make a tactical retreat.  Now, I don't have a hold on these statistics by any means, so say maybe 20% 0f that 80% choose to reapply...and say within 3 years as well.  Maybe I'm right?  Seems like a nice figure anyway.  Now, stick with me here.  This pristine figure that I clasp to my bosom only refers to students in the first year.  What about the years after that?  How many Autistic students make it through their degrees?  How many of them never move off campus?  I can confirm that out of a definite 16 students with Asperger's Syndrome (at the beginning of this year), I was the only one who demanded (and I bloody demanded alright) to live off campus.  I am proud to push myself beyond all safe limits and try to live as ordinary a life as I possibly can.  The repercussions can take their toll though; every so often I need to switch off and get out of the game, but only as a temporary tactical withdrawal.  I'm often back in the game before I know it.  Yes, I have a crippling phobia of clowns, Yes I need my shopping to be on the conveyor belt in a certain way (I get stared at regularly) and YES I have a black and white view on ethics, morality &c &c.  What I'm doing here, is bucking the trend and proving to myself as much as everyone else that I will not be beaten by my labels and symptoms.  I will be out there making a difference until the very last second.

"What are you doing here, Peb?"  Just trying to do a favour for a friend.  There's always another way.  

And as  you close your eyes for the Big Sleep, I hope you think of me.

Fire up the Quattro!

You know, I've been searching my whole life for a real hero.  Someone I can look to for a lead, to respect and aspire to, whose qualities I can emulate and synthesise into my own modus operandi.  Only thing is, having found him, I now only have to come to terms with his fictional nature.

Gene Hunt.  Gene Hunt is my hero.

Think about it!  As characters, we're not too dissimilar.  Gruff, rude men who spend a fair amount of time in the pub with a close knit team of friends and colleagues especially after a job.  The Coach & Horses is my version of The Railway Arms.  We both love our vehicles, although the Dawes doesn't quite have the same impact as the Quattro(!)

A no-nonsense approach to the job brings us together as well, with our love of duty, and also being an "old school maverick", where not a week goes by at Spamcroft without Madam Director reminding me that the "affected school" of church music is no longer the status quo and being likened to a "fifty year old man" when I sing the lower octave springs swiftly to mind.  I'm beginning to wonder whether Ashley Pharoah and Matthew Graham been watching my life?  Ok, granted that Gene's not autistic, but still...

You can imagine that first fateful day, when Gene was created...

"Right, we need to think about this.  We need this guy to be set in his ways, not so much reluctant but pretty much ignorant to change...He's the boss, but he still throws his weight around to prove it..."

'Well, this kid in Derby seems to be our man!  Uncaringly offensive, no respect for any authority but his own, likes to push his mates around a bit.  Sounds a bit more northern than the rest do as well'

"Perfect!  We'll take what we like and, and errr, yeah, make him a copper...drinker and smoker...make him a bit racist, sexist, anything else ending in ist we can shoehorn in, and take it from there.  Oh yeah, let's make him Mancunian.  Get Phil Glenister in on it as well.  Genius."

Ok, it probably didn't go quite like that, but you get the gist.

Just think about it though.  Who am I?  I am the Captain.  I didn't just pull my twitter name out of my arse you know.  The Captain, The Doctor, the Drum and The Bishop all together are our very own A-Division, CID, whatever.  I refer to my house as Castle Pebblez, my room, the front parlour, is my Kingdom, a little place for me to call home.  Nobody ever waltzes in playing King of the Jungle, I can tell you.  In the light of the finale of Ashes to Ashes, we discover that the 'Genieverse' is indeed his creation.  A whole world constructed around the indestructibility of Gene's Soul/personality/spirit, his sheer strength of will.  A bubble set against the maelstrom of the cosmos, which basically is pretty much how I see my world!  My lack of perception of 'the outside' is always surprising, even to me still!  Where people go once they leave my line of sight is a mystery, even if I know where they live, or if they're off to a different pub or bar, or I leave them.  As far as I'm concerned right now, sitting in the living room, is that outside of the house isn't real, the street's a figment of my imagination, and Norwich is a figment of my imagination.  The rest of the world?  A fever dream.  It helps me cope with my life, just like his world helps himself (and also others) cope with death.  The Gene Genie looks after his own, like I try to.   

And through all that bullshit, through all that swagger, I'm just a skinny kid who just needs fattening up.

Now the series has come crashing to a spectacular end, where does Gene go from here?  Well, as we saw, he gets another dying DI from the 21st century to look after, and probably another round with that Hell-Hound Keats.  You watch it again, Keats doesn't quite break him.  Shattered, maybe but not broken.  The way gene gets taken apart is nothing short of heartbreaking, but watching him build it all back again is inspiring.  "Still a bit of boyish defiance?  Magic."  A sterling performance by all involved.  I've never cared so much about fictional characters before, people that I know aren't really real.  Or maybe their character isn't fictional?  The crux of the matter is that these 'characters' themselves are real, but the situations and so on are the fictional element, even though both Life on Mars and Ashes to Ashes are set against historical backgrounds ('83 election in Ashes series 3, for example), and this is what has made it so gripping.  

What about this side of the tube though?  People will look for another Gene Hunt, another cult figure to hold on to who's out of this world.  Me?  Won't have to.  As long as I hold on to myself, the Gene Genie's always with me.  I'm everywhere, Bolly.  I was needed, and I was there.

My tribute?  This post.  The attitude.  The dated wardrobe.  The lingo.  I won't have to try hard for it to sink in, because half of it's already here.  As long as when I die, Gene Hunt's my Choirmaster in chorister Limbo, I can pass on a happy man.  Or maybe I could be that Choirmaster.  Is it just me, or am I talking in another dimension?