Vignette XII

Tonight, I managed to awaken The Demon. Yes, The True Demon, the very same.


Once, a long time ago, The Demon was part of the public face of The Captain. Years and years ago. Over half a decade.

The Demon went to sleep; He wasn't necessary to the proceedings, see. After the show in 2008 He took some time off. 2010 only had the single outing as well, but he delighted therein. Now, it is the third decade, and thanks to the 2011 show, he has awakened.

I've had seven different people thank me tonight for my Bass playing, but each one of them has thanked me multiple times. The first night was fine, the second night was terrible, and on the third night The Demon was in control. The last night, and very much the best night.

The thing is I am a singer, first and foremost. But amongst all the rest that I do, playing the Bass is basically my second study. After a few days' warm up, I know my frets again without question, and I do love playing. Even over my Organ Scholarship, my Bass playing is something special.

The Demon has always been the other half of myself, ever since he woke up 7 years ago.

I need him now. I can't tell whether The Demon is a mask or not, such is His precedence. He will stay with me no matter what. And He's here with me now; awake. Short of Uncle Philip, He's all I can ask for.

Turn the Wheels

I warn you now, I feel distinctly unwell. I've got four nights of Caberet ahead of me (more on that story later), and seem to be suffering from an indecent cold. FEH.

So, what's new? Well, not much actually. I still haven't started my dissertation, my room's still a tip, and I'm still going. Business as usual then! I'm still suiting up for more than half of the week and still refer to my learned lecturer, Dr. Alan Howard as "Sir". The rings have returned, but I really need a new one for my right hand. Not only am I getting a lot of feminine cracks about it, but also the fact that it came from a certain person for a certain reason (which also means I can't or won't wear it on my left hand) makes me a little loath to wear it. I'm very happy with having a ring on the right hand, and the white gold makes a nice contrast (in typical two-tone style) to my left hand's yello gold rings, but...well, you know. I'm looking for a sterling silver number to take its place.

This all seems to be part of a willing regression before the ultimate progression, my graduation. As I explain to people who question the appearance of my bling, I routinely and truthfully answer that I used to wear them all the time, not to mention wearing a suit every day, and also referring to my educators by honourifics. Dr. Waters I call The Boss, J of N I call Chief, and Dr. Howard and Mr. John Stephens are Sirs. I've gone back to playing the Banjo for several hours a week, and with Caberet have been playing Bass a lot more. (More on those stories later.) It is almost as if I am returning, in a way, to te good old days of one's Grammar School. The safety and security of these old habits is keeping me bouyed in a tumultuous sea of progress that is both inevitable and inescapable. It's a living, huh?

But anyway. Back in those Halcyon times, I was in a steady relationship. I can almost feel you rolling your eyes as you read this, but I have had much cause to remember this, not only because I'm surrounded by first years who are or are not in long distance relationships that are or are not working, but also because of the artefact on my right hand. Long time (or should I say new as well) readers and those who know me to any personal extent are familiar with my constant wailing about the lack of one now. Anyway, something funny happened to my thought process the other day. It's most heartening.

So, usual set up. Beautiful girl, admired and loved from afar by the Captain without him realising. After some though Captain becomes aware and therefore becomes too terrified to do anything about it.
Nothing new yet, eh? Read on.
Captain begins to become aware of a nagging feeling behind the forehead. No, it isn't brain death, that happened long ago. He feels foolish and ashamed about his fears! Even he himself is tired of his ridiculous lack of courage, when he has enough chutzpah to leave the flat every day. What? Even I'm tired of not doing anything.

So what will actually happen? Good question. One of my problems is that there are rather a lot of attractive ladies I would wish to take out; basically there's too much choice. OR I fancy neither one more than the others. The latter is probably more like it. It's not that I'm commitnent-phobic (far from it, in fact, I'm actually phobic of clowns (But not Papa Lazaru)), but perhaps I am in not commiting to the one. Or maybe, just maybe, this is what "playing the field" is all about. I rather feel that I'm the one getting played though, if the field itself is some sort of metaphysical player.

For once, maybe I will. I'm totally doing this at the wrong time what with my dissertation and all...but it'll be good. What's the worst that could happen?

Vignette XI

Well, there we go. Another Valentines barely survived.

There's a card on my desk. It didn't come from anyone. I didn't send it to anyone. I didn't take it back. It's just...there. And I'm never going to forget that it's there, wherever I choose to squirrel it away. The main reasons I didn't send it are ponderous and well known. The other reason? Just straight out afraid. I haven't done this for too long, and I have no idea where I start again.

I've never felt so alone for a long time. I close this door, and that's it. The rest is silence.

So in a way fitting that I should return to the drama studio for my place as the Bassist. Driven by my own inhumanity to play.

But it's always going to be like this, isn't it? I'm afraid of being alone forever. I'm even more afraid that there's nothing I can do about it. Oh well. All I have left to do is carry on. And that's all I'll do. It is my duty.

Valentines, Schmalentines!

Well, would you look at the time! The last time I put something on here for public consumption it was last year! I didn't even post on/near my birthday to tell you all how OLD I AM NOW (seriously the old grey is getting settled in my precious barnet). I was sung the traditional Birthday 'ode' a grand total of five (Yes HQ quiz fans, that's fffffffiyve) times, including twice in the pub where I decided it would be best to hide under the table for one rendition. God's sake.

Anyway, beyond that, my birthday passed without any real incident. In fact, everyone was so nice to me that I thought "perhaps these people do like me after all". I know, deep folly! That was almost a month ago now though, and I can say that I am acclimatising to this grand old and edifying age of 21 in my usual fashion; slowly but surely. It is instead the next great calendar occasion that I turn my burning interest towards, that of Valentines Day (BOOM PARP KABOOM)

Saints Valentine are now long forgotten in what I can only describe as the world's worst Hallmark massacre. Cards, flowers, gifts, dinners, lingerie, chocolates and so on and so forth are all present and incorrect for this for this most consumerist ritual. It's almost as bad as Christmas! I can only be thankful that the pre-season buildup is mostly in people's minds, rather than actually starting up to three months early. Still, there's going to be a lot of red and pink tat going for cheap in the next few weeks, not to mention that single roses will be on the quick sale as they will be past their prime by the 17th.

A selection of heart-themed stationary jams the windows of every card and greeting shop up and down the land, seasonal gift aisles of Supermarkets and not forgetting the huge bouquets on sale from the floating Street Vendors on Gentlemans' walk. Pastel pinks and floral lilacs are the pallette of choice, and rose tints are standard equip for spectacle wearers. Right? WRONG

(it helps if you imagine the -ong of that echoing like a bell)

One of my flatmates asked me what I was doing for the day itself, hailing the 14th as "The Day every Girl hates". I pursued a road of obliviousness as to when this supposed day could be, even though the answer was glaringly obvious. I shared my poor statistics of giving and receiving with her and inquired as to her plans. Turns out that all but one of the delightful ladies with whom I am priviledged to share these two flats with are without a steady (or even inconstant) suitor, and will therefore be out on Monday night to drown this particular sorrow with large amounts of Alcohol. Suffice to say, it is my primary intention to join them on this mission, as Lord knows I need a drink.

We'll stop for a little break. You can collect your thoughts and I'll go slip into something more comfortable. Like a coma.

Let's not stop now I'm going though. I mean, I could write things that would make 14 year olds with fringes over their faces, an addiction to black eyeliner and scars (or fake scars) up their arms and a face full of piercings roll their eyes and say "puhhh-lease". Let's see, there was the one that broke my heart (ha ha there's always got to be one), the one that treated me like dirt, the one who tried to turn me against my best friend, the one who was sleeping with someone else anyway, the one who put me down so gently I felt like I was made of glass, and the one who dropped me like a hot coal, not forgetting the one that made a run for it...and that's only remembering off the top of my head. There have been a few that continually blow hot and cold, so I guess they get tacked on, except I haven't made a compleat fool of myself just yet by trying to make an awkward and uncomfortable pass at them. It's probably a bad idea to do so, so I shan't bother. What the hell is wrong with me, seriously? Am I that undesirable to the people I am attracted to? Maybe some of them don't get it. Ok, fine, I'm not the most obvious guy in the world where the expression of my feelings is concerned, but I try. In my own retarded and limited fashion, I do try. Obviously there is something in my limitations that causes every attempt to foster a relationship that is more than platonic to go drastically awry. And, unsurprisingly, I am tired.

As we've seen, I've basically ran out of people that I know and feel comfortable enough to ask out; my only option is therefore to try to meet new people. Yes, I put up a good front, and as long as you're all fooled and think that I'm fine and having a good time then that's all that matters. The less people ask me if I'm alright and what's wrong, the better. There is one girl who will not give up if I try to palm her of with a shrug and such, and I rather wonder whether it's worth asking her again, but I have a sinking feeling when I consider it, and having rocked the boat once I would rather not risk capsizing. It depresses me, and the more I think about or talk about my depression, the more depressed it makes me, which is why I try not to consider it. I was asked, recently, if I was happy and if I were depressed. The answers, of course are "no" and "yes", in that order. In fact, the "yes" is a most unsatisfactory answer in itself, because as long as I don't think about it too hard and just get on with things I'm pretty ok, but as soon as I start to talk about it WHOOPS there we go. Time is running out because I have to finish my dissertation as well, and my project, and every bloody thing else.

Also WHOOPS because it looks like I've just given the secret away there.

When I came back to Norwich, I bought a Valentines card. Yes, after all that Reefer Madness style decrying, I still bought in. Actually, it's a rather nice card. There's a simple picture on the front, and blank interior. I'm still trying to think of something to write in it, mainly because I have nobody I wish to send it to now. When I bought it, there were 5 people I was thinking about, including two that I was seriously considering asking out. Well, here we are, about to board the weekend and I'm drawing blanks. Every one of these fine females has either shacked up with someone else in the intervening time, or I have since found out that they're waiting for someone specific, or that they have absolutely no interest in me past the old faithful platonic boundary. Good job my shoulders are broad, eh? That's terrible, isn't it? The one time I want to give some small token to let a girl know I feel a romantic affection for them, I find that there's nobody that I can give to that would even end favourably. I give up. I'm tempted to take the card back to shop (oh yes, I still have the receipt), but surely that's even sadder? Admit defeat gracefully, boy. There is no other course.

Next Monday, therefore, can be no different to any other Monday. I'll still do my practice, and I'll still go to UEA Choir, and I'll still lock up at the end of the night. I think I gave three times in all, two of those times cards and two of those times with the same person in the last 5 years. In return, I have seen very little, and indeed, absolutely nothing from any further than 3 years back. I am most likely to go out, and beat my liver up and cause my bank balance to cry even louder. If I stay in, however, my house will be locked and there will be no places set at my table. Who knows! Perhaps I might get some work done, pursue some sort of constructive, academic evening.

Right, enough! Rant over.

For now.

...For a Good Year

The alternate title of this post is "Last Orders"

There's no end to the melodrama, as this is THE LAST BLOG OF THE YEAR ARGH ASDFASDFASDF

I can't believe it's the 29th of December.  Perhaps I don't want to believe it's the 29th.  Where the hell has the year gone?  Tomorrow I'll be writing my New Year's awards tomorrow on Facebook, where dirt won't be dished, and prizes have already been handed out.  At this moment in time I'm savouring a particularly sarcastic response from Eric Pollard.  

I shan't miss 2010.  How do you say it?  Twenty ten?  Two thousand and ten?  Or do you articulate raw numerals, without transliterating them?  MMX?  Em Em Ex?  Whatever; this year that's just finishing can do one.  One disaster after another effectively reduced me to the simpering pile of depression that you've been reading about, and my intractability and foolhardyness (bravery?) means I won't take any anti-depressants and I certainly won't run the gauntlet of Adult Mental Health Services, as if the Dean of Students' office is anything to go by, it'll be a fucking waste of my time!  HO HO HO.

So anyway.  Let's look forward instead.  Like John DeVore, I also believe that New Year's Resolutions are for suckers.  I'm sure there's a lot of you out there, either dedicated readers, onetime passers by, or even those who do not or will not read this, that in fact do make resolutions.  More accurately, I suppose resolutions are for losers, not us freaks.  I think that reflects me "us and them" philosophy, right?  I do not wish to insult you at all, dear reader or hypothetical reader or non-reader.  I haven't made a resolution at New Year since 2006, where I resolved to never make a resolution again.  A resolution I've kept ever since.  

The deal with New Year's Resolutions are pretty tricky.  Usually, the process of giving up smoking, losing weight, drinking less (all of which are perfectly possible) get swept up into the ridiculous stress of the turn of the year, and therefore most people give up by the 15th of February.  I think that's the average date for losing out anyway.  So, in a typical turn of mind, I promised I would never ever put myself under that undue stress again, and therefore got myself out of the game.  Of course I have a list of things for this year that will, if carried out, make it different from last year.  I have many things to focus on.

I have a barbershop quartet to run, and Organ Scholarship to progress through, a Choral Scholarship to survive, and a solo career to begin.  Not forgetting my dissertation and project.  I mean, seriously.  I haven't got time to moan about not getting a girlfriend...until after April, anyway, when all my academic projects have to be handed in.  At which point it will be this blog's anniversary, and I can start moaning again!  AHAHAHA.  As if I'll wait that long!  I give it two weeks personally.  Cough.  

But anyway.  I'm slightly worse for wear.  A dedicated cynic trying to be cheerful in the face of the New Year.  I want to have a good year, and I want you to have a good year.  We're about to enter the third decade of Pebblez, and I'm tired of the sub-par existence I've had of late, and I'm going to do my best to turn it around.  Not by resolving to, but just by doing so.  

Whatever you resolve to do, I hope you stick to it.  It's tough, and that's why I chose to do something more realistic.  If you succeed, I salute you.  If you don't, just keep at it.  Until next year, and next decade, I shan't be writing any more bullshit.  

And I only wish that all of you  may be sealed and inscribed for a good year.  

Season's Greetings

So!  Here it is!  MERRY CHRISTMAS!

What can I say?  Christmas is the only time of year that I am legally obliged to be happy.  Seriously.  You might have noticed that I'm not terribly happy over the course of the year...I suppose this year especially has been somewhat unique...(ha ha fucking ha), but overall, pretty much of the same.  So at Christmastide, I am usually a little more cheerful.

2010 has not been a good year.  Not in the slightest.  If there was a year that I would choose to obliterate from reality, it would be this one, funnily enough.  Never have I been more depressed or sorry to see the outside world.  The first eight months anyway.

From the back end of September onwards, my time has improved.  I've had a great first term at Uni, my living arrangements have been wonderful, my marks have been pretty good and I'm having a great Christmas holiday.  On the other hand, I haven't been able to get a date and my regular choir appointment has been less than happy.  Look at that!  I'm more bothered about the things that have gone wrong than the things that have gone right!  Typical.

I tell you what though, I was very sincerely and genuinely happy on Christmas Day itself.  I got a small haul of great presents, and spent all day with my mother, and the only brother related to me by blood, Nathan.  Sadly, Nathan is in the throes of 'Oh I got dumped so I'm going to be a miserable shit and I've got a bit of a sniffle so I've got the flu' at the moment, so that isn't the greatest Christmas message ever.  He's got a bit of a cold, so we're looking after him as much as he actually needs, not to what he wants.  

In fact, that last clause brings me on to my Christmas message, as it were.  The Lord sends us what we need, not what we want.  It's one of my core beliefs in the Lord, that he looks after us as is necessary, not as we desire.  *cough* Anyway, the hell I'm getting religious.  Let's speed on to the next part of my Chrimbo message.

I've sent my Christmas with my family.  I saw Alter Pappy on Christmas Eve, we picked Nathan up on the same night, Christmas with Nathan and Momme, and I went to HQ with Hannah tonight.  Over the next twelve days, I will spend as much time as I can with my extended family, the Captain's nearest and dearest.  Soon, I'll be back in Norwich, that "fine city", with the pleasures of St. Peter Mancroft Choral Scholarship to keep me.  I'm going to see Alter Pappy before I go back as well, and I've promised Uncle Philip that I'll see him before I go back.  I am a busy man!  

So what is my Christmas message?  Good question.  I advocate having a good time, remembering your family, and...well, I guess that's it.  That's all I had.  That's all you need.  Christmas is the only time of year I'm legally obliged to be happy, so I bloody will be!  Soon, I'll go back to flat 15/16, and begin the new term, but until then...best wishes of this most festive season, from me, to you.  Have a great Christmas.

May you be sealed and inscribed...

You know, I'm conscious of writing a lot of tawdry bullshit over the past year. I mean, seriously I am Mr. Boohoo. Life isn't exactly easy for someone with my somewhat unique combination of talents and disabilities, I sincerely doubt there is anyone quite like me in all the world. Ok, how glib was that? No, I seriously think it. I'm surrounded by indentikit stereotypes, from the 'naive idealist' to 'ignorant bourgeoisie', (Can you guess who? Answers on the back of a postage stamp to the usual address...) with all shades between as well, and who knows, maybe even I represent some sort of hackneyed cliche...the copper bottom bastard?

I've spent far too long being all weepy weepy and depressed, really it's time I reacquainted with the side of me that is nothing but a nasty piece of work. It's always worked in the past! Right? I wonder why I gave in? SILLY BOY. Anyway. I have spent a year trying to survive, and succeeding (but not very well), and a term trying to do well in my work and get a date...column A can receive a healthy tick. Column B can fuck right off. Even at this late stage there are considerations, but you know I can't tell anyway SO THROW IT ALL IN. I've now left Norwich for Derby, and certainly not a moment too soon. In fact, far later than I should have truly desired. As much as Norwich is a fine city, and Derby is the arse hole of the Midlands, I am still far happier away from these Norfolk environs. I have certainly met some wonderful people this term, coincedentally connected to the fact I'm in Halls again (NC15 and NC16, I love you), and HEAVENS ABOVE as many as TWO of the music freshers have worked out how to treat me like an actual human being. I will not desert them, as long as they do not reject me in my old age.

So. Enough about my inability to get laid. Let's complain about something else. I wonder what that could be? Well. Here's a clue. I didn't put 'poor end of the stall' at the head of my page for nothing you know...

The moment your Director looks you in the eye and calls you a lier is not a Hallmark Moment (tm). It is not a moment I wish to repeat, nor a moment I wish on anyone else. Especially when you're not lying. It was some petty squabble about my voice "ringing out" (that's verbatim, folks) after everyone else at the end of a phrase. As ever, a man of my specific abilities will never sit terribly well with such a small set-up of five girls and two tenors; indeed, perhaps I am no longer suited to life at Spamcroft. It's a big step, but perhaps I am at fault. Working on my powers of projection, breath control and forthright pronunciation in such a specific way may very well mean that I am to exit, stage left.

I'm not going to get involved in some sort of tit for tat arguement of whether I'm better than anyone, or that they're better than me, but things have become difficult again. Some people on the line feel similarly about how life at the Church of the Parish of St. Peter Mancroft continues, but none are so foolish to be so vocal, bad-mannered and ill-tempered as I am. Old dogs &c as far as I'm concerned, but there's still hope for the others. I never quite could keep my head down and my mouth shut...

But anyway. Home sweet home. The Tour continues. Now into our festive flavoured ADESTE FIDELES leg, I've been to the pub twice in a row, arranged an intense curry feast, and tomorrow will go and see the new motion picture sensation, TRON LEGACY. The only reason I'm going is for the Daft Punk soundtrack, being an Electrowhore, but upon further investigation, I think that watching Olivia Wilde in an electro-jumpsuit wouldn't go amiss in the slightest, no sir. Christmas is coming, and the Goose is getting fat! I look forward to a raucous and inebriated celebration of the birth of a Nazarene Carpenter and Lord alone knows what's happening on New Year's, but we all know I'll go without any miseltoe joy, and then I shall presently leave for Norwich, at which point IT'S SPAMMING TIME. Oy vey. I've been told that the recent lunar eclipse on the winter solstice was a sign of great change for everyone. I can only hope so. Time to draw the Death card in the Tarot. I'm 21 soon. And I'm nearing the end of my Undergraduate study. Isn't that frightening?

Speaking of frightening, I love that old adage, that goes "Do something that frightens you every day." Well, I leave the house...