The week

The main part of my week, I suppose, was stuff to do with refereeing, and which seems to have almost completely overwhelmed all thoughts I’ve had about my writing course. Interesting how things go: five or six weeks ago all I could think about was writing, from morning till night, and the course was dominating my brain. That was after a rather slow start. It grew, it peaked, it diminished. A nice little arc of natural intensity, the way things go. And now it’s refereeing, and no doubt that’ll have its own arc – yet another arc to add to the arcs of fascination I’ve ridden all my life: of building sheds; of seeking women; of love and romance; of spirituality and God; of music and songwriting and poetry; of Hendrix obsession; of travel; of booze; of self-exploration and psychology; of guitars; of writing and books; of the world; of Buddha; of Jesus; of the mind. So many grand attractions and pursuits, rising and falling, sometimes overlapping: long slow arcs; arcs that come and go; arcs that explode suddenly like the burst of a star – rise meteorically – and disappear and die just as fast. Arc sark sarcs: you know what I mean.

Main thing I’m thinking about this week was the day that Nicky got her car repaired and despite telling the garage to call before they did anything they did it anyway and charged her a hundred and sixty quid. I was livid: I was like, I’ll go down and tell them, no, you can’t do that, I’m sorry but you’re either going to have to give big discount or put it back as it was: you can’t just go around doing work on people’s cars without permission and charging them money they might not have and expecting all to be fine and dandy. That’s what I would’ve done had it been my car. But I was on the horns of a dilemma: there’s the bit of me that wants to take control, and there’s the other bit that I’m trying to listen to that says, hey man, it’s not your thing, you have to let people learn their own lessons. I want Nicky to be more assertive in life, to not get trod on and pushed around – and how will she do that if I just do all the work for her? I have a habit of steaming in, of taking things on for people, of doing what they seem incapable of doing – and I’m good at that, but often it backfires in my face, gives me stresses and troubles and – well, what can you expect? It’s basically saying, here, give me your problems – and problems you get give. Trying not to do that. But it’s a struggle.

Nicky bought this car off eBay, a bit sillily as it was miles away and there was no chance to check it out. Looked like a decent motor, though, and the ad was nice and painted it as the personal vehicle of a young lady driver who liked it a lot. Truth was, however, that it was a motor that had been taken in part-ex by a dealership and therefore they knew nothing about it or any potential problems it might have: one of which we just found out about. I was mad about that too: I wanted to call the guy, say, hey, that’s not on, and try and wheedle some monetary refund out of them: a car that’s been taken in part-ex is obviously worth less than one that’s being sold privately and they knew that only too well, which is why they did it. Furthermore, she wouldn’t have even considered it had she known it was part-ex motor, had passed over plenty of those already. So I was pissed and wanted to leap into action but then thought, hey, you always end up with more on your plate than you need, it’s not your car, you don’t even want a car, leave it up to her. She swallowed it and now it’s costing her money – but who knows? Maybe she’s right just to accept these things.

Thing is, I’m a devil: I don’t let people get away with nothing. I remember even years back when I used aerosol deodorants and the one I used to buy was forever conking out but a few weeks in – probably some cheap tat from Morrisons – and I’d always take it back, make them do me an exchange – and they always did. I’ve even taken peaches back to Sainsbury’s when one’s gone mouldy after just a day and they’ve quite happily given me a refund. Don’t see why I should have to pay for their shoddy products. And the people who work for these big corporations really don’t give a monkeys: anything to keep the customer happy. Last year I bought some ten quid Lee Cooper Converse-a-like from Sport Direct and quickly found they were shit, hurt my feet, didn’t really function as shoes at all – I wrote to Lee Cooper and complained about this – at the same time asking where I could find a certain pair of jeans they made that I really like – and – voila! – a few days later a lovely new pair of jeans came in the post. Earlier this year I wrote to this solicitors whose staff members had been raising an almighty drunken 3am ruckus on a campsite I was staying on and they sent apologies and an M&S voucher for thirty quid. Even sent an email to Northern Rail after they mistakenly overcharged Nicky two pound thirty for a trip she took and they sent three quid’s worth of tokens in the post. Done plenty more besides. It’s fun. I don’t like taking no shit.

Thing is, though, it’s a problem when it’s the shit of people you’re close to. What’s the solution: to take their shit from them, or to let them deal with it their way? Like I say, I’m trying the latter, even though everything in my bones wants me to do the former. This car…I started off looking for her, trying to find her a good motor, and then I was like, this is just giving me headaches and she wasn’t interested in the ones I found – I was thinking a nice little low mileage Micra I’d seen for a great price in the local Tesco (noticeboards, not the internet, almost always the way to go) but I guess she’d got her heart set on something a bit flasher: namely, a 206. So there she goes, one Saturday morning, and puts a casual, non-expectant bid in on one on eBay – using my account, as authorised – and wins it. Thing is, the car’s down near Stoke, so no chance of looking at it first. She’s uncertain and I say, I can get you out of this. She mulls it over and resolves to go for it. I let go. Then I hear the story that it’s actually a good/deceptive-with-words dealer (or dealer’s son) and I like it even less. Last year I sold this car on eBay that turned out to have a problem and the guy wrote me and my conscience told me to send him some moolah: I felt like we deserved similar treatment from these folks. But Nicky's not bothered – doesn’t like hassle – don’t have that American assertive I learned so well during my time in the States – and I have to try and let it go too. Except of course, I can’t. And now doubly more so. That thing this week really bugged me – and I think I know why.

Listen: there’s the struggle of doing stuff for others, or of letting them learn their way…and there’s also something else. I mused and mused and questioned why this got to me so – and the solution I came up with was so backwards and chauvinistic that I can barely stand to type it here. And yet type it I want to, ‘cos I really think there’s something in it, and something I’m going to have a think about more as we progress further into this weird old age of nobody really knowing where they stand, gender roles diminished, what makes a man, and who does what? It’s about masculinity and how that works. It’s about relationship and roles within that relationship. It’s about questioning the mechanics of life. And it’s about thinking maybe we’d be better off if we were a little bit more like our grandparents.

I’m a man. I’m assertive and angry at injustice and I have them two swinging things between my legs called balls that give you the impetus to get up and do something about the things you don’t like. Fifty years ago, this whole car thing wouldn’t have been an issue: my woman wants a car, I’d’ve sorted it out for her. My woman’s car goes wrong, I’d have fixed it for her. And someone wrongs my woman, I’d have given ‘em a damn good whack. But look at me now, trying to let her do all those things herself. Is it better? Is it worse? These are the questions I’m asking and I’m not sure I have the answers. A part of me wants to take control – to assume responsibility for the things I’m perhaps better at than her – but then another part of me shakes its head and says, what kind of ancient, from-the-past sexist, knuckle-dragging gorilla are you? Why can’t you just let other people be and stop trying to control everything? Another part is like, yeah, but this stuff bothers me, and I should take control, I’m good at it and it’s my job: Jesus, how did it get so that a man’s got to feel guilty for wanting to protect his woman? I mean, is there a more basic and intrinsic urge than that? I don’t think there is – and yet it seems we’re hardly allowed these days. Woman wants to go out on the piss alone – and where are you when she’s getting dragged down dark alleys? And what to do with the innate urges for rage and vengeance and reprisal? It’s no wonder we feel so fookin’ castrated and helpless: I shoulda taken control – I shoulda been a proper man’s man and grabbed the bull by the horns and done what is in my balls and bones to do: you rape my woman well then I’ll stab you in the neck and face and feel justified in doing so: you asked for it. And you piss her about in the sale or repair of a car then I’ll do what I can to wreak havoc on your life: threaten press and trading standards and ombudsmen and legal rights – and if that don’t work I’ll posh yer windows. Revenge is a dish best served violently.

But what the hell? All that just makes me feel like monkey-dragging man: the world’s gone mad. Either that or I really am just a dinosaur. Though I do believe there’s more to it than that: certainly, throughout the last ten years a big part of my life has been about rediscovering what it is to be a man, and reclaiming parts neglected and denied, for fear they didn’t fit in with what our glorious society deemed proper and acceptable. You grow up trying to gentle and sensitive and in touch with your feelings and not wanting to batter anyone in the head – all good things – and you read Men are from Mars and you try and be the lovely nodding attentive and listening fellow who does his fair share of the cooking and the cleaning and goes way beyond anything the brutes down the pub might do – and then you wake up one day and say, my God, I’m chopping wood, I’m building structures and I feel alive and great; I’m chasing a ball, I’m kicking a human, I’m shouting and sweating and tearing up the battlefield – and I love it. Axe in hand, two strong arms hauling tree trunks, dirty feet sploshing through cold mud, sleeping in leaves, headbutting Frenchmen, running naked on the moors, standing up for yourself and saying, fuck you; fucking women, coming up their bums, saying, I’ll do my share of the chores as a whole – but I don’t give a fuck about cooking, we’ll have pizza; eating cheese on toast for days on end and still functioning perfectly; forsaking art galleries and museums and no longer traipsing round doing pointless women’s things like other sad saps; playing with wires and electricity and cogs and tools, building fences and pouring concrete and coming home filthy and just falling into bed, not changing the sheets ‘cos it really doesn’t matter, and never seeing dust; dressing plainly, farting loudly, and having solutions rather than John Grey’s girly flapping ear that nods and says, u-uh, and, gee, that must have been difficult and realising that it’s better to be yourself than pretend to be something you’re plainly not just ‘cos society and Hollywood have screwed everything up by falsely declaring we’re all the same and telling us everything of man was wrong and bad and making us into women and destroying all structure of the community so that women no longer have their women’s circles and have somehow come to believe that the man should be everything for her – that he wants to listen to her extravagant monologues and look at handbags and dresses and care a shit for fripperies and wallpaper – he fuckin’ doesn’t. We is different: we built different, we want different, we listen different, we talk different. You want to express your problems and just have them heard and empathised over and come home feeling better after a few hours of that – talk to a woman. And you want quick fire solutions and advice about what to actually do – talk a man. Feelings and doings – like man and woman – two totally different things, neither more right or more wrong than the other, and each with their benefits. Acknowledge differences. Celebrate them. And use them too. Everything beautiful: but denial of reality not.

NB The above is not how to be a man: but it is part of how I came to feel like one, to acknowledge the reality of what I actually am. Also, it’s obviously just some madly typed unthinking thing, which may or may not reflect what I actually think or feel, but I guess it serves a purpose. The point is: there are things that I’ve been taught – consciously, unconsciously, conditioned into, picked up from the world around me – that are wrong and don’t serve us as a species – or if not wrong, at least need to be questioned. So what to do?

In the case of the car: it’s perhaps too late. Or I could talk to the garage and make a scene and threaten something. Probably it wouldn’t come to anything but at least I’d feel somewhat satisfied and wouldn’t be constantly dwelling on this apparent wrong. And in case of original seller, I could call him, and threaten something or other – tax evasion? local press? – and see if he’d do the decent thing, as I did, and give her back some cash.

And other things? Sure, there are other things, and things I could do there too.

And future things? Which is the big question: what to do in future things? Take more of a grip? Learn more to let go and lighten up? Be the man that my granddad was – but then leave a woman incapable and afraid? Or seek to empower and accept that people are different and they have to live their own lives, find their own way? But easy when it doesn’t affect you – less so when it does.

Future things. We’ll see. ‘Cos ain’t no doubting that this’ll come around again…

…

Phew! Well that was unexpected and lively, lolz out loud – quite a lot of good typing there for a Monday morning in bed with a toothbrush in my mouth wearing a found pink dressing gown and drinking lots of tea and still trumpeting from last night’s pre-5aside ginormous nacho feast. But what else am I doing? Well…

Ref ref ref: it’s all about the reffin’ at the minute.

But wait! Didn’t I also finish writing the script for Episode 1 of The Bender, the adapted tale of DCI Wayne Mercedes and those pesky killer towels? Indeed I did. Would you like a read? It’s here.

And also reading Stephen ‘Wheelchair’ Hawking’s ‘A Brief History of Time’. It’s pretty interesting and obviously over my head and also a bit far-fetched with all its talk of gluons and antiquarks and black holes heavier than three suns but the size of a peanut – and they say us spiritual-types have some weird mythology! I’m jesting of course. More or less.

Also: mad sex last night. But I can’t talk about that here. Let’s just say…no: I really can’t talk about that here. ;-)

I finally watched Dr Strangelove. Funny film.

And I liberated another abandoned bike by cracking its combination lock (see Bike Mayhem Day if that’s the first you’ve heard of this). That’s four and a half bikes we’ve got now. Is that too many?

Finally, I…am typing this sentence one word at a time, unsure as to where it will go: I just started off with the word ‘finally’, then had a think, then typed ‘I’, then heard the words ‘dot dot dot’ in my head, then heard the words that followed those three dots, and I guess that’s what brings us to here. That’s generally how I type or write anything: so I guess I can’t say it’s me at all, I’m just taking dictation. Weird that, isn’t it? That all these sentences you’re reading now are merely words I’ve transcribed from a weird-ass voice in my head; whose voice, I know not. See: even that thought about whose voice it was was mere dictation: so writing for me is just listening, and transcribing, and taking joy in the reading and the polishing when it’s good, and letting go when it’s not, such as this. Creation? But how can I lay claim to that when it’s not my voice, when all I really seem to be doing is trying my best to keep my fingers up to speed with the words that constantly appear in my brain? Although brain is kind by generally waiting for fingers to be ready and not releasing too many words at a time (generally only half a sentence, or maybe a full sentence, spat out all at once and then repeated more slowly the second time so we can get it all down as intended). One. Word. At. A. Time. Mad.

And I bet this brain could do on forever – lock it in a room with nothing but a keyboard, a screen, and a copy of Word 2003, and I wonder if it would ever run out of things to say? A million words? Two million? Try ten trillion – and still it’d be going strong. There’s something in that, I guess. But now it’s time to put her to bed, and top up the teapot, and relax in lovely real-world bed and mebbe read Hawking or watch a little summat. Monday morning: you’ve gotta love it.