Finally, my first post. Well…not technically my first post, it’s actually the second post but what it is is the first post of note. What note you ask? A#; a sharp (har de har har), entertaining and hopefully somewhat account of the general goings on in my humdrum life. I am not writing this to satisfy some narcissistic urge to have everyone read about me and my opinions or to make money out of the inevitable syndication and fame it will garner me. No, I do this because on occasion something will provoke me to record my musings for, well, my amusement and if others find it entertaining, so much the better.
Indeed, thinking about it, I can pinpoint the exact moment that this urge first occurred. It was in fifth year in secondary school and my English teacher, Mr. C, had set us an essay on the subject of designer clothing. I’m not really certain what sort of a mood I was in but for some reason, as I sat in the school library trying to put together a coherent and logical argument as to why designer clothing is over- price and over-hyped, a little voice in my head just told me to go for it, go wild, go crazy, take hyperbole to a new level! Let it all out, vent your frustration at the world in general through an argument as to why anyone in their right mind would pay premium prices for the stuff. Look at me!!! I have enough money (and little enough sense) to buy boxers from Tommy Hilfiger when I could have bought pretty much the exact same 100% cotton elasticated underwear from bloody Primark for a fraction of the price. Incidentally, I read in the paper this morning that Mr. Hilfiger believes people should wear their underwear so the band with the branding shows. Quelle surprise. Tell me Tommy, should I wear it so high that it gives me a wedgie or my pants half-way down my arse (with obligatory but also superfluous belt) so that I can look like a tit before I fall over as well as after?
Grrr…sorry, where was I? Ah yes, sitting in the school library writing a rant about designer clothing. Anyway, as I continued with the essay, I found myself smiling and then chuckling quietly. Yes, I agree, it is a bit up yourself to laugh at your own jokes but fuck it, it cheered me up and I enjoyed the process. A few days later, Mr. C declared that he would read out two of the essays that he’d received. The first one was a well-reasoned, logical argument about the questionable merits of designer clothing; the second was an over-the top diatribe about people being walking corporate billboards i.e. mine. As I sat mortified with my head in my hands staring intently at the desk, there were guffaws around the class and at the end of the recitation, my classmates wanted to know who had written it. I sheepishly put up my hand and accepted full responsibility (Well not quite; the writings of Joseph O’Connor in his “Irish Male” series certainly set the tone of my writing.
From that point on, I got a real kick out of putting exaggerated and colourful arguments forward on anything from Banquo being a toe-rag (as Mr. C once eloquently put it) to the in-your-endo present in the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins. It didn’t matter to me that this stuff was never to be read out to others, I enjoyed writing it and that was enough. I do like to think that Mr. C got some entertainment himself and indulged me as my arguments, though outrageous and perhaps excessive, were logical and had a point. He did however tell me once that I should probably tone it down as if my Leaving Certificate English exam were to be marked by a nun from Cork, I’d be screwed.
Now I was going to launch into a tirade about lessons learned from waiting on hold however that can wait until the next time.
Happy trails,
J
Excellent! I look forward to the next one.