FIN.

This post shall be my final one. I’ve never really had the dedication or enthusiasm to maintain either of my blogs consistently so I’m throwing in the towel. I’ve now reached the stage where I can accept that I am bored of them. I think I was always bored of them to be honest. Writing about yourself gets tedious and uninspiring. However, I’ll continue with that theme for this post.

   One of things I really dislike about these blogs is the layout and general appearance. Through the endless Internet surfing that has now become an integral part of my day-to-day life I have grown to appreciate a well designed website. Unfortunately, blogspot is not a well designed website and is frankly hideous and I hate it.  

   They say you should write everyday regardless of the quality of writing produced and I am ashamed to say (as an English MA student) I often go weeks without even attempting to construct a piece of considered writing. This blog reflects that and I resent it. So there is another reason for its
termination.

I suppose my greatest fear is that this blog will continue in its current vein, somehow stalking me like a besotted shadow for the rest of my days until eventually this spontaneous catalogue of frustration will form the basis of my eulogy and people will be able to cast fair judgement on my deteriorating condition, concluding that I was a miserable prick who moaned too much.   
So that is it for TheMullBag; a strange and frantic collection of ill-informed opinions and rants that were only ever read by a handful of people.

   I enjoy writing too much to stop doing it but I shan't be doing any more here, so piss off.

Strange Times Call for Strange Musings

My favourite part of the 1985 cult-classic 'Re-Animator' was the part where the headless body of the character Dr. Hill holds his own severed head between the thighs of the restrained and distressed damsel, Megan, in a disturbing attempt to perform cunnilingus. “Ha ha” I thought, “this is vile, if the effects and make up weren’t so dated I think I could be genuinely horrified by this scene”. 
    Over the years I’ve developed an appreciation for the tongue-in-cheek, horror/comedy sub genre.  Films such as ‘Planet Terror’ with the crazed scientist who carries around a jar of pickled human testicles; the atrocious ‘Wrong Turn’ series featuring a family of deformed incest rural Southern Americans who cleave hapless college kids in twain; and of course ‘Hobo With A Shotgun’, in which a sinister group of criminals control and torment a town using some rather creative methods of decapitation, in-turn suffering the wrath of a vengeful homeless man wielding a shotgun. With these kind of films, the violence is often so over the top, that you can’t seriously try to explain them. Even though the severed head attempting to perform oral sex, was especially vulgar and made me utter some expressions of slight revulsion, such as ‘urgh’ and ‘damn-son’ it was followed by laughter and a good old knee slap. “This is silly” I said out loud, not considering any real world parallels... How naïve I was! Almost immediately after enjoying this family friendly feature I experienced a sense of disgust that brought me back down to earth. In a bizarre and strangely coincidental turn of events, I discovered that our triumphant leader Mr. David Cameron has a past history of oral sex with severed heads.
  
   After enjoying ‘Re-Animator’ on Netflix, autopilot took me to Facebook where I was confronted with various tweets, memes and gifs alluding to our proud leaders nefarious interactions with the head of a pig. What could drive a man to do such a thing? Perhaps I’ve been too liberal in my approach to cinema and literature. I've always believed that onscreen violence and gore could have no real bearing on peoples lives. Even as a child I knew the distinction between fictionalised violence and actual violence. Playing games like GTA or watching films like Saw couldn’t really affect a developing mind and encourage actual violent behaviour could it? But then I got thinking. Young David would have been a lad of 15-16 when ‘Re-Animator’ came out. I imagine he and his Etonian chums lived a fairly sheltered life, tinged with a sinister homo-eroticism that comes with spending time amongst power hungry, adolescent males in a boarding school. The cruel initiations used to determine hierarchical standing would have eroded some of his sensibilities but this kind of deprived sexual behaviour must have much more menacing origins. Clearly, young Cameron wandered into the cinema and was accidentally exposed to H.P Lovecraft’s twisted imagination. When poor young Davy stepped out of the cinema, he was a changed man.  He deserves our pity not our scorn. He
never stood a chance.

Though another odd coincidence occurred to me when I learnt of this indecent act. There is an eerie connection to a satirical film, written by Charlie Brooker called ‘National Anthem’. The first in his critically acclaimed series ‘Black Mirror’, this stark and unexpectedly realistic imagining of a not too distant future, pictures a beloved member of the royal family being held at ransom by terrorists. To avoid an execution the prime minister must have sexual intercourse with a pig on live television. Being the critical thinker he is, Brooker poses this dilemma against the back drop of the hungry medias response, a demanding public and a prime-minister in a difficult and defiant position. ‘What would happen?’ we are invited to think. Would our proud leader be able to demean himself in order to save the life of a national treasure? If these unlikely events unfolded in the real world could we rely on our politicians to do what needs to be done? The answer is apparently an unequivocal ‘Yes’. It’s as if our exemplary prime minister had the foresight to predict Charlie Brooker’s provocative film. Mr Cameron has proved that he is one step ahead. He saw this coming! Don’t you worry about the next four years Cameron will prevail. In fact I think he probably leaked this ‘pig-gate’ information himself. This is his trump card to win over public opinion. The conservatives are feeling the pinch now Corbyn has been elected leader of the Labour party and gained an increasing amount of admiration and attention. The population want to know who will be best equipped to deal with an uncertain future. Well Corbyn is ok and he seems like his heart is in the right place but then again he is a vegetarian, he doesn’t stand for the national anthem and it doesn't look like he is willing to bow in reverence to a woman who has broke the world record for amount of time sat on a chair. I very much doubt that he would even eat a bacon sandwich to save a royal life considering the fiasco with Ed Milliband. No he is weighed down too much by his morals and supports for animal rights to rape a pig. This of course is the turning point! Cameron can step in and boast that he has already stood tall for our National Anthem, he has stooped low for leathery Liz and he has already fucked a pig for the sheer hell of it. When Kate Middleton is inevitably taken hostage by sadomasochistic terrorists David Cameron will be the first to drop his pants, in order to save a British life. As he stands there laughing, thrusting away, I for one will watch, proclaiming that it was the film ‘Re-Animator’ that enabled Cameron to fulfil his role as Prime Minister and leader of the conservative party, and it is to onscreen violence and gore that we owe our thanks.

For Thomas, wherever he may be.

   Like a cat that’s meows grow increasingly intermittent I will eventually forget to feed it altogether and it will die.
   My relationship with writing has always been a tenuous one; despite there being love I lack devotion. I tell myself that I will make time for it and nurture it often, but something else always seems to take priority, usually something useless. Whilst I was studying I couldn’t ignore its cries for attention and sometimes I didn’t even need to wait for the howl of a looming deadline, sometimes I would wake up and be anxious to chase the cursor across the page with rapid hands. These days I feel weary, I’ve lost confidence in my ability, I don’t entertain myself with pipe dreams of becoming a journalist or author because I don’t write. Most of the time I feel that there is nothing to write about, what is my opinion in a sea of others? Facebook is the worst for shallow, transparent, antagonism.  It’s like a shit in a swimming pool, disappointing yet inevitable. However like every other fucker I still find myself swimming about letting it contaminate me. I’ll scroll through reams of text, written by people I don’t care about and something will flick a switch and suddenly I’m irritated.  I should really find something better to do with my time… Well despite my melodramatic intro I’m here aren’t I? Here to give my two cents and to dispel a bit of my apathy. 

    Tinder. Have you heard of it yet? Well let me tell you something, if you haven’t you don’t want to miss the bus buddy. Tinder is the future, tinder epitomises this age of indifference and our constant quest for easy gratification. I’m hooked... I fucking hate it so much.  Seriously, I’ve installed and deleted this app so many times it’s starting to feel like the behaviour of some guilt ridden pervert, going back for that one last look through the peep hole. I know it’s wrong I know I will ultimately gain nothing but I’ll always have that lurid fascination.  I think the appeal is in its game like nature. I liken it to Pokemon, because you want to match em’ all. Well not all of them, some of the creatures that pop up are terrifying and have low hit points so you quickly want to run away. However, the game sometimes tricks you by showing you a much more appealing rare specimen (the equivalent of a Charizard) so you hit the match button, only to be thwarted by the returning monster from the previous round. Then before you know it, that fucking metapod has matched you too and you don’t know what to do about it. Then you receive a message from somebody you have no interest in and you’re suddenly consumed by the reality of being looked at in exactly the same way, by someone else on this malicious application. Curses! What cruel tormentor would create such a thing?  Each time I install this app my success rate drops and I find myself wondering what the fuck I am doing with myself.  Originally I managed to match a few attractive girls, we had some fun conversations and we tried to meet up. Nearly every time they lost interest at the point of contact and then funnily enough I did the same to a couple of people. I’m not sure why, maybe I am some kind of disgusting voyeur, happy to form an insubstantial connection with a stranger for an approximate amount of time, making sure that they can never know who I really am. Still that doesn’t explain why they lost interest in me… I’m currently happy to say I’m off the wagon and have no current desires to get back on it… Well after typing this I’m remembering all those beautiful women I have an opportunity to talk to.  Some of these women are 18…18! I’m 22 now, I’m getting on in my years, I may never have the chance to woo an 18 year old ever again, not unless I can trick them with my wiles on a sordid mobile application.  Jesus Christ I’m a sick man.

OK what other deteriorations have started to ebb at my already waning soul? I’ll go with alcoholism! Now this is an exaggeration because I’m not a rosy cheeked, yellowing inebriate with a failing liver. I’ve mostly got my shit together and I don’t drink every day but I would now classify myself as a ‘weekend warrior’. Binge drinking, you are my everything. I’m getting pumped to binge next week away because I’ve booked it off work! Awesome! I blame the 9-5 for this vice. Whilst I was a student drinking was compulsory, it may as well have been part of the curriculum, so we can excuse that period. The gap between university and employment was occasionally filled with consecutive days of merry antics though I couldn’t always afford to maintain this life style so I was fairly sober then. It was getting a job that effectively enabled me. In addition to giving me the funds to pursue this lifestyle it has also given me enough of a reason to get shit faced every Friday night. Each Monday I will already have a plan to drink with someone, somewhere the following Friday. It is what gets me through my monotonous week, knowing that for two days I’ll have a chance to destroy enough brain cells to forget about my terrible job. I don’t want to sound like I’m trying to seem edgy by talking about my weekend antics because literally everyone in my age group shares this hobby, for it is a hobby! Some people are better at it than others. I think this is gauged by your ability to stay conscious, avoid embarrassment and retain the contents of your stomach. I’m not entirely sure which outcome denotes success and which one failure but these are the predestined outcomes we all know and love. Though I think as a generation we take a little too much pride in our drunken antics, for example last weekend I was genuinely impressed with myself when I was able to chug half a bottle of beer immediately after spewing up a load of whiskey on my shoes. As I stood tall, smile brimming,  beer bottle raised above my head like some kind of vagrant trophy I was commending myself, thinking, ‘Well done Matthew, well done indeed!’

Well that was a brief snapshot of my life at 22, if I never decide to blog again I’ve got to admit I do enjoy it when I can be bothered to commit to it. Maybe that was always my problem; maybe I was expecting to get something out of it when I should have been just writing to entertain myself.

To Watch: Bitter Lake (http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p02gyz6b/adam-curtis-bitter-lake)

‘Increasingly we live in a world where nothing makes any sense. Events come and go like waves of a fever, leaving us confused and uncertain. Those in power tell stories to help us make sense of the complexity of reality, but those stories are increasingly unconvincing and hollow. This is a film about why those stories have stopped making sense, and how that led us in the west to become a dangerous and destructive force in the world’

In Adam Curtis’ latest documentary, he unravels the convoluted web of myths and corruption that surrounds the Middle East and discusses how it is presented to us through a problematic dichotomy of good vs evil.  Through juxtaposing images and narratives Curtis explains events that have influenced the economic climate and the world we live in today.

  The documentary begins, with the description of a historic encounter in 1945 between King Abdulaziz of Saudi Arabia and President Franklin D. Roosevelt of the U.S.A. This meeting took part onboard a U.S Navy Ship on a segment of the Suez Canal named Bitter Lake. Abudlaziz, was inspired by, amongst other technological achievements, the hydro-electrical dams and power stations built during Roosevelt’s candidacy. Roosevelt believing that politicians should use their power in a considered way was aware of the value of a relationship with the Saudi King. Home to the vast oil fields, which have since been contested over, Saudi Arabia was a country America would benefit from for years to come.  
 
  Though, this historic agreement may be a fairly familiar one, Curtis reveals how this international relationship, acted as a catalyst for events that have shaped the world and influenced our collective consciousness. Presenting the history in a linear, cause and effect, narrative, Curtis chronologically walks us through the West’s volatile relationship with the Middle East and perhaps most interestingly how we have been encouraged to see it.

 In the media saturated world of today, the media categorises and simplifies complex struggles and political divisions, and social media often seems to aggravate these problems. Unfortunately it seems, that the binary opposition of good and evil is something that many people have been happy to adopt. This documentary, if nothing else, provides a valuable lesson about contemporary society using images just as much as dialogue to undermine the simplistic narratives that fit into our every day lives. 

A day in the life of a detiorating man.

I’m beginning to appreciate how cathartic, both writing and playing music is. As I have neglected to do anything with this blog for a while I thought, fuck it. I might as well use this as –amongst other things- a public diary of sorts. The details may get grizzly and potentially incriminating but I suppose that is what the Internet essentially is. I was watching ‘The One Show’ the other night - a tragic statement on its own - and there was a piece on cyber bullying and Internet abuse. Irritated, because I’d heard it all before, I dismissed the plight of many children and said, “pah they can just turn the computer off if they don’t like what’s on it”. Admittedly, that is a little insensitive because the young’ns of today rely heavily on their computers for social interaction. However, the Internet is no different from the real world. No matter how many acts of kindness and charity you are subject to (Even on Facebook alone), you will also be barraged with footage of humiliation and violence. To summarise the real world ain’t pretty all the time and neither is the internet. The only way for Parents to solve the issues they discussed on ‘The One Show’ is to get real and educate themselves and their children about how to approach information on the world wide web etc etc etc.

     Anyway I’m not here for a solution I am here to present you with an account of how my day unfolded. For the first time in a while, I had a reason to get out of bed today. As life has become fairly repetitive and unproductive, I’ve been considering the prospect of further education or overseas voluntary work. I’m feeling the need to do something productive with myself and start contributing, somewhere, somehow. Today there was a post-graduate open day at Manchester Metropolitan University and I had also arranged to meet a girl to give me some advice on volunteering. So I got up early and caught a lift into Manchester with my mum who was on her way to work. Thinking the open day started at 11 O’clock I got there for around 10. After venturing to my old haunts I discovered the open day didn’t start until 2 O’clock so I had to find some way of occupying my time. Unaccustomed to the time and temperature, I felt fairly uncomfortable. This wasn’t helped by my lack of breakfast and residual sickness from the day before. The solution, I decided, was coffee. Hoping to see one of my old housemates, I went into the Café Nero she works at and ordered an Americano, black as a moonless night. I tried to contact my old housemate but she wasn’t working that day so I sat brooding over my coffee, pawing at my Iphone trying to discern what to do with myself until the open day began.  About half way through my coffee, the retreating sickness from the day before decided it was going to make a counter offensive and started progressing north and south at an alarming rate. Unsure of which end was going to rupture first, I quickly made my way to the door and sought the fresh-ish air of Manchester.
      Outside once more, I began to feel a little better and decided I would head to the business school on the MMU campus. By the time I got into the building I realised I urgently needed to use the facilities. Unsure of where I was going I crept around trying to keep my insides from any sudden movements. Eventually, after climbing numerous staircases I managed to find some unoccupied toilets and relieve myself in peace. I instantly felt better. Like the adverts suggest, I felt like a new woman and was ready to tackle the hustle and bustle of city life.
     Now healthy and spritely I felt like I should do something productive so I went and sought advice from the jobs hub people. They spoke little, but what they did say was vastly important. They told me to return on Friday at 20 to 10. I mustn’t forget that, I could use some employment advice. With this newfound knowledge of place and purpose I decided I would wander down to the Manchester Museum.
     As I walked down oxford rd with a spring in my step, the spring suddenly went out of my step. The cursed illness had returned once more. Luckily I was close to the Museum and thanks to the clear signposting I was able to relieve my suffering promptly. After this I wasn’t sure how I felt physically or emotionally, but I did feel like… Learning! Because knowledge is power!
    Now this bit is potentially interesting to people other than me, and those who would mock me.  The museum is hosting an exhibition titled… Siberia: At The Edge of the World (Ending Sunday 1^st March 2015). Now before you go and visit it, let me clarify that it isn’t literally at the edge of the world because as I learnt today the world does not have edges. It is more of a spherical shape like a fußball. Anyway, terrible humour aside, the exhibition is a doozy. Amongst other things it had a Yak’s head, a stuffed reindeer and a pair of Siberian slippers on display. There was also plenty of information about Russian/Siberian history and culture, with reflections on the gulag and discussions on preserving Siberian nomadic culture whilst trying to bring them into the 21^st century. All in all, interesting stuff.
    After this I decided I would explore further. I don’t know how many times I have been in that museum but I always find something new. It is definitely my favourite museum, partly because it has a T-rex called Stan. On today’s visit I encountered two friendly elderly gentlemen (not exhibits) who were manning a stand, presenting objects you could handle. I personally held the severed tusk of a dead elephant that once walked from Edinburgh to Manchester. If nothing else, I can proudly take that to my grave (not the tusk, just the anecdote… Admittedly the tusk would be better). I was also educated on how a species of moth adapted to become a darker colour during the smoggier times Manchester endured from the industrial revolution onwards, until the clean up in the 1950s. What nice old men. After that I enjoyed a solitary wander around the museum until my sickness began to build once more. This time I couldn’t decide if it was hunger, or the opposite of hunger so I trudged onwards trying to gain as much satisfaction as I could from Stan the T-Rex. Eventually, in the living reptiles room, surrounded by howling school children failing to spot a snake, I decided that I was very possibly going to shower a nine year old in barf. I made the wise decision and left quickly.
    As I walked back up Oxford Rd I realised that I’d have to risk eating something for fear of falling over. Of course the eatery of choice was The 8^th Day, and of course I stopped at Johnny Roadhouse to sample some of their fine musical instruments. I probably shouldn’t have stopped here because I was shaking like a shitting dog and the staff were looking at me like I was a skag addict.
    After eating a lovely Cajun black bean and aubergine casserole thingymajig I quickly perked up. I truly felt like a new woman. Not like that fake new woman feeling I had earlier. This time I was rejuvenated and ready for action. After grabbing a contingency bottle of water I embarked onto MMU, the reason for being in Manchester. Mistakenly I ended up at a networking and employability event rather than the postgraduate open day I had originally planned to see. However, this was a happy accident as I attended a lecture on the values of networking and I briefly spoke to a man representing a gap year company called ‘smaller earth’. It sounded like a decent excursion and a possible way of earning some dough so I told him to take my name and email me some more information. The event was organised like speed dating and after I was told to move away from ‘smaller earth’ onto the next table I lost interest. I had a glance around and decided to fuck it off and go to the post grad fair. Unbeknown to me, I was being watched like a prey animal, and before I knew it a business clad woman was striding towards me with determination in her eyes.
“Where are you going Matt?”
she asked a little menacingly.
“How does she know my name”, I thought,
“what else does she know?”.
Then I remember I was told to write my name on a sticker earlier and I was still wearing said sticker. I tried to navigate around her a few times but she kept on standing in my way, trying to persuade me to stay and make the most of this networking opportunity. To this I politely refused and told her I was to attend the postgrad fair.
    On my way back up to the business school, where the post grad fair was being hosted, I received a text from the girl I was to meet and arranged to meet at a pub at 4. At this point it was already past 3 so I was determined to be efficient with my time. All in all I’d say I was. I tried to sound interested in a creative writing course that I didn’t really find interesting and then had a fairly long conversation with one of the MA tutors for the critical pathway of English. In hindsight I think I babbled a bit and made little sense. In fact I know I did this because she was visibly confused at one point (note to self, email Sorcha and explain myself clearly). See this is why I don’t think I’d fit into a Russell group university. I can barely get a sentence out when I try to say something interesting and important. Anyway Sorcha seemed to believe that I was capable of doing the MA and urged me to apply so it went well enough.
    By now it was time for the pub so I headed across the street and waited for Vicky, who I was soon to be meeting. The one and only time I had met Vicky previously I had been fairly drunk at an undergrad humanities graduation ball. It was the end of our last academic year at university and she was planning on going to Africa and I was planning on going to America so we were talking about the romance of travelling and how exploring the world is generally great. I remember it being an enthusiastic conversation. Since then we had both been to our respective destinations and I was looking forward to catching up with her. Also since becoming a single man I hadn’t had the pleasure to share a drink with an interesting girl and potentially ‘woo’ her.  Anyway, Vicky was running late so I decided to buy a couple of pints of Guinness and wait at a table. Now Guinness Is usually my choice drink when in the pub but throwing a 3^rd of a pint on top of a Cajun black bean and aubergine filled stomach that had already voiced it’s discomfort numerous times that day may not have been my best idea. I put this thought to one side and waited for Vicky, whilst reading my material from the open day. Shortly after, she turned up and we got chatting away. However, my creeping illness was causing me some discomfort and my concentration was beginning to lapse every now and then. First pint down everything was going ok. We chatted about volunteering and unemployment and how the real world seems like a chore. Sharing anecdotes about our trips we seemed to have a lot in common. All the while I was feeling slightly on edge. I’m not sure if it was the illness or whether I was boring her or what but something was a little bit awkward. To be honest it was probably me. Recently I’ve got into the habit of chatting absolute bollocks when I’ve had a pint in me. Seriously I only need one. I won’t be drunk but it'll be enough to open the flood gates and let a stream of consciousness pour out. Sometimes I’ll voice opinions I don’t even have! I think it might be something to do with nervousness as well, which may explain why I confused Sorcha earlier that day. Either way I wasn’t on form today. Despite this we talked for a couple of hours and by the time I had finished my 2^nd pint I decided I definitely had a crush on her. We walked towards Oxford Rd station and I left her at Tesco and told her I’d like to see her again soon, she replied with a similar sentiment and that was that.
     On the train home I was thumbing at my phone deliberating on how to deal with this situation. In my head I played out a scenario involving me ringing her up and asking her out for another drink sometime and being very debonair and smooth. I decided I wouldn’t do it on the train and I’d wait until later. The train trundled on through, Manchester, Salford and Bolton and arrived at Horwich Parkway, in what seemed like a short amount of time. After getting a lift home from my Dad I went up to my room and sat on my bed, trying to decide what to do. In the past I’ve more or less always failed to make my feelings clear and usually ended up befriending girls I was attracted to so I wanted to be sure I was clear. I tried to remember how I managed to originally impress my previous girlfriend but when I remember the night we met, I was hardly a smooth mover, in fact I was wreck. I look back on that night with a  paradoxical sense of embarrassment and pride. Strange times in strange places.
     Putting all previous relationships aside, I decided that I didn’t have anything to lose so I would ring her. Just to be safe I ran this idea past one of my friends who agreed and also laughed at me a bit. The phone rang several times, *ring ring*, *ring ring*, well you know how a phone goes, but she didn’t pick up. I figured she didn’t hear it and decided to wait for her to contact me. In the mean time I reflected on the time I had just spent with her and wondered if this would take her off guard. I don’t think I really said or did anything to suggest that I fancied her. Also this was the first time we had met up properly, certainly the first time I saw her sober. Was I being too forward? No time for that the phone started ringing. I picked up and she asked that special question every guy wants to be asked “hello who is this?” Shit this got awkward quicker than I anticipated.  I can’t remember exactly what I said but It was something along the lines of
 “Hey this is Matt, I had a great time hanging out with you earlier and was wondering if you wanted to go on a date sometime?”
Something was lost in translation along the way as she replied, startled “Tonight?”
I was originally thinking sometime over the coming weeks but Matthew’s quick fire brain said
“No I was thinking tomorrow?”
Somewhere in the silence between our two phones I heard enthusiasm die and she replied
“erm yeah. I’m sorry though I’ve got to go can I ring you back later”.
I can’t remember if I had time to reply with an affirmative answer or not but she hung up and I sat there contemplating how badly I had fucked this up. Or whether perhaps I had not fucked this up.

My friend Charlie who I failed to see in Café Nero earlier, once told me something.
“Don’t be desperate man, girls can smell desperation!”