In this new — and God help you all, let’s hope mercifuily short — series of posts, I am seeking to shake, punch and kick some life into the diseased, fetid corpse of blogging by harking back to the medium’s golden age. When blogging used to be about the tedious minutiae of one’s life. When its grandest ambition was to tackle nothing more substantial than pointless navel-gazing, rather than engaging in the much more serious and worthwhile business of uploading a pointless photo of said navel to display alongside your latest tweet about how much fluff it holds.
Indeed, it’s almost like my very own first faltering steps on the internet — don’t follow that link, because it’ll make your stomach heave — and I’m getting misty-eyed (and faintly nauseous) as I recall those more innocent days when I was a wide-eyed and naive young blogger, sitting alone in my attic room lit by a single naked lightbulb, furiously bashing my keyboard late into the evening as a means of purging my soul, whilst desperately hoping that someone, anyone, would hear my plaintive cries. Sniff.
Fortunately, I’m now older (much older). And wiser (but not much wiser). And uglier (oh Jesus Christ, will you look at that face — yes, definitely uglier). And incredibly cynical (though it was always thus, in truth).
So I’m going to start occasionally using this site as a self-indulgent tool for personal therapy. You see, the thing is … I keep thinking about my first primary school teacher dressed as a nun, beating me soundly with a blackboard eraser whilst singing Madonna’s Like a Virgin, and I’m wondering what it all means? Oh wait, not that one. Here’s the delicate matter on which I require your assistance, my dear unreliable reader.
Question: I am considering having a mid-life crisis. How should this manifest itself?
Let me help you formulate your answers by telling you, right from the start, that I can’t drive. So a gleaming red sports car, complete with its obvious phallic symbolism and a £2.99 CD of ‘wide open road’ rock music in the stereo system, is a complete no-go. As is a motorbike — I’ve only got one leg, you see (sshh, I don’t like to talk about it), so I’d just climb on it and then immediately slip off the other side. Oh, and no steamy, salacious, Sun headline affairs with eighteen year-old bleach-blonde nymphettes, please — I’m knackered just thinking about that one, especially as these days I like to be tucked up in bed by 10.00pm and passed out by 10.01pm having not even managed a single sip of my Horlick’s.
In other words, I require sensible and creative ideas for how to live out my mid-life crisis — though completely ridiculous suggestions will also suffice since there’s no point in setting the bar too high, is there? After all, this is blogging.
Do your worst. I have faith in you.