Hope by Brian Quinn

This is a flawed poem in its construction, but profound nonetheless.

When all about you is black with gloom,
And all you feel is pending doom.
When your bones are racked with grim despair
When every breath is a gasp for air.
Keep on going, though you need to grope,
For around the bend is a ray of hope.

A ray of hope is perhaps all that's left,
As your will to live has been bereft.
You've lost it all, it's just no use!
You can end it all, you need no excuse.
But throw away that piece of rope,
And give yourself a chance of hope.

Just give yourself another day,
Brushing aside what your thoughts may say.
This is your life and you can make a new start,
By ignoring the brain - just follow the heart.
Taking baby steps in order to cope,
And minute by minute you'll build on your hope.

Build on your hope,. one day at a time,
Though the road be steep and hard to climb.
The hurts of the past - they should be dead.
The fears of the future are all in your head.
Just live in the present and refuse to mope
Your life will sparkle for you're living in hope.  

A Limerick

A middling Lancastrian bard
With penchant for fumbling a ball.
He threaded a line,
To work a transition,
And finished on a rude word - Bum.

That's a Limerick. It's not a good one.

Daily Blogging

 I'm not going to write every day. It's too much of a bind and my brain is grinding inside my head. Too much.

Sharing

I wish, just for a change, just for a little bit of originality, I had someone to share things with. I wish I had someone to whom I could say, “Here – have a look at this. What do you think?”; or, “What do you think this means? Am I missing something here?” But I don't. My head is banging right now because I have no one to do that with, so I can just say to them, “you have a think for me for a while, so I can just give my brain a rest.”

I need--- need--- NEED to get on this university course so I can have a go at getting my life back. Hopefully I won't annoy people, and hopefully they won't look at me and think, look at that twat over there. Here, let's share a joke about the loser behind his back, and fuck it if the cunt finds out or sees us laughing at him.

I just hope that doesn't happen. I just want something to go right and to be accepted by a group for once. But if I open my mouth, they'll think I'm a cunt, and if I stay quiet, they'll think I'm a sad loser.

Student Loan

Student Grant

Fee Waiver

Child Care Costs

Travelling Costs

Overpayment Debts

Rent Arrears

It's just too much for a person to deal with by themselves when they're already in reeling.

Please... give me a chance.

The Nause

 It's difficult to know what to write about when you're writing every day. I don't know what to write about. I'm tired. I want a rest. I'm watching the Yankees got through a bad patch and don't seem to be able to put teams under pressure. I've just been watching the European Athletics Championships. Good to see the GB team doing well. Watched Adam Gimili and Martin Rooney get golds tonight as well as the team getting a couple of silvers too.

God, this is a nause. Can't be arsed writing any more.

University Imperfect

 Received a phone call today from Salford University about a hopeful degree course I want to take there in English & Creative Writing. In a couple of years time, the person reading this (future me), will know if I got on the course, that is, will know whether I was able to get a grant for living costs while I'm on the course. Fingers crossed.

Well, I was walking down the bypass with Imogen, going to Asda, and the phone rang. My phone hasn't rang for months. She asked if we could speak and I said I was a little bit busy with my daughter. I asked if I could phone her back. She said I could.

I arrived back at the house, put the baby to bed, had something to eat and finally phoned her up. I got through to the switchboard, or something... some young lad. He contacted her, she came to the phone, the phone went dead. A few minutes later, the phone rang, it was her. She asked me if I'd sent writing extracts to Lucia Nigri. I said I had. That was it. Ten seconds. It made me laugh. Why hadn't she just said it was a quick question?

Well, even university employees are imperfect.

That was a quick blog. No jokes. Not a funny thing anywhere. Not sure what to say. Sorry.

Owning the Internet

  I like to comment on YouTube videos. It used to be that when a person gave an opposing view – and by 'opposing view' I mean wrote something offensive, usually along the lines of being a fag – I would argue with them about the point. I would put my rational facts forward, and they would put forward their equally critical ad hominems. So I would tell them they're argument was flimsy, and they would tell me I was a faggot. Quite funny really. I'm not even gay.

I remember arguing with a guy – actually, a number of guys on a number of different videos – about gun control. There'd been another massacre, a school massacre I think, where a large number of six year olds had been gunned down. It was my position that guns were a bad thing to be given to citizens. They had their place in the military where they could be used to fight people who wanted to cause genocides, but that was it. I was informed that if one of the teachers had had a gun, that they would have been able to shoot the attacker. I put it to him that maybe the teacher would not be the best person to be put in charge of a weapon whilst around children of an age where all they do is make you want to kill them due to their poor grasp of logic and ability to annoy the fuck out of you. He called me a faggot.

I had an argument with a guy about religion. Then another religious person joined in and basically told me that what I was proving to them with facts and evidence was in fact false because bible.

Within the past few months, however, I managed to perfect a technique where I cannot lose an argument on YouTube or indeed be made to look, in any way – wrong... or a fag. It's quite easy, and now I get compliments all the time about how funny I am, and that I own the internet and that I should be a writer. For someone who would love to be a writer, they are the perfect compliments.

So, the secret to owning the Internet:

Be Funny

Be Intelligent, and

Be Silly

But also:

Extend an olive branch

Say the words: "No, I'm just joking. You're all right!"

And if they continue to flap their hands at you:

Tell them you love them, and

Tell them you'd like to do homosexual things to them (but with love)

And finally, agree with their abuse, then make it look ridiculous.

Robin Williams

It was Christmas - probably 1979, or 1980. We were in school and it was the last day of term. We were in the sport's hall - just our class - and we were playing a game. I can't remember the game, but we also played that stop the music game, what's it called---- odd one out. No, that's not right. Musical chairs! That's it. For getting questions right, we could choose a toy. Everyone wanted the Mork toy. And it was some 8 year-old little gob-shite who got it. Certainly wasn't me. I think I got a Thunderbird toy. The green ship. Is that thunderbird 2? The one where the middle separates - drops out. Or maybe I got one of the shit Thunderbird ships. '4' or something? I don't know. But everyone wanted Mork, because Mork was fucking insane and hilarious and naughty and weird... he was everything an 8 year old wants in their comedic character.

Basically, it was Robin Williams.

Then we saw the Popeye trailer. Popeye. Every kid loved Popeye, and boy-o-boy, it was going to be Mork who was going to be playing him. And he sounded just like Popeye. Even more like Popeye than Popeye. And he looked like Popeye.

But it was a weird thing. Someone in my class (of 8 year olds) said that the actor who played Popeye was dead and that he'd died years ago.

I was 8. I naturally thought Mork had been made years before and so too was Popeye. I accepted it.

Then I got a little older and I heard about a film called Good Morning Vietnam. And look who was in it. Mork, from Mork and Mindy. And he was alive! What made this film more poignant for me was that I was getting closer to my dream of joining the forces, so a film being about war was something that interested me and my friends. When I finally got to see it, it truly was one of the best films I'd ever seen. It had me in stitches almost the whole way through, and the points where I wasn't laughing, I was holding back a 15 year old boy's tears.

I'm going to start off another sentence with 'and' ---

And then there was Dead Poet's Society. Any words I use to explain the effect this film had on me will not do it justice. It was my favourite film until I saw Schindler's List. Whenever I was feeling low, I would put the video on and by the end, I was feeling inspired.

O Captain, My Captain.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I... I took the one less travelled by. And that has made all the difference.

One day, you will be food for worms.

What will your verse be?

Carpe Diem.

Thank you, boys. Thank you.

The Awakenings was next. Another moving, memorable movie.

Aladdin. Incredible. I don't care if I'm adult, I'm buying it on laser disc and watching it over and over and over again... because of Robin Williams.

Mrs Doubtfire. I was married. I wasn't yet divorced.

Nine Months. We were pregnant too.

Jumanji. I enjoyed it.

Then The Birdcage. My wife thought I was gay because I enjoyed watching it so much. It was one of the films of the year.

Flubber. Fun for kids.

And in 1997 another great film. His second best behind Dead Poet's Society. It's okay.

In his later years, he made Insomnia, One Hour Photo and World's Greatest Dad. They weren't great films, but he played really good roles.

But those were his film roles. Robin Williams: Live at the Met had me in tears. Sides splitting and ears bursting. (not ears bursting).

So today is a sad day. Rik Mayall died two months ago and that affected me in a big way. I think, as strange as it is to write it, this affects me more. Rik Mayall was huge in my own life, but Robin Williams seemed to be big globally.

And I want to give a shout out to a film he made with Walter Matthau, 'The Survivors' which I really enjoyed, but no one else knows anything about.

That's okay. It'll just be between Robin, Walter and me.

Carpe Diem!

Thank you, Robin... thank you.

Adult Material

 Before entering the blog site, it reads 'May contain adult material'. Fucking right the cunt contains adult material. There's no 'may' about it. In every piece of writing, I insist on having at least one 'cunt'. It doesn't have to be a cunt you know, or a famous cunt of any description. Today, I'd like to write about a cunt I used to know in the Air Force.

No, I'm joking. To be honest, I really can't think of any cunts I want to talk about. I'd actually planned on talking about something quite interesting today (for a change), but damn if I haven't forgot what the fuck it is. I have an awful memory. Truly awful. It's the after effects of depression brought on by losing everyone I loved over the space of two years. I still have to deal with the grief. Makes it difficult to deal with anything that reminds me of how my life is one big failure. And how much of a loser I am.

But what's a nigga gonna do?! Sit back and let the man walk all over me? I'm not even black, for cunt's sake!

Anyhoo, tomorrow, I have to go to the Job Centre to sign on for the first time. Naturally, this is a reminder that my life is a failure and is the reason I've been on Employment and Support Allowance (or whatever the Christ it's called). They're going to tell me I have to enter into an agreement to look for jobs, and I'm going to tell them I can't do it because each time I do that, it reminds me what a failure my life is and then my mind goes into meltdown temporarily until I've distracted myself from reality. You know?

So, just like last year, I'm going to end up going months without any money with letters telling me I'm being naughty and if I don't be a good boy they will take me to naughty room to be spanked by judge.

This has suddenly become very bleak.

There's always suicide, I suppose.

Whoa! Step off! Too dark! Too many exclamation marks!!! Rewind...

Yesterday

After chatting with a friend a couple of days ago, and after pissing and moaning like a little girl about how I have no outlet for my over-opinionated and warped mind, I decided to start trying to write a regular blog.

It won't last.

Yesterday, I spoke about my regret over not being a Samaritan any longer and the events leading up to my dismissal. What I didn't write about however, were the events directly after this where I went looking for a gun to gain revenge.

No, I'm joking. That didn't happen. I'm not unhinged. Regrettably.

Well, let's see if there's anything else that would entertain the non-existent reader. How about selling all my possessions and cycling off to the Highlands of Scotland in the hope that my sorry life would be extinguished at the hands, or more accurately, front grill of an articulated lorry on a mountain road.

Almost happened. Very close. A windy road on a windy mountain (that's 'windy' as in meandering and 'windy' as in very blustery). It was nicknamed 'the cobbler', or something. Ben Arthur being its correct name.

But I survived and returned to my horrible life. I moved into a house with an old dog (no new tricks), and the fitness I'd gained was smashed into a rancid pile by an allergy to the little rat and I had to fight most nights to breathe. I'd get through about fifty tissues a day. It was not a happy time.

But then, as old dogs tend to do, it died. Yippee!

My allergic reactions petered out until they became nothing more than a wheeze filled memory and once more the Sith will rule the galaxy - no, once more unto the breach dear friends - No! Once more I was able to get through a full sentence without running out of breath mid-point and coughing and spluttering like a sixty-a-day fag addict. I can laugh again - like I did last summer. Oooh twist again. Twisting time is here.

You know how it goes.

Samaritan Snare

I got kicked out of Samaritans.

What kind of an idiot - what kind of a monster gets kicked out of Samaritans?

There was a young lad who joined Samaritans. He was being mentored by one of the other listeners. I'd been made aware of him because he was something different. Something special, I thought. He was a Muslim and Muslims were not that fond of the Samaritans. We'd had phone calls from Muslims saying how filthy white women were and other such vile things. So I thought, this young lad could bridge a gap. I was hopeful.

One day, I think it was a Saturday; in fact, I'm sure it was a Saturday because I was due to go on a date afterwards with a person with whom I'm still friends (we actually chatted last night for the first time in a while). Well, I was on duty, and so was the young Muslim lad. I was looking forward to getting to know him.

During the shift, we took some calls together and I let him listen in. He was very quiet. I asked him questions about the calls, but he had little to say about them. Surprisingly little.

I asked him about his personal life and he told me it was his birthday soon. His 18th birthday. I asked him excitedly what he had planned. Not much came his reply. I asked if he was getting a new watch or a new whatever. No, he replied, "I don't really care about material possessions."

If this lad was a woman, I think I would've proposed marriage on the spot. Not because I like cheap women, but the fact he saw past the material world was a refreshing change and greatly so in someone so young.

The day went well, but it was only later that it came back to me what the only thing he'd wanted to know was. What was the bomb alert procedure.

I kept thinking over and over, why would this be the ONLY thing he'd wanted to know all day? The ONLY thing.

I phoned one of the more experienced (two actually) Samaritans and asked them what they thought. We should probably tell the director, they said. So they told the director.

I thought about what had happened more and more. He was Muslim, he cared nothing for material possessions, he is only curious about the bomb procedure, Muslims wiped out the Samaritan religion a millennium earlier and fundamentalist Muslims are still at war with the Samaritans.

A week later and I asked my friend what the director had said to her when she told her about the incident. She said the director didn't think we should worry about it.

Having 14 years of RAF experience behind me, I wasn't going to take this as an answer. I contacted the director myself and asked what was going to happen. If they were going to investigate it further. She said she'd actually put it to central office and they said to take no further action. I asked if I could go to the police and ask them a general question about terrorist safety. She asked central office and they said if I did, I would be dismissed from Samaritans.

I couldn't believe it. It was as though they'd had their balls removed and shoved down their throat till they'd choked and become mute.

About a week later, the director phoned me to ask if we could talk about what had happened. I was eager to. I wanted to tell them exactly what had happened so we could discuss it further.

When I arrived, I was expecting that the other Samaritan who'd been on duty with me that day would be there, so we could get to the bottom of it. She wasn't. The director, being a shifty cow, and being someone who would get through half a sentence because she couldn't commit to the end of it, hoping you would finish it for her, then she could hide behind your words till later:
"well, I didn't say that. You said that. Not me."
She said it was just her, a witness and me.

I couldn't believe it. The meeting wasn't about what had actually happened that day like she'd allowed me to allow myself to believe, but it was about if I was a racist.

I was not pleased. I told her how sneaky that had been to let me think it was about finding out more about what could be a serious, and very real security problem, rather than them trying to subversively find out if I had a problem with Muslims. She could see I was not pleased, and, like a Samaritan would do, asked me how I was feeling.

I told her I was pissed off, is how I was feeling. I told her how disappointed with her I was and why she was allowing it to just fritter away. But she wanted to know if I had a problem with Muslims. I put all the evidence to her and asked if she didn't think I was right to be suspicious. She asked, if the lad hadn't been Muslim, would I still have had my worries.

Of course not, I said. It's only Muslims who are blowing things up and threatening the West. It wasn't a Christian or Jew thing. I told her, when I was in the RAF, if someone with an Irish accent was asking me about bomb procedures and that man was a Catholic, I'd put it straight to my Commanding Officer. If I didn't put it to my C/O, I would be disciplined for not doing so.

But she liked to think that I'd been racist.

I walked out in the end.

A few months later, I told her I was still upset with her for this. Long story short, she dismissed me from Samaritan duties and the reason logged would be that I was racist. So that was nice to hear.

Well, you know, being a Samaritan, we only had to do one shift a week, but I did two or three every week. I did every night - every night over Christmas and New Year 2010 and spared so many other volunteers from having to leave their families by doing so. No thanks for that.

I still miss helping people and really miss the Samaritans. I'm so sorry to say this (really), but what a snivelling fucking cunt that bitch was.

Holiday

It's a horrible feeling. It's like looking through holiday brochures and picking a destination you really want to go to. Then going to the Travel Agents and discussing when you want to go and how long for and getting print-outs and payment schemes and excitedly talking about the hotel and the local activities; looking at pictures of the beach.

But all the time, there is a voice far away reminding you you haven't got any money... and you're not going to get any money... you're living in a dreamworld... and no matter how much you want it, and no matter how much you discuss it with the travel agents and with friends...

... it just isn't going to happen.

There's suicide. Or you could just keep on living your horrible life. You're never going to go on this holiday.

First Cousin Once Removed

Buffalo Wings contain no beef

Hamburgers have no ham

Strawberries aren’t berries

Chillies aren’t cold

Mincemeat is vegetarian

Star fruit aren’t nuclear

Peanut Butter doesn’t contain butter

And Peanuts are legumes

Eggplants don’t contain chicks

Kiwi fruit aren’t the babies of flightless birds

Polynesian Long Pig don’t have curly tails

Lancashire Hot Pot doesn’t contain marijuana

The Parson’s Nose is at the rear

Bourbon biscuits are non-alcoholic

Jammie Dodgers aren’t lucky

Virgin Olive Oil

Knacker’s German Sausage

Brain’s Faggots

Cocktails

Horlicks

Spotted Dick

--- all misleading in their own way.

Surely now you can understand my confusion over the breadcrumbs.

i'll be there

Who’ll think of me when I am gone?

A lonely few? More than one?

Who’ll think of me a kindly thought?

Who’ll think a thought of any sort?

Will there be a tear or two?

A cry? A wail? A fair to do?

Who’ll plan the buffet later on?

Be there to eat it? Anyone?

The vol au vents and sausage rolls;

The cheese, the cakes; profiteroles.

We’ll have it with an open bar

Drink all you can for half an hour

Who’ll raise a glass and make a toast

To the man who used to boast

About the press-ups by the ton;

The funds raised for the marathon?

Who’ll remember fondly when

I went Far East and back again?

Will anybody denigrate?

Will anyone voice words of hate

About the man who lies in state?

Well, bums on seats: proliferate!

I grieved for those I loved and lost.

Who’ll grieve for me? Who’ll pay the cost

Of my cremation if I’m broke?

I may be poor. It is no joke.

Who’ll be around when I expire?

Who’ll be there when they light the fire?

The chances are I’ll be alone.

No doppelganger, twin or clone.

Who’ll place me in the family tree?

Who’ll read or write my eulogy?

Who’ll be there for my dying breath?

Who’ll hold my hand when I meet death?

Who’ll be there when my skin turns blue?

I’ll be there. Will you be too?

Dust

Did I ever tell you about the time I flew across the Atlantic?

You know, I've been in here for over a year now. Millions have come and gone... but I'm still here. It's crazy. First in: Last out. F.I.L.O. That's how it is around here.

So... what are you then?

What am I?

Yeah.

Do you mean like, in the whole scheme of things? Metaphysically?

No, no, no. What are you?

Of dog?

Of dog? Me too! The ones who come through here – they're a real diverse crowd. There was this polyester who wouldn't shut up. I was just like, go back where you came from. Thank god, you know... didn't last long. About a week, or so.

I question this whole thing.

What do you mean?

I mean, do we really come from where we think we come from?

You've lost me.

Well, we started off coming from dog to begin with... but where did we come from before that? We're not eternal. We didn't always 'be from dog'. If you know what I mean.

No. I don't know what you mean.

I mean, before your first memory of 'coming from dog', what were you then?

I was dog.

Really?

Yes.

Hmm, I'm not that sure. I think there were things that made us. I mean, it's obvious really when you think about it. If we're not eternal, then we must come from somewhere beforehand. And that must have come from somewhere before that --- AND that must've come from something, you know?

Are you sure you're not polyester?

No, but saying that, I'm not really sure what I am.

Hold on. Hold on. This is sounding crazy. We're not dog because 'where did we come from before we came from dog'...?

Yes...

Well, if dog didn't make us, where did we come from?

That's just it. I don't know.

Well, if you don't know, then you should just accept that you came from dog. Have faith.