Friday 9 March 2007

Cricket fans make better lovers - official

Sport is weird. Men who take sport seriously are weirder still. Men who call other men weird for taking sport seriously, whilst all the while taking a particular sport seriously themselves, are perhaps the weirdest men of all. I take cricket seriously and say that other men who take other sports seriously are not only weird, but stupid. This makes me both stupid and hypocritical. And last, but by no means least, it irrefutably makes me weird as hell. I'll live.

Because there are so many different sports in the world - the official figure is 13, but this seems pessimistic - I would find it impossible to compare all of them to cricket to prove my point (see the title of this post for the point in question). Thankfully, I don't need to bother myself with such a task, because someone else has just emphatically made my point for me. Happy, happy days.

Researchers at a university in, I think, Warwickshire (although I'll need to check this out further before saying so for certain) have made the gratifying discovery that the sexual performance of men who watch cricket is demonstrably superior to the "performance" of those men who don't. Result. I'm not really sure if it is possible to feel happier than I do at this moment in time. I may very well be doing a sex mistake in my trousers as I type. What do I care, though? Boffins assure me that I'm a (considerate and patient) tiger-brute in bed and so, for once in my life, nothing else really seems to matter. This sweetest of revelations helps to confirm a few suspicions I've long held about tennis, say, or football. Especially tennis, though. (De nada, Mr Z)

But now is not the time to gloat over the sexual inadequacies of men who like tennis or football or, I don't know, tennis or something. They will be feeling wretched enough tonight as it is, I imagine, as they lie slumped and guiltily sated beside their depressed and frustrated partners. Why oh why, they must be asking themselves, did we not just go to the cricket and learn all about patience and delayed gratification? Why oh why indeed, you selfish little grunters.

There is just too much to say about all of this. However, I'm going to exercise some self-control (thank you, cricket) and restrict myself solely to bringing this wonderful news to your attention. See you in April.


(I'll put up the relevant links just as soon as I can - and may also add some other stuff to this post, too. I'm tired now, though, and need to go to bed. My lucky, lucky girlfriend.)


Thursday 8 March 2007

Esto nobis praegustatum in mortis examine

Wow. That last post of mine was brilliant. So many words, so few spelling mistakes, so very glad I'm me. I am in a hurry, nevertheless, to put some considerable distance between that most splendid thing I've just written and my gifted, most handsome, self. I just want to, okay? Okay. Oh music come and light my heart's dark places....

I enjoy an uneasy relationship with music, and this is not all down to mild synaesthesia. Certain passages contain a residual potency that makes them capable of inflicting an agonisingly beautiful pain. They just worm their way inside of me and go to work. I actively seek this out. These fragments, these moments, these glimpses of higher ideals. These things, my darling and elusive God, allow me to believe that this search for something may one day lead me to happiness, and that happiness itself is what I've been craving all along. (Although I doubt it, to be fair, because the very concept of "happiness" makes me feel queasy.)

Searching, looking, listening, hoping. I can feel the yearning in the music of Bach and in the wounding genius of Mozart. Denied the comfort of faith by my stubbornly firm grip on our bleakest of realities, I still find it possible to imagine the face of God being touched by this ascending and all too pitifully human noise. How is it possible to remain untouched by this searing and deadly beauty? It is agony. A view partially revealed, an itch almost scratched, as you hurtle with hope and reach out, preparing yourself to believe, daring to look for a lightness. Why does this have to end? Why on earth does it never quite take you there? You are left hanging, spent and alone, returned cruelly once more to the aching void, as the music dies in your soul.

It is like a form of self-inflicted torture. Conclusive proof, if any were needed, that it is perfectly possible to feel both happy and sad, hopeful and hopeless, at exactly one moment in time. You know the end is coming, but for those few unbearably hurtful and uplifting seconds, you dare to allow yourself to believe otherwise. Or is that just me?

Anyway, I'm really going to need to write about football or sex in my next post, lest people start thinking I'm gay.



I am in an exceptionally good mood for some reason. It happens. I feel strong and happy and light in the head. I can deal with anything right now. Anything. So I'm going to try to get my March blogging chores out of the way all in one go - I had promised myself that I would do three whole posts this month. Not just one or two, you understand, but three. I am a hero. 

This undoubted heroism of mine, coupled with my happily exuberant state, ought to shield me nicely from the way-too-close-to-home nature of the subject matter. That's the plan, at any rate.....

Suicide rates in Scotland are on the increase, with men leading the charge. Good stuff. A lot of men feel unsure of their role in society these days, so it's nice to see some initiative being shown. Don't believe the hateful feminist propaganda that trashes the competence of men. Just take a look at the figures, lady. Between 1989 and 2004, the suicide rate in men increased to the tune of 22% - awesome. Silly lackadaisical women, probably too busy knitting or over-achieving in education or being lesbians or something, managed a measly 6% increase. How lame is that? Could you lot actually be any further behind in this particular field? Goooaaaal. One nil to men, I think you'll find.

It gets better, though. It's not just that Scottish men now have something tangible with which to lord it over Scottish women (at very long last). No. Scottish people in general can now lord it over the rest of the UK, too. Oh, you dirty Sassenach bastards, how I have longed for this moment. If I were a Jew-hating moron with nary a clue about history, any history, I should probably be painting my face blue and making a jaundiced anti-English film right about now - shouting Freedom in a most peculiar accent as I did so. Tempting. I'm going to have to settle for gloating contentedly, however.

According to The Scotsman (07/03/07) "rates of suicide in Scotland are the highest in the UK, almost double those in England". Did you hear that, you sorry bunch of English losers? - almost DOUBLE. That's got to hurt. But wait - "experts called for increased efforts to target those most at risk". Why? We're winning, you fucking idiots. Man, I really hate experts. So typical of Scots, as well, to sabotage their own success stories. Makes me mad, that does.

"The reasons for Scotland's suicide record remain unclear, although high levels of deprivation, alcohol and drug abuse and large numbers of people living in remote areas are possible risk factors." D'you think? 

"The 270-page report [sorry, I forgot to say, there was a 270-page report commissioned by The Scottish Executive] also reveals details of those who are most at risk of suicide in Scotland - showing variations between rich and poor." No way. You'll need to work an awful lot harder to convince me of THAT, you 270-page report, you.

"The Scottish Executive, which commissioned the report (told you) said its suicide prevention strategy - Choose Life - would now introduce more initiatives to target those groups most at risk." Phew. I'm sort of left hoping they do outreach programmes for expatriots, because I could do with feeling targeted every once in a while. Also, I am pretty certain that I would react favourably to someone coming to my door with a clipboard and recommending that I simply Choose Life.

We understand you are at risk, Sir.
Yes, that sounds about right.
Money worries, Sir?
Nope. None whatsoever.
Abusing alcohol are we, Sir?
Nope. Not touched the stuff in over a year and a half. 
Any other drugs you might be using, Sir?
Coffee and cigarettes.
Nothing else at all, Sir?
Nothing else at all, you nosey bastard, no.
Hmm. In some kind of trouble with the law, perhaps, Sir?
No.
Ever?
Never.
Are you maybe living in a deprived area, then, Sir?
Does it look that way to you?
No, Sir, my apologies, it doesn't. Do you live alone?
No. I live with my girlfriend.
Relationship falling apart is it, Sir?
No. Still going strong after 16 years. I don't want anyone or anything else.
Any family you can rely on in times of crisis, Sir?
Yes.
In regular contact with them, are we?
Yes. I speak with all three of my sisters at least once a week. We laugh a lot.
Any hobbies, Sir?
Yep, plenty.
Hmm. Most unusual. It says here that you are at risk, but....."
But?
You don't exactly fit the profile, Sir, that's all."
That is strange, yes, because I definitely do have very strong urges to top myself every once in a while.
This is all very complicated, isn't it, Sir?
Yes.
Here's a leaflet, anyway. Do be sure to read it, Sir. Good day."
I will read it, I promise. Good day to you, too.

Choose Life. A catchy title, to be sure, but not enough in itself to answer the question it raises of why?


 
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