because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say

Sunday, 3 January 2010

The F Word.


Well, since you ask; actually, my introduction to the new year has been a bit of a bitch. And yes I can still swear without warning because that was the resolution I broke two new years ago and this year all I have resolved to do is stay upright more often and spend less money in Primark.

I'm allowed to swear since I was honored enough by our divine lord to be privy to the many applications of the word Fuck. As an adverb, transitive verb, intransitive verb, noun, adjective, and my favourite the plain old 'doing word' verb. It can be used to describe so many emotions. I admire it's versatility. That was what broke the resolution, that epiphany. But I know this is before the watershed, so kids: potty mouth isn't big and it isn't clever.


My New Year, incidentally, had the most promising start. I saw it in from my bed where I was snuggled up with Julian Fellowes and a giant bag of giant Buttons. The only thing that would have had me more excited as the clock struck twelve was another bag. (Side-note: NEW DECADE. By the time another new decade comes around I might actually be expected to have RESPONSIBILITIES, maybe a proper job and seeing only one bloke at a time and, oh, I don't know, possess the ability to remember to put on a wash and eat fruit and vegetables and not watch ER boxsets until my eyes go square, and quite frankly that's just the fucking fucks.) (Sorry to swear, I've sort of opened Pandora's Profanity Box now, haven't I?)(It's just that I'm quite partial to being irresponsible).

So, in the past few days I've had two pieces of information.

Number one: Lonely Planet has voted Detroit as the most hated city in the world. Worse than even WOLVERHAMPTON. Apparantly, "Tell any American you’re planning to visit Detroit, then watch their eyebrows shoot up quizzically. ‘Why?’ they’ll ask, and warn you about the off-the-chart homicide rates and boarded-up buildings with trash swirling at their bases ... ‘Detroit’s a crap-hole. You’ll get killed there.’". Number two: Detroit airport has been on the receiving end of not one but two attempted terrorist attacks in the past week.

The significance? I am writing this from an airport hotel room. I have an early flight in the morning. I am moving to Detroit. Well, if customs let me and my predilection for bad words through, anyway.

Would it be wrong to ask if said terrorist might actually be doing us all a favour by taking Motor Town off the map then? If everyone thinks of it so badly and the only way I can see to reverse my commitment to the move is to have nowhere to move to? Ah. Yes. Probably not in very good taste to poke fun at terrorism. Very serious issue and all that. I don't know what came over me then. But you see my point, I trust. (AND YOU SEE! BET YOU WANTED TO USE THE F-WORD AT MY LACK OF SENSITIVITY THEN, DIDN'T YOU?)

I suppose I have to choose between the lesser of two evils. Derby or Detroit.

Mama (unsurprisingly) has an opinion. Having spent the past two weeks back at my parent's house, a by-product of the holidays and a surrendered rented room, tensions had begun to get a bit fraught, and my nerves over the impending change didn't help. As it was all beginning to reach boiling point Mama asked me to stand in the kitchen with her. "Come here," she said, "I want to show you something."

She pointed out of the window at the bleak snow and grey skies, and the higgildy-piggidly houses on our road that are owned mainly by people waiting to die. "Horrible," she said. She pointed at the cracked vase of wilting cherry chrysanthemums in the windowsill, petals tumbling like tears to the ground. "Dead," she said. She spun me around and gestured toward the kitchen, with the mis-matched floral mugs and crumby plates piled high in the sink, and the newspapers and laundry and caked dog-bowl. "Gross," she said. She pointed to her own face, eyes watery with cold, red, flakey nose dripping with snotty mucus, and breath like a camel's arse. "Minging," she said.

"Remember all this when you're sad and feel like you want to come home. Go to Detroit, Laura."

Well. When you put it like that... I'll just have to pray the plane isn't fucking blown up.



P.S. I've won an award! 
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