The first post in nine months, talk about wilting..... But there was just sooo much going on (excuse No. 1), I wrote two dissertations (excuses No. 2), moved house (excuse No. 3), started a new school (you get the picture) and had to do lots and lots and lots of socialising (and there is of course Downton Abbey, Nigel Slater and QI for the less social days). Well, I suppose a lesser known philosopher in a bathing gown once said 'What matters is getting there in time, not getting up early'. So getting back here nine months later is still early enough to write. I initiated this blog to publish my efforts in cooking, but taking pictures of what I eat and adding rubbish recipes does not count as proper food blogging, so I resign and do what I do best: complaining. I recently read that the 'agony aunt' had been reinvented - online - so as to take professional complaining on to another level in the 21st century. Great, but in truth, the solutions to my problems are obvious (and involve more often than not the eradication of most of the human species), and I don't want to complain publicly to get solutions. Part of the joy of complaining is that there is no immediate solution, or no easy on for that matter, it is about the art of complaining - complaining for complaining's sake - to get a touch of Baudelaire into the equation. Complaints are the soul's little 'Great Escape'-s; means of letting of the steam, without extinguishing the fire; they are not meant to be answered, they need stoking and salt-in-the-wound-rubbing, not handy solutions before moving to the next, possibly bigger issue. No, no, no, no, as a semi-professional complainer, I advocate the non-searching for solutions or alternatives, because they defy the very essence of the complaint; dilute the issue; or worse, make you aware of other people. Yes - complainers often complain to ignore the fact that there is a world around them that needs attention, and that possibly, needs help that little bit more. By the way, it is really cold here, in my minuscule bedroom with the awful Victorian sash windows.....
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| Tea, the new Champagne |
The obviousness of most issues is to do with the less serious nature of the complaint: it's the small fry that really warms the complainer's heart, for it is not important enough to give reason to complain, but not unimportant enough not to give reason to - we're talking the grey area, the twilight of importance and neglect, the ferry on the way to hell, where complaints are made or break in tidal movements, following the makers whining and eye-rolling lamentations. True, this is self-justification, but on the other hand, I never complain about really important things. I am too proactive to do so: any problem is tackled offensively, and not a thought is wasted on its problem-ness. Real problems is what I thrive on, because they create the exact opposite tension of the small fry: whereas I as a hobby complainer create cases around nothing, I, the professional solver, act to overcome problems as fast as possible (to be able to return to my lamentations). In a way, the small complaints are the matrix in which I live, the background noises, the annoying crickets in front of my window. I need them to be able to think clearly, and possibly also as test runs for the essential problems in life. Without problems, my life would be flat, uninteresting (it is sometimes, even WITH problems), and I may add, completely senseless. Studying, the very nature of, is the finding of solutions: without problems, King's would be empty, utterly useless and it's costs unjustifiable (some people argue that it already is all of these things).
Mankind (and I, as an egocentric complainer rarely use that term) needs its problems just like it needs air and food and water and Oyster cards. Aristotle, Hume, Foucault, Grass, Cowell - they ONLY exist through and within their complaints! Had they not continued to bleat about stuff they really, really thought important, we wouldn't know them, at all. (in Foucault's case, it might have been more agreeable that way) Man should be renamed, I think, into 'moan' and 'Moankind', which are, by far, more appropriate terms to describe our species. One should think that the rise of new technology would facilitate life of 'moan', solve problems instantly, and reduce the number thereof altogether. But no! New technology has not just amplified the voice of moan, more over, it has given moankind more platforms where it can whine and make life a misery for others. The iPhone - the megaphone of hell - is designed to allow for the highest number of parallel complaints possible. You can update your twitter, Facebook, Myspace and blog, whilst chatting on the phone to your best friend, writing an email to your mother and scratching pre-pubescent rubbish into the plastic of the bus seat in front of you. It is fantastically appalling how much you can ramble on the 55 to Leyton, if you get on at Tottenham Court Road and leave at Old Street. Especially if you're a bit weak on grammar, and your vocabulary is limited to the words 'f*ck' and 'like'. I was a-mazed..... Not that I would want to complain....
