Never Take Risks With Stability
It's good to be writing, unedited or expurgated, direct entry, into the main artery of the blogoshere. A coupla beers in the Comm with Leif and Paul, a dreary week of extended cold-snap, emotional inertia, professional cesspit. I genuinely love and respect my peer group, and yet I am bereft of genuine friendship, love, belief. Immersed in the knuckledusted life of the Cult of Imagology. Iminently booking the next adventure to Kerarno, this time perhaps via Paris, with Eurostar and TGV, no flights. Spurred by a desire to escape the recent winter drudge-repetition with a bold gesture. Far from the infernal loop of corporate office existence, the sporadic bursts of loose hedonism, contorted emotional responses. Am I being unfair on myself - is my 'intuition' in some sense an inhibitor, or a catalyst, of the truth.
It doesn't really wash when Gordon Brown suggests we all play safe with stability. Hand drumming and sliding up and down the lectern, his 10th post-budget speech, heralds an evening of voodoo economics and ghosted cameos, viewed from the cheap-seats. Gordo, pretender-elect, puppet, foil, fastidious fidget. Hey growth isn't everything, whatever happened to the great social policies. The situation at Stamford Bridge eerily mirrors that of the House... the biggest wobble of the Mourinho era confirmed, despite the quarter-final cup win over Newcastle. This much possesion and pace, against Barcelona at Nou Camp would have gone down as inspired and feisty in defeat, but not as a home victory, not in the F.A Cup. Motty and Lawrensons closing commentary vindicated the suspicions of all but the absurdly myopic Blue - yes a flourish of fluid brilliance, bordering on Dandy, rarely looking rattled, superlative subs on the bench. But the gnawing, grating fear of all football fans, the slow-mo view of a derailed train, doggedly dragging a motley carousel of overpaid apathetics in its wake. A slow, suffocating paucity of ideas, a fundamental lack of self-belief among the players, and worst of all, a stadium void of supporter empathy or spirit.
Listen up Tony, listen up Roman, and Jose, and Tom: With money and dark magic you can manufacture a team, and a media-myth of great prospect, but you cannot manifest a living culture. In this fallow field we are lucky to have the buffer of a dozen point lead, and only Carvalho, Terry and Makalele are what keeps it ticking, even when luck and friends run dry, and when time itself seems to desert us. Who are their equivalents in the Labour ranks, or at my place of work.
We hide behind the veneer of woe we suffer in the face of the mediated, material world, and yet these events are also a parable of current life and times. The office situation doesn't bare discussion or analysis right now, it's too close to bed - all too likely to inspire torpid and perhaps traumatic dream scenarios. Resolute and unafraid, but can't help feeling I'm selling myself short. Too many distractions, too little support, not enough spiritual conviction. I don't doubt myself within myself, and yet I sense I'm losing sight of the path I once aspired to live. Is this the life I want to live?
It doesn't really wash when Gordon Brown suggests we all play safe with stability. Hand drumming and sliding up and down the lectern, his 10th post-budget speech, heralds an evening of voodoo economics and ghosted cameos, viewed from the cheap-seats. Gordo, pretender-elect, puppet, foil, fastidious fidget. Hey growth isn't everything, whatever happened to the great social policies. The situation at Stamford Bridge eerily mirrors that of the House... the biggest wobble of the Mourinho era confirmed, despite the quarter-final cup win over Newcastle. This much possesion and pace, against Barcelona at Nou Camp would have gone down as inspired and feisty in defeat, but not as a home victory, not in the F.A Cup. Motty and Lawrensons closing commentary vindicated the suspicions of all but the absurdly myopic Blue - yes a flourish of fluid brilliance, bordering on Dandy, rarely looking rattled, superlative subs on the bench. But the gnawing, grating fear of all football fans, the slow-mo view of a derailed train, doggedly dragging a motley carousel of overpaid apathetics in its wake. A slow, suffocating paucity of ideas, a fundamental lack of self-belief among the players, and worst of all, a stadium void of supporter empathy or spirit.
Listen up Tony, listen up Roman, and Jose, and Tom: With money and dark magic you can manufacture a team, and a media-myth of great prospect, but you cannot manifest a living culture. In this fallow field we are lucky to have the buffer of a dozen point lead, and only Carvalho, Terry and Makalele are what keeps it ticking, even when luck and friends run dry, and when time itself seems to desert us. Who are their equivalents in the Labour ranks, or at my place of work.
We hide behind the veneer of woe we suffer in the face of the mediated, material world, and yet these events are also a parable of current life and times. The office situation doesn't bare discussion or analysis right now, it's too close to bed - all too likely to inspire torpid and perhaps traumatic dream scenarios. Resolute and unafraid, but can't help feeling I'm selling myself short. Too many distractions, too little support, not enough spiritual conviction. I don't doubt myself within myself, and yet I sense I'm losing sight of the path I once aspired to live. Is this the life I want to live?
posted by johnnytoobad at 10:40 pm
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