Journal Of Disdain

This blog is aimed at being a little insight into my creative life. What I really want to avoid (not because I'm a cynical and grumpy bastard) is being too sickly sweet and positive about everything.

The 'Journal Of Disdain' is a quiet corner in which I can express my distress; my qualms; my disdain at the everyday frustrations and struggles to co-exist with the rest of civilisation.

These entries are by no means flippant.

I hope that some of you reading will be able to relate. If not, I hope to amuse you at the very least.


By this I mean my computer, my phone, my 'sat-nav'...all 'tech' devices that have become a key part of our day-to-day lives, aiming to make everything that bit easier.
I am not happy that I have become so reliant. Through becoming reliant one becomes irrationally angry when something seemingly simple stops working. And without explanation or logical reason. What's more, it is frustrating that something so complex in its make-up should work once again if you simply turn it off and on again.
There is nothing worse than speaking to tech-support and being asked the killer question: "Have you tried turning it off and on again?".

No. Sorry. I tell a lie.

What is worse is when your tech-savvy friend says they will "take a look" and the fault or problem magically disappears, prompting that 'you fucking idiot' look that you secretly give to a parent when they fail to understand the purpose of a hash tag - even after you have explained as simply as possible.


I'm flabbergasted at the number of truly awful drivers there are on the roads in London (I realise there are plenty more bonkers drivers in the world, but on the whole, I only need to drive here).
Did these people not go through the same testing procedure as me? How could they possibly have made it through that to go on to drive in the manner that they do?
Or is it that they are simply engaging in the popular past time of "doing just what the fuck I like and seeing how far I can get away with it"?
My anticipation for stupidity around me on the road is, I believe, what has so far kept me accident and collision free.

Touch wood!


Being that I have managed to contract 'man-flu' over the weekend, I feel it is an appropriate time to include this in my journal.
As a man, I must confess, I'm not altogether certain of what 'man-flu' actually is. My understanding is that it is a term derived from the female of the species for Adam and his inability to function when afflicted with a simple and common cold virus.

Now there are certainly some that are totally bowled over by this ailment. But 'man-flu' to me means something entirely different. At my current age (which I shall not disclose) I have become acutely aware of my body's processes and handling of a variety of occurrences. Should I fall foul of the fore-mentioned, the following will occur like clockwork:

1/ A day of aching and hypersensitivity to temperature, coupled with a scratchy and dry sensation at the back of the throat and nasal passage. This day ends with my fight dwindling and wanting to curl up in bed with a hot drink.

2/ The fight for the right to swallow again. More hot drinks and medication to combat what feels like a finger blocking the throat causing talking, eating and drinking to be more than a little uncomfortable.

This is the end of feeling rotten and wallowing in illness induced self-pity and the beginning of the 'man' part of 'man-flu'; uncontrollable anger caused by blocked sinuses and streaming, mucus filled nostrils that leave you struggling to perform the simplest of daily tasks without looking like a character from the end sequence in Evil Dead.

Don't look down, because your face is dribbling.

Balled up, soppy tissue remnants occupy bed-side tables, waste paper bins and find their way under the bed and your favourite arm chair. You no longer feel ill, but you tend to your leaky nose with cheap toilet paper so often that you now look like a middle aged whiskey enthusiast. In an attempt to reduce this, you avoid blowing and wiping, forcing you to sniff so often that you sound as though you have developed an expensive, powdery habit.

Duration: 2-3 more days.

This is 'man-flu'. And it is fucking annoying!


If you haven't been to a London Fashion Week, you may be excused for thinking you are missing out on something. You may also be excused for sneering derisively based on any number of media coverage you have come across that highlights the abnormalities that are polar opposites to your every day existence. London Fashion Week (as I'm sure is the case with any major fashion week over the season) is just that. It is an event that divides opinion, titillates some and confuses others. I myself, must confess to a topsey-turvey relationship with it. On the one hand it is a land of vibrancy and opportunity, while on the other it is an artificially heated, headache of a long weekend that leaves me with a non-alcohol induced hangover by its climax.

To be more precise, London Fashion Week at Somerset House is a chicken coup (or aviary perhaps more accurately) of aged stone as grey as the London sky, but infinitely more characterful. Spring/Summer 2014 is a menagerie of incredible variety occupying the shiny, slick cobbles of the shrunken courtyard. There is a faint murmur of Jai Paul oscillating from medium sized speakers in the background, subduing the atmosphere.

Wildlife photographers, a sea of them, gather at the entry way, hoping to capture their prized shot. A photograph that will stream within a matter of hours on the world wide web; and to what means?

Peacocks strut expectantly. Smaller, less colourful winged beings, eyes darting about them, survey the competition; identify their benchmarks. A few rogue birds, plain in colour, devoid of any outwardly portrayed beauty, stroll around, strangely invisible, gazing at the eye-catching, scoffing at the unusual. This is not their arena. But there is a show. And a free one at that.

Those birds (meant of course in the metaphoric sense here and not in a derogatory way) that feel that this is their place, their haven, are easily frustrated by everything and everyone about them.

"Why don't you recognise me, my purpose and importance in this here context? How dare you break my path, my gaze, my clear and present immediacy!?"

While these types are steadfastly single minded and a whirl wind of activity, others are lost. Lost in this place they are supposed to be. Feeling their way around by trial and error. Organised chaos.

Through all of the colour, grandeur, hustle and bustle, excitement and blasé dismisiveness, the same outcome: a monotonous pigeon-like cooing over the seeds and bread crumbs scattered for them by their feeders and handlers; the designers and celebrities that temporarily graze the arena with their presence and their wares.

Fashion Week is a fascinating season in the natural world. One can learn a lot when they join Alice through The Looking Glass.

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