You can’t handle it

In which you can’t handle the truth.

Imagine you had a vial of truth serum, how would you use it and who would you use it on? Would you want to hear some truths or is it better to let lies cover any pain that honesty may cause?

People can be very sensitive to the truth, they profess to want to hear it but then once the reality of it is revealed they don’t seem to be able to handle it. The notion that it is best to air everything out flies in the face of not being a mean person, sometimes being a bit opaque can result in a lot less hurt.

I never lie, I may omit details and facts that give the illusion of a falsification but I never lie. I am the silver-tongue that will tell you not what you want to hear but what I want you to listen to. I would have made a perfect politician, if not for the megalomania and rampant paranoia.

This is the interesting aspect about lying, surely anyone who deals in lies all the time either trusts nobody else or is incredibly naive to think that they are the only one-eyed man in the kingdom of the blind.
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Shallow learning curve

In which I try not to think too much.

Lucy is a movie about Scarlett Johansson being the super powered femme fatale that is not constrained by living in the male-dominated Marvel universe. She gets to use all her brain and it turns out that let’s her do some pretty cool things. If I got to use all my brain I’m not so sure I’d want that power.

Apparently we only use 10% of the brain at the moment and that seems like plenty for what we need to do, any more than that and it has the potential for a lot of bad. I am able to get up in the morning and stumble around making a cup of tea on just 1% of my brain (as a Brit we have evolved tea making along with breathing and blinking) so what would I do with the rest of the neurons?

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PowerPoint skills

In which I imagine the audience naked.

After writing the tale of The Nobber and the saga of the Best-Man demotion I did realise the one thing I was most disappointed at regarding the whole saga. Not being able to do a Best Man speech. I was looking forward to delivering a kick ass speech even if I was nervous at letting them down

I seem like I’m confident when I stand up in front of a group of people to speak but it is all a facade, I am, good at acting just not good at acting in front of others.

Being denied this opportunity was the one part that hurt the most, in fact during the demotion process I was once asked by the Future Mrs N to submit my proposed speech for approval like it was some kind of financial promotion for an insurance company. There was no way this was going to happen as it breaks the sacred bond between groom and best-man, and probably added to the reasons for my sudden dismissal.

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Don’t tell me no

In which I accept your challenge.

Other than riding my bike up the street the wrong way I’m a very good boy. I try to stay out of trouble for a number of reasons, like it is a cramp on my lifestyle to be in prison and I’d have to explain why I’m entangled with the Po-Po to my family. Neither of these are particularly attractive options.

As a result I try not to break the rules, I’m scared of being caught and of the consequences. Instead I prefer to push against the boundaries of bureaucracy and see how far I can bend them to my will. I am much happier to teeter along the edge of genius and failure.

The other option is to find the loophole in the rules and exploit them. I subscribe to Alexander the Great’s Gordian knot solution, if the laws of the game are ill-defined then use that to your ability.

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Football Manager studies

In which I take a non league team to European glory.

This may seem strange to measure my life against what amounts to a spreadsheet-based football simulation, but one constant in my life for the last 15 years has been the annual release of this game. Added to this is the fact that the first weekend of release has been passed over to a 48 hour session of tinkering with formations and scouting every single under-18 player I can find. Football Manager, and before that the original Championship Manager has been there tempting me with one more game since my mid-teens. I have FM Addiction.

Along with Sensible Soccer it was my education into the world of football, cementing my love of Italian Football and AC Milan in Championship Manager Italia. With my squad of Franco Baresi and Danielle Massaro I was Fabio Cappello (as it was at the time) leading the Diavollo to European success.

It was the game that took me from 10 library books a week to interfering with my revision at GCSE and A-Level and it took up my time at University. Some games claim to be able to change you life, for me only one has and with very significant impact. I wouldn’t change it for the world.

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Toys in the attic

In which I find a treasure trove of Lego and wooden trains.

The advantage of living in a house is that I now own an attic. I had to find out if I have a loft or an attic, apparently a loft is an open area, and an attic is enclosed and generally not inhabitable. As it requires the use of two lengths of ladder, squeezing through the hatch, and then dodging all the roof beams I am fairly sure we have an attic.

What is pretty clear are the uses most people have for this roof space. It becomes a general dumping ground for all the pieces of your life that you know you should through but don’t have the heart to get rid of. There may be a twelve key Casio keyboard with 12 beat settings but what if I need to play Ode to Joy to someone, and you never know when you’ll need an old (but broken) suitcase, and the Christmas decorations…foil shapes will come back into style.

Grandma G’s attic is like a mini-Toys ‘backwards R’ Us. Brown boxes filled with the toys me and my sisters used to play with waiting to be used by a new generation. There is a wooden train set made by my grandfather waiting to be rescued from beneath a Christmas tree (one of those fancy modern ones, I have the family heirloom tree up in my attic). We could bring down a box a year and still have enough to last us till they are teenagers.

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Meat, the real five a day

In which I refuse to eat the food my food eats

Mrs G will tell you that I have a varied diet, as long as varied means “heavily biased towards meat”. If the average human is an omnivore, and about 7% of the UK population are vegetarian, then to even out the numbers I have to be 98% carnivore (the remaining 2% is mainly garlic bread).

PHOTO-Bacon Garlic Bread

I’ve been told that some sort of vegetation is essential in your diet, apparently for the nutrients and health reasons. I’m not convinced by this and I’m sure this is just propaganda put forward by the Illettuceami of the world. Eating leaves of any plant still tastes like eating grass. I understand the aesthetic value of salad but as an essential, or even headline act, it’s just doesn’t feel right to me.

This means I need to choose some meat.

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Well done for doing your job

In which I refuse to compete for a plaque.

Every month the company I work for run a company wide recognition scheme, it is open to all individuals and is a similar programme to those I have experienced in other places of work. The greatest part about this recognition scheme is how every wins every month. No matter how good or poor you are you win a prize, and that prize is handily deposited into your bank account and you receive a certificate with details of how much you won.

This is the recognition I need for my job, this little donation to helping me keep my way of life is the reward I get for dedicating 35 hours a week to the needs of a company. I do this for you and what you do allows me to spend weekends with Mrs G or buy pretty things for the Feliciraptor. It is a perfect arrangement. What disturbs the waters is when “Recognition Schemes” come into play.

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Rejecting rejection

In which I refuse to let people refuse me things.

It’s not as though rejection is ever an experience you want, yet it will almost be certainly one that every one will have gone through in their life. I think Rudyard Kipling put it very well, it’s the Bear Necessity of life that If you treat triumph and disaster the same then yours is the Earth my son.

Nobody likes to be told that they are not good enough, we don’t go out intentionally to do a bad job or interview so when you get told that you best wasn’t good enough then you start to doubt yourself. You don’t consider that you may have been in the 100 metre sprint with Usain Bolt it’s the natural reaction to try to analyse what you did wrong.

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Being sick

In which I wallow in my own sympathy.

SARS, ebola, a serious case of missing legs. Growing up these were still not valid reasons to miss a day of school. Only once I lost the capacity to see, hear and write (and it had to be a compete set) could I think about staying home sick.

As an adult it’s a bit easier to self-diagnose the risk of going to work while incapacitated, perhaps because Mother G won’t have to look after me sitting feeling all sorry for myself. After a number of years of living alone I have been able to cope with not feeling great by just sitting sullenly in front of the TV. Should I allow others to take care of me, when I prefer to soldier on alone?

I don’t like feeling unwell. I have a certain dislike to the sensation that my fragile mortality is being tested by external causes. The fact that I can be brought low by a few single cell organisms makes me feel that my impending doom is ever nearer. Being a typical man who has suffered (yes SUFFERED) through the masculine strain of Orthomyxoviruses I would rather just sit and wait an illness out.

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