BLOG No.14 … SHIT WILL EAT ITSELF.
Question: What would you think of you if you ever bumped into you? Would the two of you get on? Would you even recognise that it’s you? Answer: Dunno. Another Question: Why the f**k is Devlin asking me stupid questions? Answer: Still dunno, it’s just that I had this weird dream the other night that I was sat in my car talking to me. Luckily for me I found the other me absolutely fascinating, but then I put the ‘i’ in narcissistic, only one of them mind, the other two can go f**k themselves. Still confused? Me too, but I’m hoping that by the time I finish this blog I will have unwittingly stumbled upon the point of it.
Anyone who’s seen the movie ‘Moon’ will know that a similar experience befell Sam Rockwell’s character. ‘Moon’ is a brilliant sci-fi film like they used to make ’em, low on budget, high on concept, grubby, clunky and a bit eerie. If you haven’t seen it you’re a fool and I’m going to spoil it for you. Sam plays a guy called Sam (confusing already) who’s been harvesting something or other on the moon for three years in absolute solitude apart from the obligatory speaking computer. Shortly before he’s due back on earth he has an accident, loses consciousness, wakes up only to discover there’s another Sam. It’s a sort of existential mystery (sorry for using the word ‘existential’ but that’s what it is) Anyway, the Sams freak out for a bit, then brawl for a bit before eventually joining forces in an attempt to discover who the real Sam is. Conclusion: it’s neither of them, I’m simplifying, just go watch it you lazy bastards. The film incidentally was made by a man that knows what it’s like to be two people, Duncan Jones used to be Zowie Bowie until he was old enough to begin resenting his father forever for bestowing on him such a preposterously wanky moniker.
Back on planet Earth (I’m not talking about films now) the BBC is in crisis, the strangest aspect of which is that when the BBC becomes the news, the BBC still has to cover it, resulting in BBC bigwigs (what’s left of them) being grilled by BBC littlewigs. No wonder they’re confused, their flagship news show has developed an unfortunate flair for screening stories it shouldn’t whilst not screening stories it should, leaving Nicky Campbell stewing in his own frothing rage every morning as the BBC man continues to lambast BBC men. At least the Sams worked together to solve their problem, the BBCs don’t appear to get on at all, or have any semblance of an idea as to who the real BBC is.
Further residents of Baffledsville are the Glib-Dems (AKA ‘Liberals’ and ‘the opposition’). Since Lloyd George was defeated some 90 years ago, the role of the Glib-Dem has essentially been to oppose the status quo (insert your own Quo gag here, i haven’t got time), disagree with everything the government says and sleep soundly in the knowledge of never actually having to be in government. A foolproof mandate until our recent hopelessly hung parliament somehow ushered them into power, well sort of power, ok very little power but nonetheless a position of having to oppose the opposition … which is them. Their silver lining is that it’ll be another lifetime before they’ll have the inconvenience of power to worry about. “Opposition ad infinitum” as Lloyd George probably didn’t but should have once said.
In footie news, shit has truly eaten itself. In FA cup round 2, Wimbledon have been drawn to play Wimbledon. If you’re not aware of the history of the Wimbledons, I’ll briefly explain. Wimbledon had a football club a few years ago until Milton Keynes bundled it into the back of a van, drove it up the M1 and forced it to exist there hoping that nobody would notice. Over time they cunningly adjusted the name and club colours until eventually Wimbledon’s supporters rose up and said “f**k this, lets stop coming here, lets start a new club in say Wimbledon, we could call it, er … Wimbledon!”. Being leagues apart they would never have to face the existential quandary (sorry, won’t say it again) of actually playing each other. Until now. Fate has played her devilish hand and it is so. Unlike the affable Adams, the sensible Sams or the baffled Beebs, the Wimbledons are a true tail of entrenched enmity. This is war, albeit a massively irrelevant one.
So where does all this take us? … God knows, or should I say the Gods know, there’s definitely more than one of him (or her) hence all the wars we keep having. To be honest my brain is starting to hurt now, I’m way out of my depth here. Jesus, 20 minutes ago I was googling ‘existentialism’. I guess if you cover enough ground and hang around long enough you may very well bump into you too, even if only in your dreams. If you do, remember, do unto you (the other you) as you would hope the other you would do unto you, if you know what I mean. I wish I did.
The Adam Devlins.
The Sam Rockwells.
The Glib Dems past and present, Nick Clegg flanked by the late LLoyd George (my father knew him by the way).
Finally competition time: Q. Does this image exist? Answers on a postcard please.