Now that uni is finished for the year, I can start reading novels again. I can listen to music and cook odd vegetarian things in a bid to trick the Owl into thinking he is consuming flesh. I can listen to the back-log of radio that my fellow RN junkie R. has told me I must hear and that I missed because I was working at the world’s most boring job, and I can fantasise about the best way to kill Michael Cathcart. I can watch marathons of a certain crappy vampire series, and I might wash that down with some zombies, but they’ll be on DVD because neither of us care enough to waste good plane-ticket money on technology. I can blog every day and bore you all rigid with my opinions. This is going to be fun.
I won’t be watching tv. I tell everyone this is because I live somewhere with no signal, because that’s easier than explaining that I hate tv and was as happy as a clam when the analogue signal got switched off. I hate facile half-hour snippets that purport to represent human lives and I hate reality shows that are less realistic than sit-coms. I hate the cult of the chef as Messiah, and I hate anything misogynistic to do with cars and men who cultivate an air of mystery because they are such boring fuckers otherwise (Andrew got me to watch ‘Top gear’ once, and once only, by promising me that there would be a bogged Lancia Beta surrounded by crocodiles). I hate anything to do with renovation, gardens or lifestyle and I hate ads. Most of all I hate ads. C. tells me this is because I am undiagnosed adult –onset ADHD and have the attention span of a platy, but I prefer to think of my inability to sit through advertising as a symptom of an unmaterialistic outlook with a small component of anger management dysfunction.
I hate one thing more than ads. People who have a ‘favourite ad’ should be placed in a sinking Lancia Beta surrounded by crocodiles. (So should Michael Cathcart, but I’m trying not to think about him, for fear of exacerbating my anger-management issues). People who can rehash every second of a piece of advertising, reminisce about ‘ads from long ago’, analyse the characteristics of the characters in an ad or, worst of all, quote from an ad like it is a meaningful document with something to offer the world, desist. Go and read a novel or work out how to make textured vegetable protein taste good. Don’t talk to me, or I’ll force you into a car in a swamp in Botswana, throw Michael Cathcart in there after you, and lock the door.