I’ve just done the bi-annual backing up of my photos – the only thing I’d genuinely be cut up about losing were I to suffer catastrophic mega-failure on the part of my hard drive. As such, I’ve been looking through them, as you do, so here’s some of them (photos).
They’re mainly of me, because I don’t know how pissy people (Ben) will get about being shown photos of themselves in the past. Also because I’m phenomenally arrogant. Also because I haven’t thought of a suitable topic to write about today.
The time I rang Gem at 5.30am to say happy birthday because I’d forgotten her birthday the year before:
The time I rang Babestation from Jack’s phone and told them “GET A REAL JOB, HIPPY!” then paid Jack for the resulting massive phone bill:
The time I looked like this with a behaired Ian Chaddock:
The time I told a fountain to fuck off:
The time Mike and I had a hilarious/intelligent debate in the pub in the summer and were sweaty:
The time I went home:
The time I apparently got bummed:
The time I was fat and played with a dog for ages:
The time I ran for governmental office:
The time I looked like this and wondered why people were nervous around me:
I have about 10,000 more photos, or something silly like that. I don’t think I’m going to post them all. WASN’T THIS FUN.
It would be nice if you could have parts of your brain surgically removed. I know you can, but I mean specific parts that do specific things. I know you can that too, but I mean I wish I could have my nostalgia gland removed, or at least turned down.
Also yes, the nostalgia gland is real. I just realised.
It’s annoying how easy it is to get lost in nostalgia. Part of the reason I’m writing this is because I’m nostalgic for the days when I could do good blogs, and nostalgic for the time I did a blog on nostalgia.
Another part of the reason is thanks to my recent trip up to Leeds for the first time in over a year. There I saw friends from my past, stretching back to about… hmm… just under 20 years or so. Shitballs. No wonder I’m such a nong, having known Mike for so long.
It’s nice and all, and flicking through some old magazines recently has given me that wonderful warm feeling you get in your belly, but it’s dangerous too. I’ve been feeling it a lot recently – too much – and it’s getting to the point where I crave things be like the past again. This is ridiculous and wrong, but my brain – the nostalgia gland – is working overtime recently.
It’ll pass, as all things do, then I’ll be nostalgic for the days when I was nostalgic about things. But for now I’ll just crave the ability to do nothing but play games like Vandal Hearts all day while laying on the floor and it not giving me ridiculously achy joints.
Nostalgia is a powerful weapon for many reasons, not least of which the way it conjures up the memory of a feeling. It brings back the emotions, the state of mind you associate with that time, with that place, with the person you were back then. But this isn’t a feeling I was nostalgic for. This isn’t the version of me I want to remember. These aren’t emotions I want to feel.
I can wish the hurt away all I want, but that’s not going to do anything. All I can do is accept what’s done is done and get on with it. It’s not been easy dealing with uncertainty over the last week-and-a-bit, but at least now I know. Knowing is half the battle, after all. And from there, I can move on. Progress. Make decisions. Keep going.
The fact I’m trying to be calculating, logical and constructive cannot and should not hide the fact that I am hurting right now. More than I ever have done. I can dwell on this – and I’m sure I will, especially in my lower (drunker) moments. But that’s not who I want to be and it’s not what I want to do. The person this emotional nostalgia is reminding me of would have stamped their foot and threatened to hold their breath until they died because they couldn’t get their way. I don’t like that guy. I don’t want to be him. And I won’t be him.
So I’m going to do my best to draw a line under this and keep going. I wouldn’t consider it moving on – just keep going. I don’t expect I’ll be easy to get along with (no change there, ho ho) in upcoming days, weeks or even months – just keep going. And while I do still love the person that’s made me feel like this, I’m not stupid enough to think I can change their mind – just keep going.
What the fuck would I do if I stopped, anyway?
I don’t understand why I don’t eat sweets much anymore. Spurred on by the free Love Hearts going to and coming back from New York, I realised – once again – that sweeties are brilliant. I mean, I still eat chocolatey things and shit like that, and the odd Haribo when they appear at work, but I haven’t had a full-on session to try out all the different varieties.
Maybe that’s because the varieties stopped actually varying ages ago and I’ve tried everything there is to try. Though maybe not. Definitely not, in fact. I’m clearly just being a douche. I think even if you asked me to name a new brand of sweets when I was an intrepid sweet-eater I wouldn’t have been able to help you out. Anyway, here are some sweets I’m going to eat in the near future to help remind me sweets are brilliant, as well as help bring me out of this complete and total all-consuming pit of despair my very being seems to be residing in right now… too deep? Hmm.
Because sherbert is brilliant and piss funny, in that it’s lightly-flavoured sugar. Probably with added sugar. Sold as something more innocent. The sly, sherbert-marketing bastards.
No, you dickhead – not the cereal. The hard, suckable, cola-flavoured candies that used to cost 10p for a roll and made your mouth all cut up and sore if you had too many of them. Which I always did. DELICI-YUM.
Possibly the best sweets ever. Possibly not. Strawberry whips were ace too, as they were really long and you could use them to drink Cherry Coke through. It would make it taste EVEN BETTER*.
Alright, so I do still have these every now and then. And Murray Mints. Piss off, I’m an old man at heart. An old, paedo man.
Yes, I am relying on a base-level nostalgia entry today. Just be glad you’re getting anything out of me.
Nostalgia is a powerful thing, as we’re all well aware – “ooooh, the past was really good like” they’ll say, “ooooh, I liked it when we were allowed to be racist in public” they’ll add. But it’s not all-encompassing, and I don’t just mean for the more negative aspects of the past. I’m currently burning a DVD, which is something I rarely – if ever – do anymore. To me, this is an action I would perform in the past, so therefore is something I could very easily be nostalgic about. But I’m not.
This is a good thing, as it shows to me that my mind isn’t actually completely insane. While some will hark back to the days where pop didn’t cost as much as if that’s anything that matters at all and others will bring up how much better off we were in the (more dangerous, less healthy) past I can safely say I am not that blinkered by daftness. Why? Because my brain hasn’t yet romanticised the act of burning data to a CD or DVD.
As a result of all this, I’m hopeful that future-Ian will be able to keep thinking along the same lines, and that I don’t allow clouded and confusing emotions to get in the way of a cold and calculated recollection of the past. When we’re using space-Twitter in the future I don’t want to be going on non-stop about how a 142 character limit (in space) will never be as good as “all we ever needed” in the shape of the 140 character limit of the past. When we’re riding on space-buses I sincerely hope I won’t be endlessly ranting about how the past-buses (or non-space-buses, as we called them) were better because travelling slower and for more money was a sign of quality.
I hope all this and I think all of this based on the fact that I’m currently burning a DVD. I have to say I miss the days when my brain wasn’t ridiculous.
I was recently lucky enough to find the rarest of the rare – a large bag containing 18 smaller packets of Nik Naks, the “knobbly, freaky sticks of corn”. This is something most historians will agree is a good find, I’m sure they’d be all too happy to tell you. You see, the “Nik” “Nak” was a strange beast in the childhood of many Britons – the rebel of the crisp world; not potato, not flat (in fact, not even a regimented shape) and consisting of some frankly ridiculous and non-committal flavours like ‘rib’ or ‘spicy’. Not only were they crisp-like snacks on the fringe of potato chip society, they were happy with their reputation – they thrived in being the outsider; the underdog. We all thought we’d seen the last of them, though, after what we thought to be their entire population was wiped out by an aggressive strain of Gibberella (Red) Ear Rot. But this find – in a dig site located in Lidl – showed us otherwise.
It isn’t clear whether I will be able to get the find declared as treasure just yet, as the coroner is away from his post for the next week or so*. By the time he returns, the find may well have perished after being subjected to the harsh conditions of my room in 2010. Either that or their deliciosity will be their downfall – I have no idea.
What it is safe to say, however, is that this find has brought back some memories of my past, though not a great deal. I mean who actually has a huge portion of their history attributed to a semi-tasty corn-based snack made into questionable shapes? Who? WHO?! TELL ME! No one: that’s who. Which is why, in this frankly bizarre entry, I am going to sign off by saying that nostalgia being linked to snack foods as it so often is, is a sign that this country is going to be a big fat fatty in a few years. It’s also a sign that the next fucking Facebook group I see asking “what happened to Wham bars” or “were Frosties (the sweets, not the cereal) good to throw at the elderly?” I will be forced to take explosive action. You have been warned.
*He’s off hunting marmosets in Kenya – they’re not indigenous to the country, so he has to have them flown over in transport crates. Sometimes, if he’s bored, he’ll make the cargo plane release the crates at high altitude before gunning them down with a flak cannon. He’s not a very nice man, to be honest, but each to their own and all that.