A Wight Off

My the writing has escaped me. I am trapped in a never-ending cycle of delusory excuses, half-finished recording sessions of lonesome musical diatribe; time spent idly scratching the surface of the internet, searching for mythical and well-paid jobs whilst generally trying to keep on top of the mounting piles of matter that seem to accumulate in inconvenient piles directly in front of any part of the house I want to take up space in. I don’t currently find the time to write. I don’t make the time to write. I want to write dammit, but it all seems so bloody pointless.

Life seems alarmingly pointless through most of the day but at least during those sessions of genuine engagement with the act of creation, I manage to subdue my nihilistic twinge. Singing, cooking, making love, proper discussion – during these activities I am engaged. My brain is either twitching madly with the promise of revelation and discovery, or entirely switched off in a moment of blissful animal absurdity. Either way, if you were to whisper into my ear at any one of these moments, the words: “are you happy?” I could laugh, nod, scream yes or appropriately bat you in the face.

At less inspired moments I am more inclined to pause, soften my vision on an imaginary spot somewhere just to the above left of your head and with about as much conviction as a polite Sunday School Teacher say, “Hmm. Yeah. I guess so.”

And cut. I’ve just been interrupted by an exquisite meaty concoction. Lamb and chicken roast with parsnips and brussel sprouts. Anyone would think it was Christmas. My mood has changed. From philosophical and boring, to bloated and woozy, stuffing After Eight mints into my voracious gut.

These particular chocolate/mint delights are leftovers pilfered from my overwhelmingly generous parents after my three days of undeserved luxury in a posh hotel on the Isle of Wight. Three days spent in various states of horizontality (apparently that is a word), either reading, sweating (in a sauna), sleeping, receiving massages or taking baths. I can barely cope with the idea of standing up now that I'm back in my impossibly cramped Brighton flat.

Spine? Supine more like.

Before I left for my totally unwarranted lazothon, I was having a chat with the gentleman who rents downstairs (ahem). An avid lover of language and etymologies, he began to openly muse upon the possible meanings of the word Wight. He totally convinced me (to the point of my spreading this unverified nugget) that the word wight is an old word for the word man. Thus meaning that The Isle of Man and the Isle of Wight may as well just be the same bloody place because their names share some ancient linguist cockup.

I’ve just Wikipediaed it. Apparently wight is actually an old Chaucerian word meaning human being. Oh well, what does Wikipedia know anyway? On my edition of Microsoft Word, the word Wikipedia doesn’t even get past the spellchecker.

I love the fact that The Isle of Wight (currently a ghost of an island – where all tourism has taken a holiday to the mainland for the period just before Christmas) lovingly places puns on the words Wight and white.

The Wight Bus, a bus like any other, presumably ferrying gormless inbreds across the island, is in fact a pleasing shade of (off) white. My brother, ever the wit, also pointed out that most of the passengers are white too. Oooh, controversial. Though having just checked, Wikipedia also clearly states that The Isle of Wight’s population is comprised of 98.7% white. Shit, it's officially a ghetto!

Other fascinating facts from Wikipedia about this particular Isle . Alan Titchmarsh, “the renowned UK gardener, has been nominated to be High Sheriff of The Isle of Wight in 2008/9.” What the hell does that mean? Will he really ponce about the island on a pair of pale stilts, occasionally stopping to pull a bunch of supremely gardened flowers out of a leather holster to bully rogue cowboys in swingdoor saloons?

I rather hoped to see some Isle of Wight milk bottles during my stay, but I plain forgot to check. I would hope they would say, ‘The Wight Stuff’ on them. Perhaps then Matthew Wright, presenter of The Wright Stuff, could sue. Perhaps firstly though he could check his trousers. I’m not generally in the habit of asking my readers or those close to me to gaze questioning in the vicinity of a slightly famous man’s bulging crotch, but it does look(in this picture) suspiciously like Matty has inserted a foot-long hinged crowbar into the left side of his shorts. What a card.

Having absorbed my day with the unfeasibly hilarious Charlie Brooker; wading through a paperback collection of his endless weekly rants on the pitfalls of televised dross, I find myself wondering why he chooses to torture himself with such low grade television. He portrays himself as a junkie; a masochist dribbling hot smack into his eyeballs while repeats of Points of View play endlessly in widescreen.

He has however inspired me to write. And no doubt this wordy assault on your mind is a direct response to his acerbic mind parp.

I wish I got paid to be sarky and make puns.