Sunday, 9 December 2007

'Modern Life is Rubbish'

If anything is a definiton of why 'Modern Life is Rubbish' it is Hollyoaks. From the title sequence that neglects any notion of subtlety, to the incest obsessed storyboarders who wouldn't know how to deal with a 'sensitive issue' if it unfolded itself within the womb of a recently aborted child pregnancy - the show represents everything that is wrong with my life. When one of these 'writers' wives turns round and actually says 'John, I've got cancer,' I bet his first idea is how to issue a character with the disease and 'highlight' the issue in a garish, melodramatic way. While throwing in some more incest of course. 'That pretty girl MUST don the bald cap.' It's got to that point where everything has become too fast. There isn't enough pleasure in speed anymore. Survival doesn't seem the best way to exist, when everything blocks and streams into pavements.

We're constantly surrounded by or have become survivors. People who just, well, survive. Live their life in a state of bank balanced persecution, sucking on the tit of unemployment one minute then sucking the cock of retail the next. It's the cancer of modern life that there isn't a single moment to examine a period of bliss.... 'I want ten good years at the end of my life.' We want this in the present, for the rest of our lives. Our lives have now been tinged with an expectation that can never truely be fulfilled. Love isn't necessarily the initial yearn of our existence, because being 'respected/better than your neighbour' is an easier reality. Fame, infamy, respect, call it whatever, it's the desire because it is now obtainable, within reach, a reach that could settle you forever.

London is the hotbed for the worst fractured kinds; wandering around without a talented pubic bone, who have once sipped the curdled milkshake of instant gratification. Rotten bands have rotten musicians, have inturn rotten wanderers who breed forgettable patterns of a recycled non-fiction that has become something of an unreachable fiction born out of something only touchable with tal..... time.

Clocks.

?

I slip down the slipstream in austere parchment when it's just so much easier to sleep.