Tonight I am training new recruit Eva on the bar. This means I have accrued some semblance of a hint of responsibility in a job that just the other day I was being told I had become lax and slipshod at. The news is surprisingly satisfying. I have become sufficiently proficient that I can impart my wisdom to someone else. I become concerned to project an industrious image, I become conscientious; keeping an eye on the bar, maintaining standards of cleanliness and walking up and down in a self important fashion.
It is seconds before Eva arrives when I realise what has been done. I have been had. The choice of yours truly to carry out staff training was a managerial tool, a technique, a way of buying me into (and having me buy into) the folds of this company and its dubious goals and pursuits. For a brief second I have turned into the kind of monstrous jobsworth that anyone with any sense despises. Briefly my entire being is directed toward the pursuit of a job which has at times brought me to tears of despair for the state of humanity. I have compromised my entire identity for the sake of some sense of worth and prestige and now I can see clearly that this is the precise point at which the rot sets in, the very moment at which I would have been turned into a hateful drone by the economic powers that detest every pore of my free being.
Eva arrives. I tone down my thoughts and turn to an honest run through of how best to get through a night without wanting to hang oneself. We discuss her degree in Eastern European Studies and I introduce her to the collective sense of despair surrounding the repetitive playing of Shakira’s ‘Hips Don’t Lie’. Being human and not harbouring any significant brain injury, she picks up the job very quickly. The night passes smoothly and I go home to try and get some sleep before the next round of soul punching.
Today I am met by a challenge. After a morning spent in the library I return to the flat to post while Mike and his friend Carl are discussing Mike’s thesis in the living room. Carl comes in to say hello and asks what I am doing. Upon being told he tells me his feelings about blogging. About how it is not true to its own ideological sense of plurality because it organises itself into nodes of opinion and influence and is only available as a resource to those with computers. About how many bloggers allow their lives to become subjugated to the act of writing. I point out that he has perhaps conflated the act of keeping a blog with the ideological commitment to what is called blogging and that by writing a blog, one does not necessarily buy into the ‘blogosphere’ and all that term conveys. I do not meet other bloggers (unless they happen to have been friends first) and I try to avoid centring my life around my blog, furthermore, I actually read very little of what else is out there. I am what you might call a casual blog user, barely a blogger at all and more of dabbler. Perhaps we should christen the ‘dabblersphere’ and those of us with a less headstrong attitude to writing a blog would be able to separate themselves from that curious strain of the liberal press that cherishes the blog proper as a new form of human interaction. Nonetheless, I feel suitably chastised and sit here to finish my post with a question mark and curious sense of emptiness hanging over me.

I encountered a customer today who I simply must write about. I was working a day shift at Bar Circle (yes, Squares does have a sister bar and it is called Circle) and things were pretty quiet. I was just on the point of trying to recreate the Basilica of St Peter with glace cherries when in walked this chap who could have been cheeky kid’s science presenter Johnny Ball were it not for the leather jacket and faded four letter word tattooed on his knuckle. He ordered a pint of John Smiths (actually I had already poured half of it before he reached the bar- you can tell you know) and we passed the transaction in the normal way. It was only when he returned to the bar for his second pint that he engaged me in conversation. This began with discussion of ‘undesirables’, a term he reserves for people who drink in Wetherspoons whom he detests because they ask him for money for drinks/fags/the sake of it. He was of the opinion that our £1.50 pints would attract this peculiar class of person and the force of his argument was split between praise of our cheapness and a warning that it would attract a less suitable type of person (it’s funny that just about everyone who comes into the pub has a lower class of person to who they attribute all of society’s ills, no one ever comes in and says “I’m a fucking layabout me, no
good to anyone and frankly I really should get my act together”-there lies a lesson for us all).

Up to this point I allowed myself the usual pleasure of basking in his rant and nodding my head at appropriate intervals. This is the true mark of the old fashioned barman I aspire to be, a friend to everyone and the very model of a patient yet unspeaking wisdom and understanding. However, being as he was talking about good-for-nothing evil doers, it was natural that the conversation would soon turn to people who aren’t British. If ever there were an underclass to assimilate everyone’s misgivings. He told me about the Indian he knew with British citizen-ship who had come to the UK to claim a pension even though he’d never lived here before and ‘without putting anything in’. He told me about the time he’d asked a ‘Muslim-looking-fella’ whether the backpack he was containing actually contained a bomb. He told me about how said Muslim had been quite indignant and (how unreasonable) the bar staff had asked him to make less of a fuss. The highpoint of the conversation was definitely when he said “I’ve never been a racist (pause) I’ve never been a racist…but I am one now”.

I did not intervene until he used the term asylum seeker, at which point I politely pointed out that this particular status was not a favourable one and that they can hardly be asked not to claim benefit while they are waiting for their claim to be processed and are forbidden to work. Once this had happened, I was condemned for a further hour to debate with him, going over the same points and never being allowed to finish without his finger jabbing the air before me and him saying “You only know what you’ve been told”. It is a marvellous irony how people who suppose themselves to be maverick thinkers are seldom the ones who actually give the least bit of decent thought to any of their pronouncements. All it seems to take is the hint of a conspiracy theory and they are convinced that Diana was killed by The Queen who is actually a martian who abducted Lord Lucan and had sex with the federal gold reserves of the USA in Area 51.

The debate had to end (and it did on good terms due to my fear of offending him) when I realised we were arguing from such totally different premises. I am lucky enough to be born into a country where there is a system to catch me if I fall upon hard times, but I don’t see why that luck entitles me to the rewards more than someone from another country. Now I am a tax payer I am more than entitled to desire that it gets spent on supporting asylum seekers and refugees. However, this is a qualitatively different position from that of my friend today. From his starting point (that there is a thing called British-ness and it makes you decent, hardworking and entitled to benefits) you can’t argue round to the position that non-British people should get benefits. You have to make a kind of leap of faith where you believe in a common humanity joining us all. I am clearly going to have to take my bar-room counselling service to the next level.

On indecision and doing what we want

When Nietzche articulated his idea about eternal recurrence he was simultaneously illuminating a hope we hold for our understanding of our own lives and condemning us to one of our greatest fears. On the one hand there is the possibility of complete knowledge, an appreciation of life’s lack of direction and the freedom from fear that comes when a certain kind of pressure about the future is lifted from our shoulders. On the other, and at the kernel of the word recurrence, is the realisation that somehow nothing can ever be achieved and nothing can ever be different. Eternal recurrence is a metaphor for reality, with all its force, pervading our present and ensuring that we are stuck in a perpetual moment.

The idea is a hard one to grasp (indeed I don’t believe I have) but its importance seems to lie in the way it makes us think about time. I think the insight can be usefully applied to the concept of direction and desire in the undertaking of our lives. When anyone acts, they are faced with the question ‘why?’ and this answerable underscores all of our behaviour. For many (including myself) a trade off exists between behaviour that answers to immediate needs and desires and that which contributes to some kind of long term plan. This is doing what I want; the true imperative guiding my actions.

Unfortunately, the two ends are often at conflict. I am driven by the desire to pursue a particular life plan and to simultaneously meet the needs presented by the present. This is superficially an easy equation to master and is often framed; ‘short term loss for long term gain’ or vice versa. However, the reality of our future is more complex than this dictum would have us believe. Our actions can only ever be guided by factors available in the present. This includes not only dispassionate analysis of how best to behave according to our beliefs and ambitions but also short term decision making; whim, the ever present handmaiden of desire. In short, the trade off is based on a false dichotomy.

Live for the moment runs an oft-quoted maxim, designed to free us of the burden of our future. The point of this is to highlight the importance of our present to us. It is based on the teaching that the future does not yet exist and is therefore not worth worrying about. Take care of doing what you want to now, find happiness by acting in the way that you consider best at any given moment. There is no watershed point by which you will be able to look back and assess yourself so you should behave as if now is the only point you can experience. This is a sentiment often associated with hedonism as it appears to throw the long term plan out of the window and open the gates to whim.

But the future does exist, it is present in everyone’s experience of now as part of the mixture of guiding imperatives. Living for the moment is inclusive of the yet-to-occur and to suggest that you can successfully banish the future is to ignore the past, our experience of which tells us that time does unveil itself in an apparently contingent way. ‘You might get hit by a bus tomorrow’ cannot count as a reason to live as if that were certainly the case. If I were going to get hit by a bus tomorrow, I certainly wouldn’t go to work this evening. I will go to work this evening, because I want to go away next summer and have time to develop my life in the way that I find most tasteful to me.

But that the future exists is not, unfortunately, any truth of its fixity. Everyday the future travels with me and regulates my actions, making me earn money, apply for more satisfactory jobs. But it is an elusive beast, and morphs and changes. In some ways my future exists to me like a hair in my peripheral vision; whenever I move my head to focus on it, it moves too. One day my future looks one way and the other day it can be entirely different. On days when I desire a particular career plan I am guided by the knowledge of what needs to be done. Other days this career plan changes and I need to think again about how best to conduct myself. Yet other occasions arise when the future, regardless of its content, is weaker in influence than conflicting concerns like hunger or loneliness.

Everything I do is hinged on such fragile motives and can be reasoned away by the slightest twist of fortune. How can I enjoy the experience of control over my life? How can I set to directing myself where I want when I can barely decide what needs to be done and when I am stuck between the moment and the continuing onslaught of unpredictable time and experience?

Toilets and Bins

I have been busy for a while. Yesterday I was at the BBC where I am known as the guy who writes the loo reviews. They are continuing on the beeb site so if you are familiar with and are missing the impact column then the section can be found through the following address:

www.bbc.co.uk/nottingham/features/loo_reviews/index.shtml

They are great fun to write and should provide a space for angry ranting away from my blog. Work at Squares is also very busy at the moment. I have this afternoon off and the time feels like a slice of lemon I need to squeeze all the juice from. Tomorrow I am on a day shift and a night shift (A so called 'split', which I believe to be illegal) and the same is true on Friday. With Saturday night thrown into the mix I will be truly exhausted come Sunday. I think the playworker vacancy I applied for might be in the pipeline as one of the references I supplied has been contacted.

This morning I slept in until 11, when I was meant to begin my shift. I actually woke at 9 but told myself I would lie awake and enjoy the warmth for a few minutes. Of course what everyone knows about how difficult it is to not fall back to sleep is lost on you when you are actually in bed. I didn't care though. I am cultivating a less anxious approach to life-especially with this job, which is not worth getting stressed about. The reason for my temporal indiscretion? After last night's shift I embarked on my first forray into freeganism. For those unfamiliar with this, it is basically a buzz-word term that means eating out of bins. I am deeply in love with the idea of salvaging the kilo upon kilo of perfectly eatable food that I am sure Supermarkets throw away each day and I decided I would pop down to Sainsbury's for a look at what they had to offer. Unfortunately they must be aware of the illegality of taking stuff from bins (it is stealing) and, in a bid to deter would-be freegans, they have a well fortified fence surrounding their bins. Even were it not for this security precaution, I would have been seen by the late night delivery boys. It was deeply disappointing, I had pictured an exhilarating hop over a small fence into a dark paddock full of tins of beans and expensive jars of olives. It wasn't to be. After a desultory prowl past McDonalds and The American Grille I came into town and Investigated the bins behind some of the pubs and restaurants. I know Squares barely throws away anything edible but I figured a proper eatery would have plenty of excess food that must get chucked. So far the most promising has been Pizza Hut, which has well positioned bins in a dark alley. Does anyone reading this have any suggestions as to how I might make my forraging more profitable? Short of two balloons-promotional material sent to The Old Salutation by a brewer- I am yet to get anything. I suspect I may have to get rummaging and I am a bit nervous about this as we throw alot of things away at Squares that I would hate to go anywhere near.

It has been pointed out to me recently that this blog has quickly become a space negative, angry ranting; that my original aim to chronicle a year spent accumulating diverse experiences and making the best of everything has been overwhelmed by the despair inspired by long tiring shifts and an apparent paucity of decent jobs to move into. For my concerned friends and anyone reading who is considering a similar year, here are the reasons I haven’t gone crying back to the department of psychology and begged them to reinstate me for a PhD:

1. Relative freedom. Whenever I am not at work I am free to do what I want. This includes reading, watching films, visiting people, drawing and painting and, of course, hashing out my ideas in cyberspace.


2. Bar hours. Yes they are antisocial and yes it is depressing to work until 3am and then get up for a 9.30 start but when they are good they are very good and they currently allow me to do things like volunteer for Refugee Action, who hold most sessions during the working day and undertake work experience at BBC Nottingham, where I am writing this (heehee).


3. Experience. I have bar experience already but it never hurts to get more and I am encountering aspects of life and Nottingham I never previously had access to. What is more, I have met some interesting people who have done interesting things.


4. The people. Most of the staff are my age and they give me some good ideas for what to do with my life. Rhidian went to France to do his degree, Natalie has been a TEFL teacher for 4 years and is living proof of the efficacy of that line of work for improving language skills.


5. Lack of responsibility. Similar joy to 1. when I am at work I don’t have to look all that smart, can chat to the customers (friendly and interested can lead to tips) and can always remind myself that noone really cares how conscientious a barman is so long as he doesn’t fuck up too big.


6. Comedy fodder. Most of my angry rantings have been in the name of comedy and have been fun to write. Furthermore, how can you see corporate inspirational slogans like this and not laugh with relief because you realise you are one of the last sane people left alive: “Imagine a world where we all strive to exceed our shared objectives.” Ha.


7. Departure. I am planning to leave just as soon as I get a better paid job. Imagine the satisfaction of handing in my notice to people who think it’s funny to make me clean mats. I only have to work a week’s notice and I can leave without any repercussions.