Thursday, November 20, 2008


I can never seem to live up to my own expectations and I’ll happily bore you with the details; believe it or not, there was one time in my life where I genuinely expected myself to make it as a professional footballer.

As a small child I never had much interest in anything other than Action Man, rusks and shiteing myself, but at that time, and in hindsight I suppose, I would have been content if that had been where my level of importance in this world had peaked. Yes, I am saying that in retrospect, I would have been happy being disabled. Rollicking around, playing with homo-erotic children’s toys and wreekin of rusky feces would have suited the young Gardiner just fine. I was a happy child, I had no knowledge that one day someone would expect something from me.

Then somebody passed me a football and told me to run with it. And suddenly,"Fuck Action Man! I want to be a professional footballer!"

My parent’s were desperate to get me interested in something (shiteing maself suddenly wasn’t exactly the lucrative career path I had hoped it would be) and football seemed to work out fine. I practiced day and night, thought about football every moment of every day, my heart longed to taste the success of domestic cup-winning professional football. I would have done anything to live out that dream.

Then somebody leant me Nevermind and sold me a block of hash. And suddenly, "Fuck football! I want to be a rockstar!"

I got a part-time job washing dishes, scrimping and saving my money until I could afford an electric guitar to set me off on my path to stardom. And I genuinely believed I could do it. My parents got me lessons, I practiced day and night, thought about music every moment of every day, my nosed longed to snort the success of the stadium-rock-licked high life. I would have done anything to live out that dream.

Then somebody passed me a grass joint and told me I was "playing it wrong" but I was funny. And suddenly, "Fuck Music! I want to be a comedian!"

I bought every book I could find on the subject and honed my skills on my friends, trying desperately to make anybody I could laugh until fluid came out of their nose. And I genuinely believed I could do it. I practiced day and night, thought about comedy every moment of every day, my balls tingled at the prospect of being on stage and making groups of people laugh for a living. I would have done anything to live out that dream.

Then somebody told me I wasn’t funny enough and gave me a line of ching, and another and another and another and another and another and another. And suddenly, "Fuck Comedy! I want to be the best at everything!"

I decided from that point on that I was the most important person in the room. It doesn’t matter which room. Any room ya prick! I was forever going to be the best at everything, and even if it was proved that I wasn’t, I still was because I’m ME and you’re a wanker. I practiced being the best at stuff day and night, thought about myself every moment of everyday, my nose and cheeks were numb at the prospect of one day being able suck my own dick.

Then somebody offered me 50 quid for coke in exchange for sucking their cock.

Now I suck for blow.

If it wasn’t for expectation, I could still be eating rusks, picking my nose, having my arse-wiped for me and taking a bath with Action Man.

People expected me to do things. Worse still, I expected me to do things.

I’m sick to death of expectation. I hate it, it should have been number one on my list of things I hate, but I expected myself to be able to think of something I hated more.


Ross x

1 comment:

Decades said...

Y'know when you relate to something so much that you find yourself patting your head in a suspicious search for the holes and leaks through which your inner monolgue could've been twocked?

Happened when I stumbled across this. From rusks to sports to music to drugs, only strong phases of determination that disregard the relay-race of interests can build up our identities, even when one's final occupation is a cock-sniffin' coke-suckin' cretin. (Not the worst thing in the world to be.) Won't dwell on all of the ways in which I relate to what you've mentioned here, as that'd be boring as fuck for you to read (and you possibly won't anyway, this thing doesn't seem to get updated any more - moved onto prefered pastures I'm sure) though I will inform you that yet another human reckons you've an absolutely class writing style, outlook and humour that really resonates - though it may seem like nothing to you, if it hooks somebody else in the world in just the right way to evoke genuine, unconditional laughter and inner-warmth then it should be praised.
(Inner-warmth?! What a poncey thing to say. What am I, a geet big wheat-weaving incense-lighting professional bullshitter who tries to justify their heavy cannabis use with a lame as fuck hippyesque reputation? Suppose, unashamedly, I kind of am. )

Anyhow, to cut the shit, it's a really charming, unique little anecdote. Full of life and that. Gonna hit myself when I read more and find I've already discredited myself as worthy of commenting by rabbiting on here.

Funny how good writers turn me into a bumbling one, d'oh. Hope you've kept it up.