I’m no expert on most things, but if there is one thing I know for absolute certain then it’s this: when James Blunt sang: “You're beautiful. You're beautiful. You're beautiful, it's true,” he wasn’t referring to Tactical Workz’ Maraxus mechanical mod. I know how ugly that thing is because I owned three of them.
“Now I do not believe you wanted to do that,” said a Harry Enfield TV character. He was clever like that, this character. He could see what the other person was doing and identify all the things that were wrong with those things. A character that was almost as clever and funny as the thousands of people who would go to school and work the next day saying “Now I do not believe you wanted to do that.” Over and over. And over. Oh yes, the Nineties was a golden age of workplace comedy.
I’ve recently come across a court for vapers. It’s not a real court. It’s a group on a social media platform that offers to settle vaping community disputes. No police fabricating evidence but there may be men wearing wigs – I don’t judge. I can’t, I don’t have a gown. All told, it seems as palatable as having a strange person shouting abuse through my letterbox. It got me wondering if there wasn’t a better way for vapers to seek redress.
Life is nothing without failure; I used to tell this to a room of blank-faced teenagers. For some reason they failed to grasp how without Newton making mistakes we would not know that f=G*m1m2/r^2. They either failed to grasp it or were too busy wondering about when they could next nip behind some Portakabins to reply. Who’s having the last laugh now though, eh? Stupid students.
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When I was a young lad I was besotted with my boxes of plastic soldiers. If it wasn’t raining you’d find me out under a bush recreating a conflict in which the good side always won. If it was raining, bed blankets became makeshift hills from which my Tommy battalion would decimate a panzer division. Time rolled on and my idea of what was fun changed, much like how I’ve fallen out of love with the RTA.
It was bitingly cold, every sensible person in the street was by a fire eating crumpets and watching Doctor Who. They could do that because fires hadn’t suffered a de facto ban, proper dense fog ruled the weather and people hadn’t yet realised how bad a choice Sylvester McCoy was. I wasn’t, I was holding a torch while my mate John fixed a spoiler to the boot of his Scirocco. I was losing one of my five senses and the will to live.
There are some mighty big benefits in being able to work from home. I never have to ask myself if it’s OK to pop off to make a coffee for a start. The dress code is as relaxed as the chair I can slump in to pet the puppy (that’s not a euphemism) and ‘Beer Friday’ can run all week long. Yep, life is good: no one complains about the vape clouds and the music runs to an incredibly loud volume. So I’m insulated.
Standing in what used to be described as a garden, well some might still term it such but the puppy has put pay to it ever appearing on BBC2. Standing in the garden thinking about the events of the week with Totally Wicked and the EU court and the petition. And it struck me how much vaping saved my life.
Round like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel. Never ending or beginning on an ever-spinning reel. Like a snowball down a mountain, or a carnival balloon. Like a carousel that's turning running rings around the moon. Like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the minutes of its face; and the world is like an apple whirling silently in space. Like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind.