The Cough of Immeasurable Doom

Post CLV

Here’s the story of technology, clogs, and a skimpy thong.

You see, to a Victorian, the action of me bashing an iPad against a wardrobe door must seem pretty strange. I mean, the most technologically advanced thing Victorians had were braces one uses to keep one’s trousers up. Through some mystical force, our Victorian traveller finds himself here, in 2014. An iPad to him is like God. A mighty force of wizardry. Something so special it would be worshipped in Victorian times. Yet here I am, struggling to get it to work, doing to it what all men do to all technology when it doesn’t work. Bashing it against something. That poor Victorian would be horrified. We do not take care of our technology, do we? We’ve arrived at the point in the evolution of human ingenuity whereby we have gotten so far we’re regressing to abusing it. So that’s my message. Next time you feel the need to throw a shoe at your malfunctioning television set, think of the Victorians. Because clearly, human ingenuity and the £300 you spent on it isn’t enough to stop you throwing footwear at it. That said, bashing an iPad against a wardrobe door often works…

It’s a strange paradox. We treasure technology so much when we get it, yet after a few months, we don’t really take care of it. To the point where hitting it becomes a logical option instead of finding a help manual or asking somebody. How do we regress that much, from the moment we get this precious gift to the moment we think, ‘Sod it – let’s try hitting it’. More to the point, why does it work? Maybe it’s evidence that machines have a conscience. When they get ill, they don’t feel like working, so don’t. But if somebody hits you when you’re ill, I’m willing to hedge my bets that you’ll get to work rather sharpish. Maybe this is the start of the rise of the machines. I think it’s too late to stop them, they’re probably already pissed off, so my advice would be to carry on as normal. It might be wrong to throw a clog at your television, but if it comes to life for revenge, the clog will probably come in to its own as a fairly useful weapon. You see, readers, you don’t get this kind of advice on other blogs.

I don’t think I’d fair well in the age of the Victorians. In the same way they wouldn’t fair well here. I’d probably get on with Victorian girls more, because that’s the type of girl I like and women aren’t like that these days. I’d be lost without my modern ways. “Hello Ally, welcome to our home – would you care for some food or a drink?” “Hmm, do you have a toasted sandwich maker?” I’d be quite at home if it weren’t for that.

Of course, I sympathise with the machines. I’m ill, too, entering my fifth week of illness, which isn’t a great sign and is now becoming something fairly worrying and scary. Not that I care, because there’s still no way I will go to the doctors. Not until I’m dead, and by that point, it’ll probably be too late. But come on, five weeks of coughing usually means death is on the horizon. I probably have small pox. Or consumption. Or a new disease not yet known to science, which would fit into my unlucky ways. I miss waking up each morning, having a good stretch, a gentle yawn and a sip of water. Instead it’s a gut-wrenching coughing fit, drooling mucus and a ten-minute battle to find my water because my eyes are full up of it, rendering my vision blurry at best. I’m often all right after a few hours, it comes and goes, but one thing remains. It’s still here. The cough of immeasurable doom. And unless you get several burly men to drag me out of the house to go to see a doctor, I’ll imagine I’ll be a bit ‘off-colour’ for a while longer.

It’s no use. My last cough was nowhere near as bad as this, and I was on antibiotics for that. And they didn’t work. I’ve tried grandma’s recipe. Very strong whisky, which alleviates the cough but doesn’t get rid of said cough. I’ve tried all the cough medicines I can find. Don’t work. I’m on the verge of finding a gypsy healer. Shamanism. Or the lowest of the low, an absolute last resort if gypsies, shaman, and voodoo doesn’t work. Homeopathy.

It’s my birthday soon. 24. I’m ancient. Mind you, the life expectancy around here is 65. But I’m still ancient. I only have another, what, 30 years left. And what if I’m never well again, what if I never try to pass mathematics, what if I never enjoy the sweet embrace of a robotic woman? Because real women won’t let me anywhere near them. What if I never try on a pair of clogs? I might be dead in a week and I’ve achieved nothing a normal human wants to achieve. What if I never get drunkenly hitched in Vegas or go to the Moon? What if I never get to walk down Copacabana beach in nothing but a skimpy thong? It’s quite depressing when you think about it, isn’t it?

I’m trying to keep my spirits up, but nothing feels right lately. Like the status quo is jam side down. Like I’m too big for it. And at the centre is my body, falling apart at the seams, which is quite a horrific image. Not to mention the fact my blood sugar is lower than ever, I’ve suffered my sixth migraine of the year this week, and I’ve had to do battle with several of the largest bugs you’ve ever seen (imagery subject to reality). And I’m trying to ignore it all and carry on as if nothing bad is happening.

I’ll give you an example. It’s been hot this week. As hot as a Victorian attempt at a toasted sandwich. So I’ve had my windows open. And in through my bedroom window came hell in bee form. A bee three inches long, one and a half inches wide, and one inch tall, with a sting as big as Sting’s ego. And I stood, face-to-face against that monster, the bee – not Sting, but I can understand your confusion – and I ignored it and carried on. As if nothing bad was happening, just like with my many ailments. That’s my attitude, readers. You have to carry on. And that bee left me alone and buggered off. And I simply ignored it.

I mean, I crapped myself but I didn’t show it.

And that, readers, is why I love tea cosies.

American businessman, poet and humanitarian, the great Samuel Ullman (1840-1924), once wrote the following extract from his famous brilliant poem Youth: “Nobody grows old merely by living a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul.”

Peace Out :|:

I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post. You can leave a comment and/or like this post below, or by clicking the title on the top of this post if you are on the archives page. Likes and follows greatly appreciated. Thanks.

Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:

To Contrive & Jive
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Click Here to Read the Latest Post

Hark Around the Words
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Click Here to Read the Latest Post


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