The Sad Tale of Bob

In this tale of woe, there are two main characters. Let us call one Bob, and the other Arseholeface - OK, let's not, let's call him Fred (those who know me will be aware that I often give the name Bob to characters with whom I am sympathetic, but I've made an attempt to remove some naming bias, at least).

Bob is fairly sociable, and extremely wealthy. So, it was natural that, come his 50th birthday, he decided to hold a bloody massive party.

OK, now everyone in the world knows who Bob is, as I know very few extremely wealthy 50-year-old people... never mind. Let's plough on.

The party was held in a giant marquee in his back garden. There were 120 guests, plus some caterers, a DJ, and some Portaloo operatives. It was a most excellent party - I ate, drank, and was merry - danced, and improved my not-so-mad Mario Kart skillz (there were a lot of kids, so Bob was prepared).

Now, Bob and his wife, whom we will also call Bob (this is why I can't GM) are friendly, lovable, accepting people - and a cynic with my upbringing understands that these are rare qualities among the very rich. Where Bob and Bob went wrong, then (as did their children, Bob, Bob and Bob) was to hold their party in their Dead Posh Neighbourhood.

What would the average person, in the average neighbourhood, do if their neighbour was having a fairly loud party? Remember, this is a posh neighbourhood, so the houses are very, very far apart - closing your window would be the technical solution to the problem of what noise was left.

Also, the residents immediately on both sides of Bob's were all at the party.

Finally, all the neighbours had been sent a letter informing them of said party.

However, Fred did not like that his Very Important Evening was being disturbed by what, by the time it got to his house, was a small amount of noise - noise he'd been warned about a week in advance, noise that he knew would last an entire hour more.

Instead of using the double-glazing that I'm certain he could afford, or, y'know, joining in the party (there were a couple of happy gatecrashers), or engaging in any behaviour that might be attributed to a normal person, ever...

He turned up and started shouting in Bob's face.

Bob asked him to be less aggressive. He became... more aggressive.

Bob pushed him out of the garden.

He fell, humourously, upon his bottom.

Bob walked back in, and reminded the DJ that he must finish up by the time Bob had promised in the letter. Which the DJ did.

However, the next thing he knew, Bob had been arrested for assault, and carted off to the police station - where the police did have the decency to look a bit sheepish as they fingerprinted him and gave him a caution (!)

It emerged later that Fred had been yelling at them, too.

Can I take a straw poll, here? Would you, yes, you, phone the police if someone pushed you off his property?

Would you phone the police even if someone, irritated at your trespassing, had punched you one?

Would you then shout at the police until they administered the harshest possible punishment to whoever pushed you?

Would you assume that the police have nothing better to do, and they're just sitting belching the alphabet until your call?

Here is where I get a bit inarticulate with rage... D'you think that, if Fred had been poorer, or had his skin had contained a bit more melanin... would the cops have acquiesced to his shouted demands? Or would they have locked him up for Wasting Police Time in the Most Fucking Major Way Ever?

(I never saw Fred. If you think that my assumption that he's white is uncalled for, I say - no, he would never call the police otherwise. Not in the city where I grew up, at least. I also say, ha, you're a fool).

So... Bob now has a criminal record.

And I've got yet another model of masculinity to avoid - that which is "manly" enough to go around shouting the odds, but runs to Mummy in the form of the nanny state when things don't go entirely his way.

WALL-E!

I'm typing this whole thing while wearing long fake fingernails (what is wrong with this picture? Oh yes, EVERYTHING). My friend and I thought yesterday that we'd practise our femmeness, and she proceeded to glue the things to my hands.

I don't have an alcoholic excuse or anything.

My friend removed her set after a couple of hours (because she'd gone through the usual post-urination machinations of hygiene with no adjustments, and was thus wincing a bit), but I think a REAL MAN isn't fazed by being unable to put on his own underwear.

We all went to see WALL-E yesterday. Well, I have nothing on Gareth now (when we saw Atonement at the cinema, he sobbed noisily throughout the second half) because I just cried all through the beginning of the film. It's the perfect portrayal of loneliness.

The only negative sentiment aroused in me by WALL-E was simple wonder at how our culture is disappearing up its own bum. It's a Disney film about the evils of an entertainment-based megacorporation.

Kate Bornstein discusses how the lead robots are not very gendered, so everyone sees their own happiest relationship - for example, ze sees a butch-femme interaction because ze's very femme.

I'll just happily believe that Disney/Pixar made the film with me in mind - look at EVE. It breaks everything it sees - it's slow to catch on to new ideas, but sticks to its guns - it even looks like the love of my life, with its penguinate form and adorable little face. Look at WALL-E - obsessive, tough on the outside but with romance in its soul.

I never promised a post that made sense.

Lying

I love fiction, but I don't like lies. Apparently, this is a symptom of my autism, and everyone else loves lying. And loves being lied to. And thinks that lies are gosh-darned wonderful. I've just about grasped white lies, and have been known to tell one or two of the "Yes, I totally remembered your birthday! It is SO remembered! Remembered it is!" stripe.

I've grasped that the purpose of lies is to avoid hurt feelings. Other lies... my sad little "But, but, that's not TRUE!" is drowned out by the general noise of the world.

My uncle lives in the Netherlands, which doesn't have as vast a tabloid media as the UK. He therefore has the energy to actually become upset at factual errata in newspapers.

"Look, this is about Putin and Russia - it calls them "the Reds". What Reds? THERE ARE NO REDS! Do they write that we're still at war with Adolf Hitler? Because that would make a great story too..."

I know one Red in person, I suppose. He sleeps for half the day and spends the other half driving his wheelchair into things. He is not a Threat to the Free World.

I'm not even sure that it's rabid media bigotry that gets me upset. Maybe it's just when the "facts" therein are irrevocably Wrong (as an ev0l modernist I'd argue that the two often coincide, but I can see why others would disagree).

I like tabloids for the naked ladies, but for some reason my eyes always stray towards the words.

They vary even less, nowadays. First page: denouncement of a gang of youths who have murdered some poor bastard.

Second page: incitement to hatred of a particular group, or at least denial of their personhood.

Moonlogic? ANYONE out there not enjoying the moonlogic?

Maybe it is the bigotry that upsets me after all. When someone finds me an opinion both bigoted and factually correct, I'll know the difference.