There is Someone for Everyone. My (Substantial) Arse.
November 10, 2011 § 45 Comments
Once people have finished telling me to climb mountains to find a man (and they mean literally, but they won’t catch me climbing anything more than the naughty step in your average Victorian semi), or take up pottery (cf. Go on a Course); and once they have finished advising me to tamper with my vibes to make sure they’re overflowing with enough self-esteem to see off a thaumaturgy of therapists and haven’t got a desperate atom anywhere near them (How the fuck…?), or to stop thinking about “it” and just concentrate on being happy “in yourself” then it’ll happen when you are least expecting it, or to count my fucking blessings ie. once they have run through practically the whole gamut of bossy and unthinking platitudes known to Plankton, they think, here, I better come up with something really positive and upbeat and feelgood, so she doesn’t think I am being too negative, even if I do think she hasn’t got a hope in hell and there but for the grace of God et al.
“You know,” they say breathily as if no one has ever said it before in the history of the world, and they put the tips of their fingers on your knee and shimmer with the brilliance and empathy and condescension of their astonishing observation “there is someone for everyone.”
Hey, yeah, right? So why are there so many miserable fuckers who are on their own when it’s the last thing they want to be? And so where is he, then, when he’s not at home, this man that’s Someone for Me and all mine, because he ain’t under my fucking nose.
Smidgen may be twinkling a little more brightly these past couple of days than that to which I am accustomed, but I am by no means there yet, so I am still perfectly within my rights to have a little rant this dreary, apocalyptic Thursday about this particular patent shit so frequently peddled out to plankton.
There is someone for everyone. My substantial arse. Many a plankton must have balked at this resounding bollocks and asked, so where exactly?
When people say it to me – and trust me, they so often do – a few National Geographic-type pictures spring into my mind, and I am not thinking they are welcome. I am a snob about the NG and have been ever since ancient and fraying copies of the magazine sat about in the school san. I equate them with vomiting into a chipped enamel bowl. Years later, I heard a genius photographer being very rude about NG photographs and implying – and I paraphrase – that they are to photography what Danielle Steele is to literature or chocolate boxes are to reality. Anyway, “There is someone for everyone” prompts images in my head of a tribesman with a socking great spear through his nose, a painted face and a big smile, or a fellow on a boat before a sunset with a mobile phone inconspicuously but wittily tucked into his loin cloth, or some other such typically sentimentalised and technicolour portrait of global manhood. And I think, is this how far-flung you are imagining my particular Someone might be, because Joe Bloggs from round the corner hasn’t exactly presented himself and you sure as hell ain’t introducing me to him, are you? You haven’t got even one single Joe Bloggs in your address book, as you have already told me a million times. So, is it that you are reckoning I should just get on a plane somewhere and start my search? That’s, of course, if I had the money, the time, the childcare and, indeed, the inclination to embark on a journey of utter wrong-headed pointlessness. Or is that me being negative and not thinking out of my stupid little box? Or should I not be daft and should I be thinking closer to home, and take a day trip to Sheffield? See if that pinpoint-Someone for me and me alone happs to be lurking by the town hall, changing a tyre by the side of the road, queuing for the bingo, or standing at a goddamn bus stop?
Even if there were someone for everyone – and regardless of the fact I think that’s completely fucking bollocks – how the fuck do you know, Plankton Patroniser? Because the way I see it, these Someones for Everyone are not all managing to find each other, exactly, are they? Or we’d all be bouncy-castling in clover right now, wouldn’t we? And human relationships wouldn’t have gone for the most part belly-up the way of today’s Eurozone, would they?
If there is my Special Someone, we plankton should respond, where the fuck is he, ‘cos I ain’t met him yet, and he hasn’t yet met me, so precious little fucking good this neat pairing up you so confidently envisage, of 7 billion people, is doing for about 5 billion of them who are plankton and alone.
Put that in your pipe and smoke it.