Posted by ColdHarbour
on Mon 30 Jun 08, 1:49 PM to ColdHarbour's blog.
Rituals have always fascinated me. I'm not sure why. If my interest was limited to the elaborate ceremonials used to mark rites of passage and so on, I could understand it. I understand the power of theatre.
But when something as simple as a curtsey and the kissing of a hand with eyes shyly lowered has the power to transform something as basic as 'saying hello' — turning it into an experience so charged with meaning and emotion that it leaves bodies shaking — you just have to know there is far more to ritual than spectacle.
Here is magic! Here, it would seem, is the meeting of a need etched so deep into our communal psyche that to deny it is to deny our very nature as human-beings. Why else would you find ritual at the heart of every human culture that has ever existed? It is a beating heart keeping time so we can all dance the great 'Dance of Life' in harmony; binding us each to our chosen tribe and to each other.
Trust bureaucrats to take something so precious and fuck with it! I refer, of course, to that great British bureaucratic ritual — signing on the dole!
I have heard of primitive cultures in which charismatic shaman conduct uplifting, heart-warming ceremonies to express communal support and give succour to those who have fallen on hard times. What do we get? Glum civil servants and thirty minutes of mind-numbingly pointless boredom! Near as I can tell, the ritual's sole contribution to the prevention of terminal depression is the ritual, post-signing trip to the nearest pub!
My friend said: “So you found a fucking job yet?”
I said: “Is this a desk that you see before me? Do I look as though I'm working? Is this a computer screen or a near-empty glass?”
She said: “Okay, I can take a fucking hint! What you having? I'm not even going to ask if you've got your end away lately. Fuck but you're a sarcastic old fucker when you're not getting any! If I weren't a respectable married woman, I'd drop my drawers and sit on your face, just to shut you up!”
I said: “So pissing pure Stella Artois now, are we?”
She said: “Shut up! But thank you for seeing me into that cab safe the other night. I still can't work out how I ended up so fucking pissed!”
I said: “I think it's called drinking large vodkas all day.”
She said: “Shut up! It weren't ALL day! I didn't start until two o'clock. Serious, though — you still not found a job?”
I said: “Of course I have. I find a job nearly every day. Finding jobs is easy! It's persuading the powers that be to give me the job once I've found it that's proving problematic. Cheers!”
She said: “And you! So how come? I mean, everybody I know keeps saying what a good bloke you is and really, really clever and all that. I mean, if I had the money I'd give you one!”
I said: “Thanks, but I told you before — I don't fuck married women!”
She said: “What? Oh! No! Fuck me! Now I know you're not getting none! And you keep telling me off for having a one-track mind! I meant I'd give you a job, you dirty bugger … Though I must admit I could do with a bit of the other as well at mo, now that you mention it.”
I said: “Still broken is it? Or did you buy a new one and wear out of batteries already? Ever thought of rechargeable batteries?”
She said: “Shut up! I'm trying to be fucking serious here, you know! I were just hoping me getting you to write another one of your funny weblog thingies would have got you talking to somebody is all.”
I said: “Ah!”
She said: “So?”
I said: “So … nice weather! I'm surprised. Being this close to the Wimbledon, it usually pisses down!”
She said: “I didn't think you was interested in tennis. Oh! Ah! Right! I get it now! So is it one of your kinky ones then? I mean, you are talking to somebody aren't you! Aren't you?”
I said: “I talk to lots of people. I'm talking to you aren't I?”
She said: “Only when you're not talking to my tits. So is she nice? I mean, are you going to … you know … Whatever it is you do with your little slave-girls!”
I said: “Are we friends? You and me? Friends?”
She said: “Course we are! Fuck! You're not getting all depressed are you? Why d'you think I keep buying you beer and talking to you?”
I said: “Well, there you go! Friends are friends and slaves are slaves and you know I don't talk about the latter!”
She said: “So … so what about … What about that little Indian girl I just see you talking to? I could see her looking at you all doe-eyed from across the road!”
I said: “That was my official Job Centre Advisor! I just signed-on. She was asking if I knew where she could get her specs repaired. Apparently they just broke and everything is a blur without them.”
My friend said: “Ooops! Sorry! Okay then … Well, what about that skinny little blonde bit I see you with last year? You said she was a friend, but don't think I never see her doing a little bob up and down and kissing your hand and calling you Sir and all that.”
I said: “So? Sometimes friends just decide that they want to be more than friends. What am I supposed to do about it? Tell them to fuck off?”
She said: “You tell me to fuck off often enough!”
I said: “That's different! You're married! Besides, you don't need me that way. It's enough for you that we flirt and that you go home knowing you still have it in you to live dangerously!”
She said: “So you going to tell me to fuck off if I offer to get you drunk this afternoon?”
I said: “What's the catch? Don't tell me! Another of my 'funny little weblog thingies', perhaps?”
She said: “You should get a job as a fortune teller, you should! Fucking clairvoyant you are, and no mistake!”
I asked at the Job Centre on my way home. There were no vacancies for fortune tellers on their database. I asked about becoming a road-sweeper instead, but apparently I lack the necessary formal qualifications — an NVQ and HSE Certificates; presumably to confirm that I know how to shovel shit without sticking the broom up my own arse!
I was tempted to suggest places I would far rather stick a broom but I decided to be good and write this instead.
