Friday, 19 September 2014

Results Day

Every hint of a noise from outside raises the tension: was that the door? Is that the postie?  No, it was someone three streets away stepping on a twig.

Tensions are running high this morning, as everything hangs in the balance.  The future, previously a purely hypothetical place, a fairytale told to shut children up, now looms large in all our thoughts, thereby becoming frighteningly real.

Just in case we didn’t already know (we did), we’ve had to endure all manner of knobheads reminding us that THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING, as part of their never-ending quest to cheapen everything to a tabloid headline, a soundbite, a ten-second segment of a sixty-second news roundup that, of course, explains nothing.

We’re not like everyone else, but, given the chance to prove it, have we fallen on our arses, stumbled, recoiled from daring ambition, just like all the rest?

Well, today we find out, don’t we?

Nerves are starting to show, which, considered rationally, is daft; we can’t do anything about it now, so why worry?

That type of rationalising is, also thinking rationally, also daft; we’re nervous because it’s crunch time and it’s a fucking big deal, however much we’ll put a brave face on failure, should it arrive with all its ugly familiarity…

Cup of tea, that’ll make everything better.  Cheerful clichés all round now, as we all succumb to the comforting ring of brainless platitudes. 

Someone’s made banners.  If they were honest (they’re not), they would have done three different ones (they haven’t), just to be safe:

Congratulations!  PARTY LIKE IT’S £19.99!

SHITE: It’s all fucked and it’s all your fault.

Whatever Happens, I Love You.

(Mind you, if one more bell-end tells me cheerfully that ”either way, everything will be different”, they’re getting their face smashed in for them, no mistake.)

The morning news is full of conventionally-attractive teenage girls whooping with delight and stories of “easy” and “lowering of standards”, as if this means our total lack of say in everything up to now is somehow our fault and tarnishes our achievements – and exacerbates our failures.  Like the England football team…expectations are inexplicably high, for reasons apparently so obvious they are never ever explained.  So they win, and it’s like, “Yeah, well, it was only Estonia…” or they lose and it’s the end of the world, because “it was only Estonia….!”

…much better to be the Scotland football team: the fans have a great laugh either way, and if the team ever wins, it’s a pleasant surprise.

But no, actually, it is like the Scotland football team, because they spend years being pure shite and then play someone good and everyone thinks they’ll get humped, but they play great for 80 minutes, long enough to get everybody’s hopes up, some genuine collective belief that victory is within reach….then slump to the inevitable gallant defeat.  And then once every decade or so, actually win one of these worthless bloody football games and crow about it for years like it means anything at all.

Still, at least they know how to party, eh?

In England, football fans are angry or depressed or both.

But I digress.

The results are in, it’s all over bar the shouting (what does that even mean?), our future is decided, we just have to wait and see.

One day I will look back on this with a wry smile and wish I’d taken the whole thing less seriously.

I’m not at all sure that’s true, but I’m clinging to the notion for dear life.  It’s proved a useful coping mechanism, like drinking tea (I’m on my seventh cup of the day, I think.  I don’t know if it’s helping, but I am pissing a lot, which gives me something to do, something else to focus on for a minute).

I’ve spent so long convincing myself that none of it really matters (which now seems like a reckless gamble) that I am only now catching up with the significance; there is surely no going back now, as the knobheads say, if the opportunity is missed.  The financial implications alone are surely enough to make a kid like me give up and stay home forever.

Finally, after a wait of centuries, the splat of mail on lino arrives like a hooded executioner…is he clutching an axe or a last-minute letter of pardon…?

The waiting is over…I’ve done whatever I can and it’s out of my hands…the exam board have spoken at last…

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