Rage, Goths and Christmas. Tilf lets loose.

I have a foul temper. I’m the first to admit it. Sometimes I can take loads of whatever and be fine, other days, well, other days I almost pity those that annoy me. But I’m actually an incredibly peaceful person. I’m just filled with a violent rage.

Like I say, some days I can take any amount of Bollocks and be absolutely fine, I can face any challenge, any moron, any problem with a Buddha-like peace. A small oasis of Zen calm in a raging ocean of dickheads. But other days, I’m less prepared to stand for bullshit. So I don’t. The only upside is that I tend to use my rage inwardly. This is good for other people, as it means my truly buggered morals prevent me from hurting other people, but not myself. This, as you can imagine, leaves me a tad frustrated, which leads to a perpetual circle of uncontrolled ire that very few things can stop.

I meditate, I step back, I do anything I can, mostly I can push this rage down. Mostly. But other times my bottle of rargh just overflows and it leads to a hulk moment. TILF SMASH!, kind of thing. Which is all very well, but I’m an exploder. I explode. I kick, I punch, I scream, I bite. I turn into that loony kid, that loose nerve, the tweaked one from all the Hollywood movies that scares passers-by. And I can’t say I like it.

For one thing my eyes change colour, admittedly, to a gorgeous shade of blue, but that’s generally the warning sign for people to back away; someone lit the touch-paper, and everyone left behind is fucked. Sadly the tint in my glasses stops that being seen.

The other sign is my jaw, normally quite relaxed, it tenses, and tenses in a large fashion. Seriously, my jaw looks like a Disney princes, all square and stuff. Again, sadly, for it to be seen people must be close to see it, and again, there’s a reason they tell you to stay well clear from unexploded bombs.

The last sign is the growling, the hissing and swearing. The important thing about the swearing is that it tones down. A lot. So if you think I might be mad, you ask, and I say “No, I’m peachy.” RUN. Run like all the hounds of hell are after you, because they soon will be, at least, you’ll wish they were, when it comes to a choice between Lucifer’s demonic dogs and me, on a war-path, guarantee you’d choose the dogs.

But I’m also very peaceful. I think violence solves nothing. I truly believe that if you can’t talk about it, it’s because you’re not trying hard enough. Worst case scenario, step back, take some deep breaths and agree to meet again later, try again. If you have to agree to disagree then at least it’s dealt with, and shall never be spoken of again. I think if leaders want a war they should be put in a ring together with a choice of either a live spider, 2 small bags of walnuts or a sock full of sick. First one to concede and leave must forfeit £1000 to the other participant (there are no winners in war). Problem solved.

But there are some things that infuriate me, instantly. I love Christmas, I love the hope and glee, despite the years of chronic disappointment. But Christmas belongs in december. Not fucking July. A shop has opened on Cornwall, selling Christmas things, nativity sets and the like. IT’S FUCKING JULY! Bastards. It’s this level of commercial shenanigans that have destroyed the Christmas spirit.

Another thing, a kid came in the shop, picked out red stretchers to go with his black clothes. His mum starts ragging on his choice of colour “Well, that’s not very goth, is it? Doesn’t go with the black.” And laughs at him. Actually laughs at his attempt to inject colour in his life. Right, lets get this straight. The potted history of goth. A-hem.

Hundreds of years ago, there were tribes, two were called the Visigoths and the Vandals. Or historic variant of that spelling. Anyway, the Visigoths wore white, and had tanned skin, very different to modern Goths. Both tribes laid waste to the whole of Europe, hence Vandalism. But the Visigoths got further, raped and destroyed their way across everything, but were eventually stopped by the Romans. Which is ironic as the Visigoths had a greater territory than the Romans had ever had, until they were beaten back. When the renaissance happened, cathedrals, that had been square or round suddenly developed huge spires, gargoyles (another days education people, calm yourselves), arched windows and the rest of that jazz. The people of the time were horrified at this change, they thought it was hideous. Someone declared that the march of this misguidedly artistic flair across religion was reminiscent of the Visigothic sacking of Europe. And the name Gothic stuck.

So, there, potted goth history. Also, why complain at your kid about him wearing black all the time when you’re going to rag on him for trying to inject some colour? Give him a chance, poor bugger can’t win. Bloody people.

Children running loose in supermarket, mechanics, the French, Emo kids, poor little rich kids, smelly cheese, bananas, spoilt kids, the selfish, the self-entitled, people who refuse to be themselves and copy everyone else instead. This is but a small slice of things that set my eye, jaw and rage gland twitching.

I’d like to blame this rage on Mr Trick, but I just don’t think I can. I guess we’ll both have to take responsibility.


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