Becoming the bull

Time to let the old Lewis out for a runaround

I’ve been writing this Substack for eight months now. It’s easily the longest period of creativity in my life, and it’s been a fucking balm¹ for my soul. The last couple of weeks though, the words haven’t been coming as easy as they were before. I’ve been trying to get something together that I love (and I hope you will, too) but it just ain’t happening. Wit and whimsy aren’t flowing from my fingers to the screen; the stream is sluggish. I’m having to really pull at something that I would usually tease out with a gentle tickle. I am blocked.

I’m blocked because I’m pissed off. I want to break things.

Because I’m enlightened now, I’m not going to go down the destructive roads of my past. I do need to regularly vent some steam though, like the old boiler in The Shining. I need a self-indulgent rant, the sort of thing that sustained me for so many years as an angry young man.

None of these vexations deserve 1500 words all to themselves, however the poison goo must be scooped from my brainpan so I can get back to trying to be funny. You people want to watch the clown show? Okay sure, but today you’ve gotta see him with his make up off.

Photo by Redd Francisco on Unsplash

I’m pissed off because I feel helpless at the state of the world. Blowhard pricks dragging seven billion of us closer to the abyss and for what? To make themselves richer. I mean, we could stop that shit in a hot minute if we all just put our fucking phones down. The French didn’t have TikTok at Marseilles, did they? And look what they achieved.

If I could have any superpower, it would be the ability to rough up the rich and powerful. I’m not talking about proper violence, I’m a pacifist mate. I just want to shatter that stupid strong man facade that they put up. I’m talking about rumpling their suits, scragging up their hair. I’m talking about peanuting their tie like we used to at school². I’m talking about grabbing them by the lapels and slamming them into the wall hard enough to rattle grandma’s favourite china. I’m talking about a dry open hander right across the mush, like Kurt Russell to Billy Bob Thornton in Tombstone.

Do you think that Nigel Farage has ever taken a crisp besmircher to the kisser like that? Reckon JD Vance has ever been dumped on his arse in a crowded bar on a Friday night? Can you imagine Elon Musk being made to look silly in front of a room full of his peers, rather than having his ring enthusiastically tongued by legions of sycophants? None of them have been dealt with like that in their lives and it would reset their bullshit instantly. Is there anyone on the current geopolitical stage who could mete out such a humbling? Is there balls. Someone make Eric Cantona Secretary General of the UN, please, so he can jaunt across the globe handing out reducers to likes of Trump and Putin.

I’m infuriated at the welfare reforms in the UK. Yet another British government using a sledgehammer to crack a walnut because they’re utterly beholden to the Great People Eater that is late stage capitalism and completely cowed by a media controlled by a handful of fucking billionaires. These two things are, of course, directly linked. We all see it and there’s fuck all anyone can do about it. So we just tut and nod and sigh and put the kettle on. I’m not some V for Vendetta dope but come on - there has got to be a better way to run this fucking rock.

I’m irked with the same selfish neighbour who helped to set me off on the downward spiral so long ago - a skimmed version of the gold top³ braggadocio bullshit above. I see you pal, playing chess with your BMWs so you get your favourite parking space, pas agging the whole cul-de-sac before breakfast. This place is supposed to be a peaceful little utopia, stop ruining it. I’m further irked that everyone (self included) is so painfully fucking British that none of us ever call you out on it. Bunch of fucking suburban Neville Chamberlains.

I’m slightly annoyed because every single day I sit down to write I say to myself “Just do it for you,” and then I get a big whack of RSD when my numbers drop every time I write about football. Listen, the numbers going up is like lovely free stimulants, while the numbers going down is a mental kick in the bollocks. It shouldn’t bother me but it does; my ego is vast yet fragile. To put it simply, if you want some dessert you’ve got to eat your vegetables. I’m laying myself bare every week, so take the rough with the smooth, would you please? Just indulge me and pretend to read it, like you would a stroppy toddler.

Photo by Andre Hunter on Unsplash

I’m narked because twice is the last week, two different overly opinionated individuals have taken it upon themselves to critique how The Muse is training Peanut while out on their morning walk. If I told you that both of them were gentlemen of a certain hammy persuasion would you be surprised? Of fucking course not. Do you think they would’ve done what they did if I was there? Of fucking course not. I’m slightly more narked that we haven’t encountered either of them again since, because I’d really like to see how they’d behave if you added my snarling mush into the equation⁴.

I’m rather miffed that Brentford fans still do that “Oooooooh, you’re shit aaaarrrggghhhhhh!” chant whenever the away keeper takes a goal kick. I get it lads, a good old primal scream is wonderful for the soul. Honestly though, we can’t complain about being called tinpot⁵ all the time while still doing the most tinpot thing in football. We’ve been in the Premier League for four years now, it’s time to act like we belong. We’re not playing fucking Colchester or Leyton Orient these days. These are elite athletes at the top of their game; I really don’t think a goalkeeper who cost 30m quid is going to get rattled by a few hundred grown ass men violently baying at him. Dig up, for fucksake.

I’m aggrieved with the title of this piece, because the song I lifted it from is some cheesy noughties emo metal that came up on shuffle and has been bouncing around my head for three fucking days straight now. Not the whole song of course, just one line, repeating endlessly. The worst kind of echolalia. A unique hell. There’s about 30 Faith No More lyrics that fit the piece better and are more pleasing to me, but stimmers gonna stim so no, it’s Atreyu. I don’t even fucking like Atreyu. Here, you listen to it. I’m passing on the curse.

I’m fuming at the mere existence of The Stormzy Meal. Far be it from me to dig out a wildly successful young man - more power to your pocket, my son. I’m loathe to get into the weeds of the matter, however I cannot imagine so cheerfully binning one’s principles for something so terribly fucking basic. McNuggets and an Oreo McFlurry. That’s the order of a toddler. There’s nothing unctuous in there. Live a little; get a triple cheeseburger down your gob. If I was in a hospice on end of life care, and by some miracle I persuaded a kindly nurse to hook me up with one last brown bag, they’d bring me The Stormzy Meal. Careful with the barbecue sauce mate, you might taste something.

I’m absolutely livid with myself at this point, because everything just sounds like an entitled middle aged man having a whinge. Hardly any of this even affects me. I should just shut up moaning and have a sandwich. Why do you think we keep it light and introspective when we write, Holmes? Because the alternative is a terrifying world view where complex geopolitical issues are resolved using the language of the playground. You know that people have actually said they’d vote for me in the past? Please don’t, I’m as much a part of the hastening idiocracy⁶ as that fat orange wanker in the White House. Becoming the bull? Hardly. I’m just a stupid old goat, braying in the corner.

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Thanks for reading. Show my fragile ego some love before you go. Bang that like button, leave a lovely little comment, or buy me a beer if you’re feeling flush. Cheers.

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1. A balm? What are you giving him a balm for? It might bite him.

2. I once got peanuted so hard that the tie ceased to function. It had to be cut off.

3. Gold top milk is made using the milk of Jersey cows and has a significantly higher fat content to normal milk. Preposterous for every day use, you’d get gout in a fortnight. Makes for a cracking rice pudding though.

4. Jokes on them, too - The Muse is way tougher than I am.

5. Describes a club seen as lacking in stature, history or importance.

6. Turns out Mike Judge’s 2006 satire was, in fact, a documentary. Who knew?