Category Archives: Beermat wisdom

You and me and boring the arse off each other

Unless you’re sad or I’ve found an alien in the bathroom, we bore the arse off each other, you and I.

Us, we talk the loneliness out of life. We paper over the fear that nothing matters by making stuff matter because we need mattering to be the point.

Each given 10 minutes and a piece of blank conversation paper to draw a monster or write our names in the best handwriting.

We do it well. It’s a convincing thing we do.

You’ll laugh or repeat it.

You’ll rip it to shreds with reflection.

You’ll re-feel it until you’ve worn down the thrill.

I’ll believe I’ve grown because of it.

We’ll march off satisfied.

I’ve just gone about existing with some excellent words.

The reward centre of our brains gets a Twix.

We chose these bits, not those. We picked the cherries.

The only small thing is

– try not to take this the wrong way-

you’re not a dream performance artist.

You won’t mime my recurring childhood nightmare to an audience.

My husband hasn’t been found murdered in a vat of his own wine.

You don’t wear a gimp mask and touch me.

Unless, wait! Unless we pretend.

We’ll have missed an entire evening of boring the real arse off each other but we can catch it up, we totally can. I’ll call you in the morning to do it.

(Last night I burnt a tiny bit more electricity off my bill, I’ll tell you. Good, you’ll say. Must mean we’re still taking in air, still breathing.)

Tonite, though, TONIGHT.

I’ll go to Secret Cinema and people with blood on their coats will come to talk to me. I’ll witness office workers doing exercises and visit a room made out of newspaper.

And you will solve a murder in my dining room. You’ll talk to a wine critic with a grudge, wearing a wig.

And we’ll go to a fetish club, just underwear no wig. We’ll watch people swing from hooks in their flesh.

Because since- and here’s the thing- since I’ve had a computer in my study I am a photographer.

I’m a writer and a critic.

I’m an activist.

And now I’d like to be an actor. To play for real. To be a something.

To ask strangers what colour best represents them. To see them cringe about lunging at their tutor on Graduation Day.

I’ll be in an experience that’s had a team of people- a team- dedicated to vivifying a movie that’s had a team dedicated to making it vivid.

I’ll be in France for the night, a grieving giggling widow.

I’ll engage a cross-dressing accountant who likes to watch.

Earlier, earlier I was at a piano lesson and fine.

But I know there are people, there are people who glue on mustaches and who run around buildings.

There are people who don’t know about my Santander bank account.

There are people wearing masks in a room full of white plaster heads who couldn’t give a flying monkey about my Santander bank account.

(Although I know you do and I’ll call you in the morning and tell you about it, oh and plus the electricity.)

And do you know what we can even do one day? I’m excited already.

We can act like we’re boring the arse off each other but because it’s at a remove and we won’t be doing it straight, there’ll be an extra frisson.

Hyper, supra real. Winky funny. Ironicana.

Super amuse bouche.

Living life in fancy dress.

For that

– That-

is what matters.

what’s the point.

why’s we breathe in.

That IS the reward centre

of us.



Filed under Beermat wisdom, Mumbo Life, Mumbo Obsessions, Mumbojumbosheepism, Uncategorized



Fear is a melodramatic response to the unknown- or Lady Gaga flying Economy.

While it is useful if it stops you shaking hands with a lion, it is mostly triggered at the thought of being left in sole charge of more than one child under five.

Facing down a certain amount of it is therefore healthy, unless you want to spend the rest of your life wrapped around a cushion watching Holly Willoughby taste paella.

The hour of fear’s departure is the very hour of its need- generally 3 a.m, when carrying on to an unlicensed bar seems like a good idea.

As ignoring it once could mean a matter of life or death yet acquiescing too often a matter of death in life, fear-as-instinct is best obeyed; fear on reflection is not.


Hate is the instinct of a whopping tantrum distilled into an essence by the espresso machine of consciousness.

It is a profound sense of personal injustice- whether to the body or the soul- which is why you can feel as much antipathy towards a spear of asparagus as to the person who looked you in the eye as they rolled into your parking space.

Just as preferences reflect individuality, dislikes point to a universal ugliness: nobody loves a hater; one day Simon Cowell will realise this and wake up as Cheryl Cole, which will make people hate him even more.

Because hate is a two-stage process of sensitivity to an unyielding world and self-righteous interpretation you have but two choices: find less things to hate or find things less hateful.


Worrying is an energy inefficient session of macabre fortune telling- a Hummer doing ‘trick or treat’.

If a worry is realised, the time wasted compounds the catastrophe; if it isn’t, the time wasted is gone forever, along with the two hours you spent watching Pearl Harbour.

If you invest in worry as a form of self-protection you will get better returns from a Post Office savings account; if you invest in it as world view you will get no returns at all, as someone will bludgeon you to death with a frozen leg of lamb.

No one ever goes to their death-bed wishing they had worried more but worrying often sends worriers quicker to theirs.

Because worry posits the present self in a future situation rather than the future self in a present situation, all that is left is to sit back, relax and allow a different you to face the future.


Guilt is a faux gesture of atonement, like pretending to reach for the ‘open doors’ button in a lift, when an old person approaches.

It fills the gap between what you want to do and what you should do so you can continue to do what you want to do without feeling like a sociopath.

Concerning the welfare of other people yet being privately indulged, it is entirely bogus- the emotional equivalent of locking yourself in the bathroom and scoffing a KFC family bucket.

Without guilt you are a selfish person; with it you are a selfish person who wishes you weren’t.

The third way is to regard it less as a noun and more as a verb, thereby guilting yourself into taking whatever action is necessary to become guilt-free.


Jealousy is the suspicion that your partner’s least favourite wedding vow was ‘forsaking all others’; or, if you are a polygamist’s wife that, of all the others, you are the one he would most like to forsake.

It is the love child of an overactive imagination and an underactive self-regard, transformed into the Bride of Chucky if the third party is even vaguely attractive.

As it is necessary to prize a person in order to fear losing them, jealousy is not without a redeeming feature.

Unfortunately, super-sized possessiveness is precisely the sort of behaviour that will send them running for the hills.

Because the only real control we have is over ourselves, the best way to counter the projected fabulousness of another in the eyes of the beloved is to maintain the real fabulousness of oneself as their love.


Regret is retrospective wishing, with an absentee genie.

It is the doleful acknowledgment that things could have turned out differently, if it weren’t for that last bottle of wine.

Whether for things done or left undone it’s those moments you’d volunteer to pop out and make the tea during the movie of your life.

With its whiff of remove, politicians prefer it to apology while canny criminals pass it over in favour of remorse.

There are some who have a lot of regrets: these are naughty people with a conscience.

Others think it is important not to have any: these are just very naughty people.

Frank Sinatra allowed himself a few but only for services to the karaoke industry.

The reality is that real regret chooses you and not the other way around so engage enthusiastically in its avoidance or else live to regret it.



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Answer to Riddle 2



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Riddle 2

I am still and I am urgent

I float and I dive

I inspire and I consume

I am pure and I am knowing

I empower and I debilitate

I am a dictator out of control

Possessive when I’m scared

Free-spirited when I’m brave

I am always different

I am always the same

If I am real I will never die

All that matters is me

And I am all that matters

What am I?


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Beer mat wisdom 3

Artists are people who find real life dull.

It’s why they are fun on public occasions and difficult in private ones.

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In the mood for pseud: morality

The moral absolutism of conservatives, paraded as integrity, is actually a luxury they afford themselves because they know they probably won’t be naughty.

The moral relativism of liberals, worn as open-mindedness, is an insurance policy they adopt because they know they probably will.

If, like me, you are too principled to be naughty and too naughty to be principled, I recommend avoidance of real life and immersion in mumbojumbo.

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Beermat wisdom 2

The only real tragedy is death.

We are the survivors.

We are still in the game.

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Answer to Riddle 1


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Riddle 1

Rich people delegate me.

Poor people use me to pay the bills.

Most things like me wet.

Expensive things like me dry.

Bodies want me at least once a day.

Children need me all the time.

I’d be out of business if no-one had a nose.

Every bloody thing in the house that walks, talks, breathes or sits inanimately in the wretched sink needs me again and again without end for no discernable reason whatsoever apart from to swallow mindless swathes of time and allow people at Proctor and Gamble to pay their bills so they can employ poor people to spend mindless swathes of time paying theirs.

What am I?

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Beermat wisdom 1

Exercise is like food and alcohol.

If you are feeling sick in the middle of it, you’ve already stopped too late.

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