In the great struggle that is life, one can be certain of two things. Taxes, and that it's fucking impossible to find the right size jeans. I kid you not; I have spent the last year trawling through high-street shops, asking only for some regular blue denim jeans that actually fit, but it simply hasn't happened.

So first, as advised by a somewhat stylishly dressed colleague, I visited "Republic". To me the name conjures up images of white marble and toga clad senators but clearly this hadn't been the theme they'd had in mind. I wandered in to find a a wide variety of clothes - most of which seemed like stuff out of a 15 year old's 'Indie Look' catalogue - but, alas, no blue jeans.

So, my next stop was TK Max. Despite the fact that I have been literally laughed at upon disclosing the fact that I shop for clothes there by only moderately trendy peers I've always thought you could find some good stuff there.  So I searched with cautious optimism, and to my lack of surprise, there before me was a whole rack, specified 'Jeans'. What they didn't specify was 'Jeans - for giants.' I didn't even have to dangle them in front of legs - they were gigantic. I am an uncomfortably tall person (6'1/6'2) so I genuinely wonder about the height of the customer these jeans were constructed for.

Next to 'Hollister'. When I first saw Hollister I nearly walked straight past it. I'd always assumed that businesses attempt to let you know what wares they are peddling, and this one was attempting nothing of the sort. It had a black facade with a chandelier overhanging the entrance, and dark windows which revealed nothing of the interior. As such I'd always figured it was some kind of marginally trendy bar a la Old Orleans. Still, my sources had informed me otherwise and as such I delved in. Inside it was just as dark as it appeared from outside, so presumably the buying and selling worked on some kind of lucky-dip system. Gambler though I am, I didn't think under these circumstances I was getting the correct pot odds and as such left, again empty-handed.

Moving onto H&M. When I got in here I was pretty pleased with the outlook. Nice, neat, sensible rows of clothes, all fully illuminated. I meandered between them and at last before me was a whole raft of jeans, many of which were blue. "Fucking yes. My strife is nearly at an end. At last I'll be able to wear a black shirt (having lived off sorta navy/dark purple jeans) in public again!" So, after about thirty minutes flicking through each individual pair of jeans (Come on 32/30... 32 fucking30!!!) I settled for 32/32. Not that I was happy about it. And not that they fit.

Exhausted by my day's hard labour, I stumbled towards a final place; one that I thought I'd left behind years ago. (Primark) Still, perhaps it could help me out.
"Come on, we were partners once. For old times sake..." I implored. Well, sadly Primark seemed to follow in the line of the Corleone family on that sort of thing. "Sorry Salvatore, can't do it."
Woe betide me. It seems I am doomed to forever wander, tripping all over the place on the hems of my over-length trousers.

On the plus side however, I did remember that I needed some socks. (Well, clean socks.) Seeing the sunny side, I gladly scooped up a pair and headed to the tills. Or at least, where the tills had been in days of yore. Now they'd been replaced by something called a 'cash and wrap.' Interested, but not enough to find out, I wandered off in search of a till. "Hmm, can't find any round here." Maybe they're upstairs. Nope..." By now I was near tears with frustration, but determined to win just this small victory. "OK, think Peter...Cash and wrap. In a shop cash only comes into play when a customer wants to purchase an item." That must be it. But (inspecting wallet) "card.......NO FUCKING CASH!!!""

In a testament to how desperate I'd become, I swallowed my diffidence and asked a member of staff,

"Excuse me, where are the tills?"

"Over there", pointing to the 'Cash and Wrap' sign.

"Err, can I pay by card?" I asked.

"Eh? Obviously", dispensed with dismissive derision.

"Well what's with the 'Cash and Wrap' sign?" beginning to elocute my frustration.

"I don't know."

"Well then shouldn't the the sign say, cash, and card, and wrap?" at last thinking that I'd got my little piece of the world where I wanted it.

"I don't know."

Fucking hell. From now on I clothes shop online.

It was a lovely summers day, and - as is often the case when the sun is beaming strongly - I found my mood to be one of effusive happiness.  I jauntily bounced along to my place of business, finding pleasure in every little quirk and facet of this wonderful planet. None more so than in my fellow man, who spotting me awaiting a break in traffic, so kindly delayed locomotion toward his destination, so that I might not delay mine.

As such, upon reaching my place of business I was feeling a strong sense of amity with my brethren. 

As I walked towards the buildings's glass doors I could - squinting through the reflected sunlight -  just about discern the figure of someone else walking toward them from the opposite direction. Delighted at my opportunity to repay the universe for the earlier kindliness done to me, I earnestly leapt aside, and - like an eager courtier - with a flourish, ushered them through the door ahead of me. I maintained this courtier-like pose (head-bowed. Arm flung out to one side) for some seconds, before questioning that no-one had passed through the door. And that's when it hit me, that this person had both in gait and dimensions been not all that dissimilar from me. So un-dissimilar in fact, as to have been of me. Which obviously he was.  

As I passed through the doors to the reception I was hoping, of course, that no-one had noticed my little contratemps. I think I got away with it, but for one young lad, looking at me with a curious mixture of 1 part astonishment, 2 part contempt, and 3 part fear.

Here I am,
nestling in the clinging darkness,
reciting songs again
I have no need of friendship
And no regard for shame

Here I am,
with no foes to assail me,
no allies to betray
My castle walls protect me
I've no empire to retain

Here I am,
surrounded by these walls,
windowless to block the sun
To shield me from exposing
the nothing I've become

stoicism?

There are areas you can take hits, and you'll recover stronger. Like a bare knuckle boxer who's skin becomes tough and calloused.

However, these are only surface wounds. If something fundamental in you is wounded, then you - the fundamental you - gets wounded, and you do not recover stronger. Not unlike  if your bones are repeatedly broken, they grow back weaker, more insecure.

The same is true of insecurities in personality. Our person(ality) is largely formed from that in which we take pride, or what we are egotistical about.
So when we are broken in areas of pride we are directly weakened as a person (That is unless this prompts us to develop alternative strengths) (We might be able to shrug off a few knocks, but in that case we haven't been truly woudned in the first place)

The only way to directly overcome an insecurity is to amputate the insecure appendage. That is, to renounce any claim or propriety toward that aspect. So for instance, a formerly excellent footballer might feel distraught at playing terribly week after week. That is until he says to himself "I don't care about being a footballer, and my ineptitude in that role is impertinent to who I (fundamentally) am." Thereafter he is capable of playing terribly without any impact on his self-image (even after everyone else tells him how awful his play is), because his self-image does not include anything that pertains to playing football.

Pride, or egotism, is the root of most of our psychological suffering. Like the 'glass is neither empty nor half full, it just is', so it is with our person. It is what it is, we are what we are. It's only once we start rating - ascribing value - e.g. full/good, empty/bad that suffering ensues.

(Feat. N.Abdelaziz)

By the chasm made from fallen dreams,
the riverbed of a dead stream
laments the life that once it held,
the tolling of a far off bell.

Beneathe the deep and rolling waves,
in hallowed fields and far off caves
There echoes, there,
what we have seen,
and everything we've ever been.
It vanishing through the veil of night
Makes nothing wrong, and nothing right
The vestiges of what we've done
Eclipsed by moon, no more the sun

So now the void is all that's here,
where no one sighs,
and no one hears
And blissfully we drift on by,
where no one loves and no one cries...

Alchemists vial

He esconces himself with paper and pen,
anticipates flowing like a river of zen
but the end is blunt, so he starts once again

Time ticks on, it’s been more than a while
A stanza or two, and neither worthwhile
Prosaic and turgid, such is his style
Imag'ry effective as an alchemist's vial
So he sits and he stares at the paper defiled
with meaningless words that fail to beguile

Then he realises he's got nothing to say
No wisdom, no love, no pain today
So one last time he tries to try
to write laments for days gone by
But nothing stirs, his eyes still dry
Then merc'fully, his pen doth die

Natural disaster

We’d just left the cinema after the less-rather-than-more enjoyable experience of watching 'Dodgeball'.

"Meh, guess it was alright," I said, trying (and failing) to in intone some enthusiasm for what was basically a bust of an evening.

However if it was sparkling comedy that we had set out for that night, we were not to be disappointed.

Being at that early teen stage when doing things that are bad for you is the pinnacle of cool, we were indulging in a pack of cigarettes we'd purchased from a nearby petrol station. We were sitting on the enclosing wall, smoking, discussing German Idealism (well, not really), when we were interrupted by a slurred yell. We looked up and identified the source of the distraction as some excitable member of the proletariat, sprawled out the window of a nearby parked up taxi. After some opening repartee, the conversation took a more serious turn.

“What the fuck d’you think you're smoking for?”

(“Good point to be fair”, I thought to myself, “it’s not really all that is it?”)

“YEAH! You fucking IDIOTS!” chimed in a fellow taxi-dweller, wrestling his inexplicably over-developed cranium out the window alongside his compatriot's. “You’re smoking near a fuckin’ petrol station... What if you cause a natural disaster!?!”

Instantly recognising the wisdom of these words, we heard several grunts of approval from their fellows within the taxi. Having made their ever-so-valid point and clearly pleased with their work, the two commentators gave each other a quietly satisfied fist-bump, as if to say “Respect to you mate.” “Nah mate, respect to you”. And then with a parting shot ("Wankaaas!!!") and ensuing guffaws, off they trundled.

Smart Alec

It was a lovely day, heralding - I hoped - the onset of spring. As such I went for a wander around the local lake. Believing myself to be alone, I took the opportunity to sharpen my mind by declaring aloud the species of each animal I passed. The method had been devised several years ago by my good friend Matt, who upon seeing the multi-dog monster in 'The Thing', announced - with scarcely a moment's hesitation - "Dog!" (Despite his failure to pluralise the noun, the feat has been celebrated in our friendship group folk-lore ever since.) 

I had just succesfully announced 'pigeon!', and was feeling pretty pleased with my advanced level of breed discernment, when I heard some young gentleman - a little way behind, being led, hand-in-hand by his mother - shout "robin!" Being no coward, I could not meekly defer to this brazen intellectual one-upsmanship. A fierce battle of wits ensued, me eventually having to accept being bested when I could find no retort to "cat!"... Smart Alec.

The lunatic incident

We were just ambling in a perfectly peaceable manner down the road. Max had that day acquired gainful employment, and quite naturally felt like celebrating. Unfortunately however, it was a Thursday, and most of our friends being one step ahead of Max – not to mention an inestimable number ahead of myself - were not at liberty to piss away the early hours of the morning on futile urban adventurism. 

Socially destitute, we cut a path in the direction of the local casino; the plan being to drink and gamble away Max’s future earnings, safe in the knowledge that 15 hours a week of primary school teaching assistant salary would soon be at our disposal. Given that no contract had been signed, this arrangement could last a few weeks. On the other hand, it could last forever. As such we felt it not unreasonable to advance ourselves an indefinite supply of easy credit.

It was in this spirit of bonhomie that we ambled quite unprovocatively towards the bus stop. I suppose the beer and excitement gave me tunnel vision, because - despite the long, straight emptiness of the road - the first thing I knew of our new acquaintance’s existence was when he lunged, semi-violently, into our personal sphere, and barked “WHERE'S THE PARTY AT!??!”

Somewhat startled by this unannounced debutant, Max’s reaction was to dispense a quick “dunno mate”, and continue his unbroken course. Whilst not exactly considering this poor form on Max’s part, my response nevertheless diverged. Although no such monologue ran through my mind at the time, were I to formalise the reasoning behind my response, it would have run something like this.

“Here is a gentleman, who - though clearly lacking in the social skills most of us take forgranted – has demonstrated no malice of intent, or fundamental disagreeableness in disposition. All that can be fairly ascertained from his words is that he wishes to know where the party is at, and from his boldly open body language, most likely desires further interaction with us. I believe to a very substantial degree in the fraternity of man, so why deny it to him?”

Accordingly, I turned towards him, opening up my body in a move anticipated to display respect and amicability. My utterances continued this theme. “Hmm, not sure I’ve heard one around here to be honest mate.” Although he was disappointed by this, our discussion continued on friendly-enough terms. He went on to bemoan the fact that – assuming my implication that there was no nearby party was correct – the guys down the road “MUST'A BEEN TAKIN’ THE PISS!!”

I extended my condolences, and sympathised that they must’ve been real wankers to send him off on such a wild-goose chase. However, pity as it was, we had an itinerary to keep to, and as such I tried to break-off relations, while maintaining cordiality. Perhaps this was my mistake, in that I suppose he picked up on my distaste (however incidental) for continued conversation, combined with my continued presence, and deduced that I was hanging around only out of schadenfreude.

In our subsequent review of the incident, Max described the situation as one that, at this point, had developed a steadily increasing undertone of tension. “It seemed like it could, potentially, have developed into an antagonistic situation.” Certainly it was bearing little tangible fruit. Where before we had been exchanging collaborative proposition and counter-proposition, our discussion had reached an impasse in the form of:

 “So what you doing?”

“Going that way mate.”

“So what you doing!?”

“Going that way mate.”

“SO WHAT YOU DOING!??!”

“Going that way, mate.”

(I have said nothing of the man’s appearance up till now, and perhaps – despite my supposed liberalism – it was a factor I should have taken into account sooner. Scatty would have been a kind way of putting it. Bizarre, and rather frightening would have been another. And this was with his hood tightly done up.)

It was at this point that things (next-door to literally) exploded from the ‘Could potentially get antagonistic’ stage, to the ‘Here you are right now with a fucking lunatic leering in your face demanding that you get your hands off him even though they aren’t even on him’ stage.

The guy had, at astonishing speed, used both hands to tear back his hood to reveal his face, (the features of which were remarkable) and fling it towards mine, stopping perhaps 6 inches short; the rest of his body in close support.

As aforementioned, I found the guy borderline frightening even when I couldn’t see him. Now I could, this emotion was fleshed out in full. If his behaviour had been on the eccentric side, his face was that of a fully-fledged lunatic. He had discoloured, emaciated skin. His eyes were wild and bulging. But the aspect that scared me the most was the interior of his mouth. I recall throughout our stand-off fearing desperately that he would bite my neck with his assorted metal teeth. And seriously, the only word which I could use to describe his general outlook, would be rabid.

Despite Socrates’ insistence that courage is only fear of a greater evil (It’s in the dialogue where he drinks the hemlock), I’m pretty proud of my unyielding response. Though I do not pretend to any martial prowess, I nevertheless have always thought valour in the face of those who would do evil upon you is something to be admired.

Perhaps it was the knowledge that I had an ally to my back, but I don’t believe (I’ll have to check with Max) I flatter myself when I say I did not flinch, nor give way an inch. I don’t remember what he was saying at this point; no doubt nothing more meaningful than me (“What the fuck d’you want?” “What the fuck do you want?”) We were eyeball to eyeball no more than a minute, and perhaps much less. It could have been shortened further had I heeded Max’s advice of “Come on Pete, we’ve got to go.” However at this stage it seemed that showing weakness to someone who was demonstrating such violent potential - particularly someone as obviously unbalanced as this man – would be folly in the extreme.

It’s quite possible that it was a case of consequence without causation; however it is equally possible  that it was this policy of non-deference that resulted in the guy eventually snapping suddenly back to his former amicable self. The speed of change in his temperament was again quite astonishing. One moment he looked ready to tear my larynx out with his bare teeth. The next he was all good-nature and well-wishing. Within a minute of this reverse, with a shake of the hand, and mutual expressions of good-will, off he set one way, we the other.

Whilst we were at the bus-stop - despite having been in several incomparably more savage situations – I was close to tears. At first I thought maybe it had been a while since something like that had befallen me, I was getting old, and the nervous strain had taken its toll. What I now believe to be the probable truth however, I find far more distasteful.

Just before we’d set off we’d been at a friend’s watching Newsnight, and there had been a report about the English Defence League. Again, despite my liberal attitudes, or perhaps because of them, I had defended them against the assertion by Max that they are just a bunch of racist thugs. My argument was, basically, ‘innocent until proven guilty.’ I suppose my conviction in this is largely founded on a desire to believe the best in people, regardless of instinctive reactions based on appearance and social graces. Or put another way, exactly the same convictions that led me to treat this guy who - I maintain could (or even would) have visited real harm on me – like someone worthy of no less than respect and kindness.

Then again, although (according to Max) I certainly did nothing that could have qualified as provocative throughout, I think that my prejudice against the guy – late night, hooded, ‘chavvy’ appearance, and under-developed speech patterns - (which if sublimated by whatever socio-philosphical-political trend I’ve bought into) was definitely present. I remember distinctly at one point at least feeling amused by him. I suppose maybe I’m thinking incorrectly –and unjustly highly of myself, as well as lowly of him - that I largely successfully masked those feelings.

Fuck it, perhaps the only reason I wanted to talk to him in the first place wasn’t because I felt he was another decent human being, but just because I wanted to inflate my moral ego by sucking up to some pretentious ideal. I mean instinctively I do think the EDL are (largely) a bunch of racists thugs. I could say “ah well it’s how you act, not how you think that defines you”, but if I acted in an insincere way - which probably justly antagonised this guy in the first place, because I wasn’t talking to him as a frère, I was condescending to him which is so-very-much worse than just brushing him off a la Max – and was incapable of passing it off as genuine, which caused the guy to get pissed off, whether I was being a pretentious prick or not, that makes my actions those of antagonistic twat. I was supposedly being a brother to this guy, but maybe I was just suffering from some compulsive moral masturbatory disorder.