blanking

verb

The act of intentionally (and often obviously) not acknowledging a person’s existence. Similar to ignoring and not speaking to, but without providing the recipient with a preface or explanation.

The Tautological Mantra of the Blanker:

“I’m not talking to you, but I’m not telling you why I’m not talking to you because I’m not talking to you.”

Her name was Kayleigh, and we shared a carton of Ribena at playtime. {Can we skip the anecdote? I’m in a rush.}

Blanking in Popular Culture

One day she wasn’t at our meeting spot. I waited patiently as I finished my half of the carton, then decided to look for her. I found her huddled amid a group of girls. Upon noticing me, her eyes widened and she quickly turned away. I found this behaviour rather baffling so I approached and asked the back of her head why she hadn’t been at our usual spot (to no avail). Then I offered her Ribena.

Perhaps it was the temptation of a sugary fruit drink that did it, but she turned her head a little bit and replied: “I can’t; I’m not talking to you.”

“You can’t TELL him you’re not talking to him,” snapped another member of the group.

“Oh, sorry.”

I felt confused and uncomfortable, feelings which stayed with me the whole afternoon. The grief of losing a close friend — compounded by absolute bafflement as to why — made it impossible to concentrate on my finger painting. Had I done something wrong? I racked my brains but couldn’t remember being bad; I certainly hadn’t been told off recently. How long would this last? Was it one of those things people forget about after lunch (like the time Cherry pulled Vicky’s hair because she wouldn’t get off the swing) or one of those BIG mistakes that ends a friendship for a whole week (like when Ben ate James’s Wagon Wheel)? I needed to understand. When the bell rang for hometime I ran up to her and bluntly asked: “Hi Kayleigh, why aren’t you talking to me?”

She bit her lip, unsure whether answering this question was also forbidden. She eyed the cloakroom for an answer but there was no sign of her posse. She caved:

“I can’t talk to you because you’re gay.”

I asked what gay was. She said it’s when other people aren’t supposed to talk to you, and explained that yesterday Morgan had been the first back in after lunch and had proclaimed “Last person who sits down is gay!” Unfortunately I’d been in the little boys’ room at the time of the announcement, which meant I was now gay and we were no longer friends. Before we parted ways I apologised for being gay.

The following day I knew what I had to do: I shoved lunch into my face as fast as possible, ensured I peed particularly early, then spent the rest of lunchtime hanging around the door to the classroom. I clocked Morgan and a few others doing the same as the bell neared, but enough of the class were busy playing to provide me with a winning chance. As I waited, I wondered whether I also had the authority to announce a contest determining someone’s social status. Fortunately it didn’t matter, as at that moment the bell rang and Morgan & Co stormed through the door screaming “LAST ONE TO SIT DOWN’S GAAAAAY!”

I raced inside and hurled myself painfully into my chair. I knew the pained bottom was worth it as I looked around the room, triumphant: there were empty seats galore. I gave a knowing smile to Kayleigh as she walked in, which she returned. Some other poor kid became ostracised that day (because only one person can be gay at a time) and my friendships and social status were restored. I ensured I wasn’t late after lunch each day until the game was forgotten, and I had my Ribena buddy back for the rest of term.

I’d love to be able to look back on that encounter as one of those silly things kids do because they don’t understand the world yet. Yet I see it as the maturest instance of blanking I’ve ever experienced.

While initially painful and confusing, through honest communication the issue affecting our friendship was identified, enabling me to take the necessary action to resolve it and give the story a happy ending.

Adult blankers don’t allow that to happen. They know that even brief communication is anathema to their plans and would never go so far as to give a reason for their behaviour. They are masters of illusion, putting waiting staff to shame with their skills at avoiding eye contact and pretending not to hear you.

Read the rest of this entry »

There are many things I dislike.

One of them is MC Dizzee Rascal, an “English rapper, songwriter and record producer whose music is a blend of garage, hip hop, grime, ragga, pop and electronic music, with extremely eclectic samples and more exotic styles” (according to Wikipedia).  A modern-day poet, you’ve probably heard the works of this “boy in da corner”: they include the songs I Luv U, Hold Ya Mouf and U Can’t Tell Me Nuffin’.

There’s a lot about this creature I don’t understand: why he’s so obscenely famous; why he’s always playing gigs like Reading Festival when there’s absolutely nothing indie, rock, or otherwise ‘alternative’ about him; why he chose a stage name he can’t pronounce… but the question that tops them all is what the hell is he saying??

If a song has good lyrics I can appreciate it no matter what the genre.  To me, lyrics are the most important part of music and even the greatest guitar solo on earth won’t be enough for me to overlook an atrocious lyric (Sting, I’m looking at you).

Anyway, in an attempt to become more ghetto I’ve been listening to the lyrics of Mr Rascal this evening and wish to share my musings with you, dear Internet.

Below is his timeless classic Stand Up Tall.  It reached number 10 in the charts, and all three words in the title are spelled correctly.  I have taken the time to write the lyrics down, as you may have trouble making them out if this is your first time hearing the song.  In purple I have added my interpretation of these insightful lyrics, although welcome fellow scholars to contribute to my analysis as it got a little too much for me nearer the end.

Read the rest of this entry »

DON’T DEAD, OPEN INSIDE:

Rules For Surviving The Zombie Apocalypse

I’ve just watched the pilot episode of The Walking Dead. My first impression was “28 Days Later with a Hollywood budget, made into a TV series” (which certainly wouldn’t be a bad thing) but a number of things annoyed me. These are things which are becoming increasingly common in zombie apocalypse scenarios and, considering one of the primary appeals of a zombie apocalypse is its delightfully Darwinian ability to weed out the slow and the stupid, I am concerned that the media are unfairly representing idiots as “worthy survivors” in this increasingly popular genre. As a public service I’m going to list the Top 10 rules that survivors (and scriptwriters) should adhere to. 1) Do not underestimate the importance of clear communication

I realise you’re probably in a hurry, but without attention to detail and a spot of foresight you’re not going to last long. Clear communication is important and saves lives.

Look at this: no punctuation and confusing layout. Atrocious. Imagine you were being chased by zombies and had to make a split-second decision about which locked door to hack open. “DONT DEAD OPEN INSIDE” is a bit puzzling, and I wouldn’t put it past some simpleton to remove the plank and start on the padlock before going “Oh, wait, I think it’s saying OH GOD A ZOMBIE IS CHEWING ME.”

I would advise “DON’T OPEN! ZOMBIES!!!” (preferably in red) for clearer emphasis.

Of course, it’s not just post-apocalypse that communication is key. Look at the scientist talking to the animal rights terrorists at the beginning of 28 Days Later. Instead of smiling manically and saying “Rage” in an evil way, he could have said: “These chimpanzees are contaminated with a highly contagious strain of rabies which is fatal to humans. If you let them out they’ll spread the infection everywhere and we would surely die.” I reckon that would’ve had a better chance at persuading them not to let the chimps loose.

2) Don’t walk around in the dark, you massive tool

If you need an explanation for this one, you deserve to get your brain eaten. Although I doubt it would provide much of a meal.

3) When you find an abandoned military base, take a tank. Not a bicycle.

Yes, I realise that bicycles don’t need fuel. But there’s probably room in the armoured jeep / tank / helicopter to fit the damn bike for in the future when that’s an issue. Anyway, you’re more likely to find fuel on the road than a puncture repair kit.

4) Unless your ammunition explodes, don’t bother

While the details of exactly how to kill the zombies depends on a number of factors (slow, shuffling zombies needing a single bullet to the temple are the most desirable ones to face), it’s generally a safe bet that they’ll keep on coming even if you’ve blown their limbs off. Emptying a 9mm clip into their chest isn’t enough to stop one, and when you’re faced with THOUSANDS it’s pretty standard maths to work out that shooting them repeatedly with a pistol is ineffective, no matter how great your aim is. Both standard and armour-piercing rounds are a total waste against the undead and will just make a lot of noise which is something one should generally avoid in such a scenario. The only ammunition to seriously consider is hollow-point and shotgun shells.

Just use a goddamn axe.

5) When you find a better base, stay there

“So this is the police station. It has its own heating and power, a huge armory, cages, thick walls, vehicles and broadcasting equipment.”

“Cool. Let’s have a shower, grab a handful of stuff and then head back to our exposed house in the suburbs.”

6) Put morality on the back-burner

“Welcome to our military fort. We have a minefield, heavy artillery, months of supplies, armoured vehicles, explosives, weapons aplenty, an army, and even a pet zombie so we can study them.”

“Wow. That’s perfect. What’s the catch?”

“Well, some of the soldiers are right cunts and would like to rape those two girls you picked up.”

Yep, that’s pretty damn horrific. But you know what else is pretty damn horrific? Being eaten by zombies. There’s hardly a moral high ground in situations like these, but out of all the possible ways you could resolve this problem I think the absolute worst has to be “Well then I’m setting the infected prisoner loose to infect everyone in this building, even the people who weren’t overly fussed on the whole raping idea, because while rape is abhorrent me murdering you all is somehow morally justifiable. Once I’ve finished killing you all, I’m taking the girls and we’re leaving. On foot. Without a weapon. Where our life expectancy will drop to approximately two hours.”

7) Most humans aren’t actually worth saving

When faced with the “do I risk my own neck to save that person?” dilemma, ask yourself “Were we not in a zombie apocalypse, would I give that person the time of day?” If the risk is greater or equal to the reward (it cannot be denied that you are more likely to rescue someone if you’d like to sleep with them), use their dilemma as a means to make your own safe getaway.

8) This includes people in your team

The dumb racist fuck, the crazy one who puts the group in jeopardy, the fussy one who complains about your fried rat but won’t offer to cook anything better, the ditzy blonde who runs in heels… sooner or later your team will contain one of these people.

While it may seem wise just to kill them before they get you killed, I would actually advise shooting them in the knees and using them as bait when you need a diversion.

9) Camping in the woods is dumb

I get staying out of the big cities, that’s wise. But that nylon tent isn’t going to provide much of a defensive structure if the zombies do find you. A cave or a mountain, with a good vantage point and difficult climbing involved (get a rope ladder), is a much better choice.

10) The dead ARE DEAD, you friggin’ moron

It doesn’t matter how emotionally attached you were when they were alive/uninfected: they’re gone. There is no cure, no sanctuary, and no God. Shoot them in the head with an axe. No exceptions.

Our school only brought in the interesting subjects like Philosophy & Ethics, Psychology, Sociology, et al once you reached A-Level, so naturally I dropped the subjects I’d spent my whole life forced to learn in favour of these new and interesting ones.

At some point in Year 12 I decided I wanted to read Creative Writing at university.  As universities accept people onto Philosophy degrees even if they have no prior knowledge of the subject, I imagined the same rule would apply for the much simpler choice of an English degree.  Turns out I was wrong, and as I hadn’t taken English as an A-Level I couldn’t take the course I wanted come university, and the teachers advised me to spend my planned gap year attending night school Eng Lit lectures instead of backpacking around Thailand.

Well fuck that, I thought.

Against the advice of the teacher, in Year 13 I took both AS and A2 English Lit together, primarily because I fancied a girl in the AS class.

I didn’t finish any of the books in time for the exams.  I didn’t even try.  I put in one sleepless night of hard work the night before Big Exam Day and bluffed my way through every paper, throwing in long and important-sounding words wherever possible and doing my utmost to sound like I knew what I was writing about.  As different schools studied different texts, the exam booklets contained questions for multiple books — we just had to answer the section on whichever book we’d studied.  In our case it was Jane Austen’s Emma.  As I hadn’t read it, found the lectures dull and didn’t feel like bluffing about old-fashioned women I skimmed through the other sections and found Death of a Salesman — at least I had seen the play — and proceeded to blag about anti-Capitalism and McCarthyism for a few pages.

And where did this laziness get me?  Well, I got an A.

I carried this technique of not giving a shit, writing essays on books I hadn’t read, and only putting a load of work in at the last minute over to university, where I got a First. 🙂

I know, I know, I’m a cunt.  But I’ve never once had to prove that I actually got the grades I did [and would be screwed if I had to, as I’ve no idea what my mum did with the certificates], so the moral of the story is: stop caring, enjoy life, and if you didn’t get the results you had hoped for, lie on your CV and no one will ever know.