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.

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Long before Adam Ant copyrighted his face, there lived this dude called Muhammad…

In case you haven’t been following the latest Jesus and Mo circus, here’s the run-down:

In October last year, two students at the London School of Economics — Chris Moos and Abhishek Phadnis — were harassed by security at their Freshers’ Fair because of their t-shirts. Their shirts had Jesus and Mo cartoons which security considered too offensive. The cartoons are below:

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For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

— John 3:16 (KJV)

I would say this verse is pretty much the crux of Christianity: that our souls might have salvation in the afterlife because God made the difficult decision to send His only son to earth to die for our sins. We should be eternally thankful for His sacrifice.

I have tried for years to understand and believe in Christ’s sacrifice. It’s a core belief of millions across the world, and if it’s true then the fate of my eternal soul rests on understanding it (I’m not big on blind faith), but to this day I still can’t get my head around it. As it’s Easter I’m posting this as an open letter to Christians everywhere, asking you to help me understand the core belief of your religion. To understand God.

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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.

The manager squinted in my direction.

“So… what exactly is the problem, sir?”

“The apostrophe button,” I repeated, more firmly this time.

“It’s broken?” he enquired.

“It isn’t there.”

He stared intently at the telephone, a baffled expression crawling across his face.  After a few moments of careful scrutiny his eyes returned to me, nervously.

“Just to confirm, sir, when you say apostrophe you mean…?”

I sighed a little and raised my hand.

“The little flying comma thing,” I elaborated, tracing its outline in the air with my index finger. The manager relaxed a little, foolishly thinking we were now on the same wavelength.

“Ohh, you don’t need to worry about those anymore; this is the new model.  Much easier to use. Just click on ‘symbols’ and it brings up a list of all the different faces…”

He’d lost me completely.

“Faces?”

“Yeah, you know… ‘emoticons’.”

As he said the last word, his thumb and outer fingers balled up while the remaining digits formed those cringe-worthy animated quotation marks, and I wondered if my earlier display had made him think all punctuation had to be acted out for greater emphasis.

He held the phone up to demonstrate. The screen contained a disjointed amalgam of brackets, commas and hyphens which – if you craned your head in the right direction and closed at least one eye – faintly resembled a set of faces.

“So you see,” he continued confidently, “there’s nothing wrong with it; they’ve just phased out the apostrophe key because the faces now come pre-assembled. You can have animated faces, audio and picture messaging–”

“Do you mean to tell me that the only way to type an apostrophe on this phone is to insert a smiley face and then delete its mouth and eyes?”

“Well,” answered the man, puzzled as to why I was so insistent about this matter, “or nose and mouth. Depends if he’s winking.”

There was a long silence.

“I’m afraid I need a phone that will let me use apostrophes for more than drawing smiley faces.”

“But…”

I gritted my teeth and dreaded the words I somehow knew were coming.

“…why else would you need one?”

*

So this is me: emissary of the downtrodden apostrophe; Grammar Nazi; pedantic prick. I’m that guy who holds you up in the queue because he feels the need to tell the checkout girl that, technically, the sign on the express lane should read ‘Ten items or fewer’. The precocious little sod who berates you for saying ‘could of’ instead of ‘could have’ or who just can’t keep it to himself when he spots a lowercase ‘i’ or a hyphen where there should clearly be a dash. My ideal job would involve travelling across continents with a red marker pen, thwarting linguistic injustice wherever it lurks, be it billboard or subtitle. I place linguistic ability above every other quality I look for in my companions, and could not even consider dating a girl who doesn’t read or can’t spell properly. And while it may seem so, it is never a masochistic decision to become hated by those around me; it’s a compulsion that has gripped me since the day I learnt to read, and has shown no sign of relinquishing its grasp ever since.

Let me tell you how it started.

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