My father once told me that I had a magnet effect when it came to turds. We would walk from Ashbrooke, where he lived, to Sunderland City Centre most weekends. One time I walked into what must have been the World's Largest Dog-Shit. You know the kind that is like an egg; hard crust on the outside, broken to reveal a mass of yellow foulness. The smell alone would've been enough to floor an Rhino with no nose. If the Grim Reaper had a giant dog, it would drop shites like this. My father was annoyed, but slightly amused. Nowt funnier than an idiot walking through a big load. We headed back to his flat where my trainer was cleaned, father being less amused at this point. We walked along the same path again, now with clean feet. My father said he was watching me wander along barely paying attention when I turned slightly and managed to walk through the exact same shit-pile. Exasperated is probably the best word to describe my father's reaction, inexplicable was my seemingly never-satisfied attraction to dog's mess. Given the size of it I would be highly surprised if there was not a monument where this great turd resided:
"Here Lies The Remains of Turdosaurus. Trampled twice in a 15 minute spell by the same person".
Anyways, Mortality!
As I get older I am forced to face the fact that I will die. It's not unexpected, it's something we will all have to do eventually. It can get quite overwhelming if you give it too much attention. Your family, friends, loved ones, all will leave your life or you will leave theirs. Probably best to ignore it, eh? Well, no. Your awareness of your mortality can be your best friend or your worst enemy. Knowing that you have a deadline on your life, and you don't know when it will be, should push you to take giant fun-filled steps everyday. Trying new experiences, and reliving previous ones. It urges you to take chances, whether that be seeing the World or putting an extra chocolate bar in that milkshake you're making. Extra chocolate bars are always good. However, being aware of your mortality can also have the opposite effect; the fear that what you do may adversely affect the time you have left. We have safe lives, locks on our doors, money in our bank accounts from our safe jobs. What's the point in taking a risk for more when you are content with what you have? Suppose it depends on if you're really content or not. Are you sure your contentedness isn't just fear masking itself as something safe?
I tell myself I'm not afraid to die. How can I be afraid of something that I know is inevitable? Simply accepting this eventuality should be enough yet I find myself afraid to take risks. I enjoy my job, but it becomes increasingly unfulfilling. The wage is excellent, and I have bills to pay. I don't have a wage, I can't afford the essentials; gas/electric, the roof over my head, and Clotted Ice Cream for milkshakes. Now I'm not saying if I quit my job I will die, possibly by bursting into flames and running around a bit, but I'm not sure I would enjoy a life without the things I enjoy. Especially the milkshakes.
It's surely an age thing. I never thought about death as a young un. If I could describe myself as a child it would be that I graduated with a 1st in Daft Shite Studies from Mongington University. In my yearbook there was a picture of me under the heading "Most Likely to Shit Himself in Public". Fortunately, at least in the last few months, I've managed to avoid shitting my pants. Although I did shit someone elses. I was fearless. Regardless of how high up and unsafe the tree swing looked, I would be first one to try it. Most times I was fine. One time the rope snapped, I plummeted 15 feet down into a stream and smashed my hand onto a sharp rock. I needed stitches and almost lost the use of my thumb. Which was lucky as I would find it very useful in later life, especially when tossing off. I would spend hours on my BMX, racing at speed down large hills. You could guarantee some berk would've built a ramp at the bottom from some discarded plyboard and a couple of large bricks. I would be first to try it, again with the high likelihood of being injured. Or falling into a massive pile of dog-shit. But I didn't care. I never thought about actually breaking any bones. Thankfully the only serious injuries I ever inflicted upon my person were a dislocated elbow (trying to dance like Vanilla Ice at a disco), and breaking my nose (smashing my head through a water slide).
I'm giving this some thought as I head to Thorpe Park in a few days and I'm becoming concerned at the size and speed and likelihood of death these rides include. Never would've been a problem as a kid. I would be skipping to the front of the queue, and likely to try and free the contraption that holds you in your seat, just for a bigger thrill. But I know, now at the age of 31, that when I am actually standing in front of these gargantuan metal contraptions, I think it might be the first time in recent memory that I do shit myself.
I am getting older, we all are. On a large scale our increasing life-expectancy is already resulting in changes to our built environment. In ten years time I would like to be doing something different to what I am now, and feel a change too. Not safety or security, but happiness. Maybe fear will hold me back. Maybe it will hold us all back. But I know one thing for certain; telling a story about going on a roller coaster, full of screaming and swearing and possibly injuring someone, will make for a much better story than if I bottled it.
"Stealth" a ride at Thorpe Park. Soiled underwear, not pictured.
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