Shut Up and Feel Good

When times are bad and money is tight and day-to-day life positively sweats anxiety and wrath, ‘feelgood articles’ contrive to appear in a host of crappy rags and mags. Up they pop like tired, moth-eaten meercats, all sloppy jollity and yesterday’s smiles. ‘Reasons To Be Cheerful!’ they might be called. Or ‘Things To Make You Go Aaaah, Life’s Not So Bad!’ This list – if it’s particularly slapdash - might include such jewels of positive thinking as ‘go to a museum’, ‘listen to music’ or ‘loiter in the park staring at children’ (thanks to The Daily Mail for those doozies.)

The problem - apart from the fact that it’s difficult to trot out a bunch of sickly clichés without sounding like a wet, witless Christian - is that happiness is often surprisingly subjective, and one man’s haggis may very well be another man’s heroin. And vice versa.

Suddenly however, my life is sweating. Just a bit, mind, like a meatball in a bathing cap. Most probably perfectly healthy. Even so, in an attempt to invoke the spirit of Pollyanna, I feel the need to fall in line, to accentuate the positive, to count my blessings and celebrate the joyous bounty of our godless existence. Having said that, I must confess, I don’t have a fucking clue what makes you happy, and so I present:

Reasons To Be Cheerful (For Me. Just Me. You Get Your Own Bastard Reasons.)

I’m glad I haven’t got a tumour growing in me, scaring me senseless and eating me away. I’m glad I had my balls checked out and everything seems to be OK. I’m glad a throat like a bomb in a pram is the worst of my physical concerns. I’m glad I’m looking out upon a garden and the sun is shining and every once in a while a nice pair of tits pop out and cheekily peck at me nuts. (They’re not actually tits, they’re finches, but I just couldn’t resist. I’m glad I couldn’t resist!) I’m glad the foxes who hang around here in the middle of the night are having such an unignorably exciting time of it. I’m glad I’ve got a piece of chicken and some cous-cous in the fridge. I’m glad I pronounce cous-cous cuss-cuss. Motherfucking cuss-cuss. I’m glad I’ve been up at 6am every day this week and worked hard on the book all day. I’m glad it’s giving me so much pleasure. I’m glad the slow, steady death of this basil plant is not my fault. I’m glad John Updike lived so long and so well. I’m glad Lily Allen exists, duff telly aside. I’m glad that when I trip over Morag’s shoes and bags and light upon her clothing around the house, my reaction is still one of giddy delight. I’m glad there’ll be more Burns Nights. I’m glad I didn’t think this was real. Nope. Not for a second. And I’m glad the grumbling pain in my stomach appears to be nothing atrociously serious (faecal feedback pending).

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. That feels better.

Of course it’ll be better still if you follow me.



Everything’s all about the followers these days. Followers are the new friends. It’s like suddenly the whole of the internet’s got a Messiah Complex. I know I have, but I think mine’s more of a Porn Messiah Complex. Yes, I want everyone to get down on their knees and worship me, but I insist that they fellate me ostentatiously while they’re down there.

When I first saw the Blogger ‘Followers’ add-on thing, I pooh-poohed it. Now they’re all over the place and some people have thousands of them. I want some. I feel the dismal crush of petty envy. I seek validation.

Please validate me.

It’s up there on the right. At the time of writing, I only have 26 followers. Pitiful. Even John Beyer has more than that.

Thanks.

Now you. What are you glad about on this sunny winter’s day?