Please tell me you have this mental block too?

My mind is an army of nameless thoughts marching through my mind calling me an army of names

I am sat on feeble plastic seats, charging my phone into a feeble socket, giving life to my feeble soul.

Ibiza Airport. Flight delayed. How long?

Behind me is an extra Posh-Wanna-Be-Hipster (maybe it’s me?) (Maybe it’s not)

One of those annoying Dipster-Hipsters who pronounces Ibiza (ee-bee-tha) and Chorizo (Chor ee thoo) and Andulcia (An du laaaa theee aaaaaa). Yup, deffo could be me.

Calls Sandwiches, Sandos. Bathes in Pasta Water. Smacks Cucumbers, too. Taking out Trustafarian Rage on Cucumbers is not acceptable in the workplace. Otherwise, I’ll report you to The Cucumber Guild.

Owns a D2C Vegan Extra-Sensual Condom Brand. “Mateeeeeeeeeeee, we’re, literally, basically, building a Rocket Ship mate”

“MAAAteeeeee, we’ve called our condom brand, D2C mate. Does what it says on the tin…Direct to Corey, Direct to Consumer”. “ One of our company values is simple KEEP CALM AND NATTY WINE.

To my right,

Gaggles of Ocean Beach Geezers. Drunk on Oceans of Debauchery. Tidal Waves of Tequila. Ocean Spray Tans.

All slain and slaughtered on the grubby, hot airport floor like booze-battered-beached Seals. A tangle of hungover with phone charges crawling over them like sordid spaghetti and snakes.

Wave Dons.
Rave Dons.

They call themselves “Oceans-Beach-Eleven”.

A hodge-podge of booze stricken ghosts. Scaffolders. Plumbers. Electrician-feel-my- transition. Gardeners. Wayne Lineker-Warriors. Dean Gaffney-Disciples.

All craving Burger King. Burger King is the promised land in Ibiza airport where you fill your empty soul with empty-soul food.

The Ocean’s Beach Eleven all a different shade of sunburn.

1. Terracotta-Terry

2. Debauchery-Drenched-Dean

3. Not-enough-Piz-Bun-Pat

4. Pass-the-Gaviscon-Gav

5. Two-Steppa-Tyrone

6. C’moooooooon-then-Calum

7. Eat-Sleep-Rave-Re-Pete

8. Looks-a-bit-like-Dean-Gaffney-Dean

9. Always-Pool-side-Paul

10. AirMax-Airhead-Aaron (it’s this tway to the gate mate)

One unleashed his honking rave breath, like an army of thousand mutant rats swarming out his gob.

“youuu absaaalatt Sausage, brav… you absalaatttt sausage brav”

Singing Hot Natured Benediction…. “keeep on ridddddiinnnn, on and on”

How much longer can this go on and on and on?

Just been in Beefa for a Wedding.

The wedding t’was a Banging Bacchanalia of Balearic Bliiiiiiiiiiiiiss. Old people laughed. Young people danced. Toddlers yawned. Babies screamed.

The Wedding shone a light on something I’ve noticed recently. Something I’ve noticed in the world that I respect. And something I’ve noticed in myself I dislike.

I have a very weird friendship group. Half are from good private schools and privileged backgrounds. The other half are from South London rough council estates where they took knifes to school.

The wedding was a bizarre melting pot of classes and backgrounds but we get on like a house on fire. I am a spoilt brat and very privileged and was incredibly lucky to go to a very good school.

One thing I’ve noticed in the world and the wedding brought this to light.

***caveat***

I am writing this for myself, so please don’t take offence in my huge generalisations. Writing, for me, is a way to understand yourself and the world around you. Writing allows me to notice things. Maybe this will help you, maybe it won’t. Either way it helped me.

HUGE Generalisation: Working Class people are so much more Stoic than Privileged people

Ask someone from a good background how they’re doing:

(I do this) they’ll go on a ego-maniac fuelled tirade about how great they’re doing.

Ask someone from a working class background how they’re doing (I noticed this from my cheese delivery days too) they’ll often say just two words

Can’t complain
Can’t complain.
Can’t complain.

It’s so Beautifully British.

Can’t complain is baked in gratitude.
Can’t complain is birthed from stoicism
Can’t complain is the backbone to the stiff British upper lip
Can’t complain allows you to focus on what’s going right vs wrong in life.

I recorded a podcast with Margot Henderson of Rochelle Canteen this week.

Her husband Fergus Henderson is arguably THE most important figure in British gastronomy. Founder Father of Nose-to-Tail cookery and the timeless wonder of St. John.

But, in 1998, Fergus was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. He had to give up his dream of cooking in the kitchen. One thing Margot said to me “Fergus, simply doesn’t complain”.

I’ve noticed I complain too much. Complain about things that aren’t important.
Complaining creates a mucky tinge as you view the world

I must stop complaining.

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