MCG

Massive

The Commonwealth Games started today, along with all the usual opinions from the world's opinion formers that it is on its way out and a waste of money and so on. All the usual stuff that gets thrown at major events in the week before they start. I usually find that afterwards these events are inevitably described as "The Best Sports Event Of this Kind Ever!", and generally by the same people who are writing them off. But I like the Commonwealth Games. They're probably the least competitive games in the world. There's too much money, hype and bitter, bitter competition nowadays. And with the lack of Paula Radcliffe, Ian Thorpe etc, it is even less fraught. A fortnight of some low intensity fooling about seems to me to be a welcome respite. If trying to get on with people is a waste of money, then let's start wasting. And anyway, it's the only major tournament where we in the UK can hope to win something, albeit as our four seperate countries. We do this, I know, by excluding three quarters of the world, but dammit we couldn't colonise everywhere.

Anyway. I have bought Downfall on DVD, which I have only seen in bits on More4. I try to watch world cinema, especially German films. I turn off the subtitles and see if I can keep up. The answer generally is no, but practice is practice. Plus we didn't go and see Syriana yesterday, so I need a good flm ths week. I am umming and aahing about seeing The Proposition. Nick Cave writes a fine psychopathic song, but can he write films? Well, yes, obviously, he did and then someone else made it. I'll probably go, just because I like seeing Guy Pearce on the big screen. I remember him being Mike in Neighbours.

But what of love? Happily, spring is coming soon. And I am moving into Leicester. Possibly one of the reasons I still feel awful six months down the line from Max and I splitting up is that I am basically doing nothing about it. I am now sick to death of moping. It was fun for a while, but time to move on. Yet that's hard when one is living 15 miles from all your friends. Max has the advantage of quite an integrated life like that, which probably explains how she has managed to find someone else and I'm still single. That and he'd been chasing her for about a year beforehand as well. I choose not to think about that bit.

So I move into town. Although that still leaves me with the problem of the man-woman interface thing. Actually, I know full well that it's not so much men and women, more people and people. Personality types are the issue. I am soppy. I am romantic. So, I am normally a bag of nerves about this. What if, what if, what if until I am a wreck. I have only found my previous girlfriends through them literally throwing themselves at me. Anyone I have persued has inevitably come to nothing. I knock things over and act like a twat. It is not charming. It is annoying, not least to me. But then, it would be sexist to say that there is no such thing as the romantic, nervous, useless woman. We all, I am sure, have tales of being tongue-tied and clueless, of having no idea of any signals, or what.

A single man is a pathetic thing. I know of someone who might not appreciate me mentioning this, but it serves as a good example. She went to meet a couple of friends from the internet. She wanted nothing from them bar a pleasant conversation, but the fact that she, a single woman, had deigned to talk to them, single men, made it something altogether more awful. One went to the pub with only a pound in his pocket and bought his own sandwiches. She has since re-written her online profiles to eliminate all references to her relationship status. I frankly don't blame her. But then, I met a friend of a friend's girlfriend, and she seemed nice, but I haven't dared to mention it since. What if she said no? What if, and it's just as worrying a thought, she said yes?

I can only really look at this from the male point of view, though. And one can say that women in our society are at a certain advantage in that it is the male who is generally expected to make the first move. It is expected that it is the man who desires female company and it is the woman's perogative to make it as difficult as possible. A woman is always the arbiter of what happens - you're a man, I'm a woman, and me allowing you to buy me this drink will now allow you to talk to me for ten minutes. Don't fuck it up. I'm sure it is a descendent of the time when we were ape creatures in trees, and only the biggest and most impressive ape creature would be allowed to breed. And then, if a woman does express any interest, indeed makes any attempt to make personal contact at all, the man will then fall over himself to act like an idiot, mostly from a sensation of relief at not having to make the first move himself, morbid fear at this never happening again and the crushing panic of having to be impressive enough for her not to destroy him like the gimp he actually is.

Of course, I am monumentally inept at interpreting any form of non-verbal communication and so am making all of this much, much harder than it ever needs to be. But even verbal communication is no guarantee. The internet is a godsend in this terrible ordeal. We all adopt outer skins that change from person to person. Our attitudes, confidence, even our accents change, depending on who we are with. The internet, on the other hand, is in some ways really only talking to yourself. There is much less risk - I get to edit my emails to people, I get to re-read my blogs. Crap stuff I excise, good stuff I magnify. I get to look a lot more fluent here than I really am. Do you think I could maintain this level of cool in the real world? Get real, daddy-o.

At least, that's how it feels from in my shoes. Perhaps I'm right. Perhaps I'm well wrong. Perhaps this whole posting is terribly offensive to women from beginning to end. If so, I am truly sorry. In my defence, the first bits were about cricket, and that was more boring than crass. But I am aware that what I may think of as endearing whimsy could read as either endearing whimsy, but also the sociopathic bile of a man saving up all his anger and rage for the day he can lay his hands on some kind of doomsday laser. Starting a posting with "I don't want to sound bitter, but..." basically says "I am bitter and you are going to hear about it."

I know one thing, though, Never write blog entries on gloomy evenings. I'm off to watch Arrested Development until my eyeballs bleed. Hardcore.

Good night, and good luck
Dougal