name_dropper

You know, there are way too many people called Matthew Craig for my liking.

I always thought Craig was a rare surname. I still get a thrill out of seeing a Craigy in the credits of a TV programme (e.g.: Moll Flanders star, Daniel Craig).

But it seems to me that the current naming system leads to too many redundant appellations. How are we, as individuals, supposed to retain that uniqueness if fifteen other jamokes are going around with the same name?

These are Matthew Craigs. They don't have to be.

Matthew Craig judges pension competitions.
Matthew Craig has a PhD, the cunt.
Matthew Craig is a photographer.
Matt Jankowski plays golf on the same course as Matthew Craig.
Matthew Craig is a chick magnet and radio ham.
Matthew Craig isn't old enough to walk, but has to shave four times a day.

To be honest, as the population increases, we are likely to run out of original names very quickly. And not all the misspellings of Frank (Franch, Fyrahnk, Fuwank) can save us from that fate.

The logical solution, I would suggest, is to apply the new car number-plate system to the naming of children.

But then, I haven't slept properly in over a week.

Frankly, even the prospect of hundreds of mewling kindergartners called Britney and "H" doesn't seem so bad, as long as I don't have to actually meet them.

The Real Reason why I never became a teacher: I'd be too damn honest. Stupid names annoy the shit out of me.

NAME DROPPER

(Or, "We're Playing Catch-Up")

By Matthew Craig

Ever have one of those days when you meet an ex - or, in this case, a never-was - and think, "Woah!"

I did, the other day.

Hmm.

Before the Trollop, there was A Certain Someone. Name deleted for reasons of embarrassment.

Before A Certain Someone, there was Rachel II.

Before Rachel II, there was Beth. And Helen, the Captain America Girl. And Emma. And Lowri. And Annalisa. A period of not being too fussy.

Before Becky's I, II and III, before Sarah and Sara and Karen and Tara and Michelle Bootface and - - all the rest, there was Stephanie Bates.

Stephanie Bates. Even thinking the name brings back so many memories.

Which you can't have, today. Nyeh.

I would have married Stephanie Bates at age twelve. I spent the better part of three years - and in hindsight it seems so much longer - chasing her around the school. We used to boot each other in the shins an awful, awful lot.

This was the extent of my romantic skills at that time. I think I've progressed.

Three years of chasing, and arguing, and blow-outs, and shoot-downs and tears later, I finally got the message. Moved on to some other unrequited love. We ended up friends, though. And the times I saw her after we left school, there was always, in my mind at least, the frisson of meeting "the one who got away."

Of course, with me, it's more like, "the one who got away before the stampede started."

Anyway. I bumped into her the other day, as I was walking to the train station with the Daddy (passing the final resting place of Saaby-Waaby on the way, sniff). And I actually found myself opening the conversation, with utter sincerity, thus:

"Wow. You look great."

I'm not very good at complimenting women on their dress sense or their looks. Usually, it comes out sounding like the worst, slimiest chat-up line you could possibly imagine. Even when it isn't.

But Stephanie looked that good. It's been a few years, but, as I said earlier, the years just fall away. She?s doing really well for herself (even got a fancy job as a Business Analyst), and exuded the sort of confidence I'm not sure she had when we were kids.

When you bump into people that you haven't seen for a while, sometimes you discover things about your relationship that make you realise that you, well, never really had one. That your common frame of reference (school, job, brief fling) is so far removed from the people that you've become that it doesn't really mean anything.

It's not the same, say, as seeing old friends and talking about times past, unless of course that's all you talk about. But if that?s what's starting to happen, you should probably be worried.

Stephanie and I talked for a short time, but I don't think we mentioned school once.

Of course, I told her about being booted from my PhD. Apply Sympathy Ray!

Because I was with the Daddy, I took my leave of her somewhat rapidly. She mentioned that she's usually around the same part of town for her lunch every day.

And I...I nearly gave her my phone number.

Maybe I should have. Maybe I shouldn't be so quick to cut myself off from the world.

Maybe I'd finally get somewhere after fifteen years.

Or maybe I shouldn't look back. Maybe we do end up with the people we end up with for a reason. Maybe Steph and I had our chance at romance, and it's long gone.

Maybe I think I can do better.

But better than what? Sitting alone at a computer screen, looking at pictures of Claire Goose out of Casualty?

Speaking of Claire Goose, I wonder if any of you observant types noticed the insertion of a certain handsome webslinger to the background of Claire's police drama, "Waking the Dead?"

Apply Clickage to the picture at the right to see if you can spot a certain rangy Hero Boy - or a close facsimile - on the desktop of the WPC's PC.

(I swear, I didn't tinker with the picture)

Claire Goose: Nudey Detective?

So. Many of you will know that one of the reasons why I haven't been updating this site much over the last few weeks is that I've been preoccupied with other things. The sainted Mother had herself a CT scan today, and is likely to spend most of the first ten days of December hooked up to all sorts of jiggery-pokery in the local hospital.

Hmm. The local hospital is named for Anne, the Princess Royal. She helicoptered in to our school when it was opened, some ten years ago, right after her first husband left her.

My chemistry teacher, Miss Edwards (quite the most refreshingly "like us" teacher we had) refused to come out to wave at her. Which, considering we were ostensibly Catholics, and vaguely persecuted by certain ancient British traditions, would seem understandable.

Unable to offer any logical ways out of going to see Annie, the lads and I opted to sing cruel songs at her until the PE teacher lets us return to class.

And the Mammy is going into this woman's hospital to have a bionic aorta fitted in two weeks. I'm really hoping that Karma doesn't apply, here.

In preparation for her being hooked up to a fucking ventilator for a week, I've been trying to get the sainted Mother off the Coffin Nails once and for all. Regular readers may remember the last time she tried to quit: going Cold Turkey, Renton-style (apart from the mushroom soup and the pornography), she managed to last three days of fitful, sweaty sleep on the couch before giving in to her cravings.

Choose Life. Choose a - -
Aw, fuck it. Where's me smack?

Clearly, she hasn't been to the Matthew Craig School of Fag-Ditching.

Of course, neither have I. I've never smoked cigarettes, cigars, pipes or blunts.

So I finagled her into writing down when she smoked, and then taking a fag out of one slot every few days. This worked, up to a point. She went from fifteen fags to about nine or ten in one go.

Cue the cunting fucking bastard buggering guilt trip.

Subsequent attempts to get her to drop below (and I'm getting more and more angry as I type) eight fags per day, by smoking half-fags over two sessions (smoking six fags over eight smoke-o's, say), have been met with a flurry of excuses. Admittedly, they're pretty good ones, like, "I'm stressed about the operation." Of course, the Mammy still thinks that she's going to be able to smoke after she comes out of hospital.

How to break the news to her, without causing her to smoke more?

Every time I try to explain to her that she has to stop, every time that she tells me that she really does want to stop, she goes back to the nasty little fucking tubes of weed like a, well, a fucking junkie. Because that's what she is. A fucking junkie. She'd use emotional blackmail to get me off her case - and she has. Every time I've tried to talk to her about dropping the amount of tobacco, of halving the fags, or dropping another one from the schedule, she puts up a fucking knee-jerk wall of emotion and terror. Because I'm laying on a heavy trip about smoking, she gets more stressed out, which means she needs more fags.

Substitute cigarettes, fags, tobacco and the like for "cutting myself with razors," and substitute "Mother" with "Trollop," and you might see why I'm so exasperated. I've been here before. And I swore never to have to do this again.

But. Y'know. Family, eh?

Steely resolve will see me through this. I'll keep plugging away. After all: mine is the easy job. It's the Mammy who has to shake her addiction.

Who knows? Maybe I'll get a book out of it: the Art of Bullying People Out of Self-Destructive Habits, by Matthew Craig.

The reason, or one of the reasons, for surely I must count laziness, depression and the end of our daily trips out to Observe Local Wildlife in the wake of the Mammy's other illnesses, why I haven't written much besides e-mails in the last few weeks is that I've been preoccupied.

I still haven't got the faintest idea what I want to do with my life. And bumping into the apparently well set-up Stephanie Bates didn't help. This is the sort of existential crisis that I should have had when I was nineteen, and young enough to enjoy it. Meeting Steph the other day may have taken me back ten years, but I'm still no less nearer to thirty.

I had a Review meeting at the Dole. Word of advice: don't go in looking guilty. The last thing you want at the Dole is to be caught in a lie, or in my case a half-truth. I am looking for work, sure. Just...not the sort of thing that comes along every day.

I nearly applied to be a spy. And a midnight shelf-stacker. How desperate am I?

The upshot of the Dole meeting is that I have to actively start getting my face back out there, no matter what job I want to end up doing. And, like last time, I may have to try to make my own position.

Story of a lifetime.

This may involve writing letters, begging or otherwise, to anyone I can get the address of. The woman at the dole suggested doing voluntary work.

I laughed at that suggestion, too.

The thing is, as much as I want to get away, I can't very well leave the Daddy in charge of the house. He hates to go shopping. Bitches and moans and grumbles and whines, all the way around the shop. And home. And buys the wrong things.

So, I have to take charge of the cooking (or they'll only ever eat potatoes and soup) and the shopping (or they'll only ever buy sticky buns and tea).

And, to be frank, I was never much good at either. Otherwise, Dominos wouldn't be on three separate speed-diallers.

I'm learning fast, though: planning ahead for the week, and stocking up so we don't have to go out every day, which is even more important now that the car is gone. The Sis is driving us to Sainsbury's once a week, which should be more than enough under my new system. As long as the freezer can take the extra strain.

I've also undertaken a most solemn and sacred task: The Christmas Dinner.

I had to turn down the Eldest Brother's offer of Xmas grub at his house. He didn't like that, I can tell you,

But Ive been practising. I've done sprouts, potatoes both roast and fried (julienne?), and roast parsnips.

Mostly frozen, of course. But it's a start. At least we know that they taste nice enough to make it worthwhile. I'm going to try to make some fresher food, and see if I can master that in time for Christmas. Have a dress rehearsal two weeks before, with the appropriate meat (Corn-Fed Chicken, mmm), and polish up for the Big Day.

It's either that, or Mini-Kievs.

Im developing, if not a love for cooking, then a mild crush on it. The only things I've really cooked, as opposed to reheated or boiled-in-the-bag, are chicken curry / chilli, bacon and Spaghetti Bolognese (with real lamb!) I'm going to try to expand my repertoire of skills to include sweet-and-sour pork, and maybe something fishy, or even a shepherds pie (with SMASH, naturally).

I hate you, Jamie, because you're happy. Bastard.

I think I'm finally making a slow transition from tinned food and takeaway to ready meals (even if they are good ones) and small spicy / stir-fry dishes to full-blown preparation-required cooking. After a month of ready meals, I could do with the change...

And all it took was my mother coming down with two serious illnesses simultaneously.

Funny how things happen for a reason, eh?

Matthew Craig will be naming his children SX 55 QMB, HT 56 OOT and Mackintosh, November 20th, 2001

Hosted by www.Geocities.ws