On Manic Depression

There are many things that prompt me to sit in front of the computer and write, despite the fact that I can not smoke at my desk. Most of them are written quite quickly, so that I can nip outside and enjoy my carcinogens in the knowledge of having accomplished something or the other. Nonetheless, by and large, they've usually been rattling around in my cranium for a while, sparked off by a dozen seemingly unconnected threads weaving themselves together into a narrative scarf of which Tom Baker would be proud.

First off, you will note I have chosen to title my piece "On Manic Depression" and not "On Bipolar Disorder". I am fully aware that the latter is currently more acceptable, but as it sounds far too much like an accident suffered by Michael Palin, I'm kicking it old school for the moment. Also, I suffer from it, so I can call it what I damn well please. I could call it "Winona Ryder", if I wished, but a blog entitled "On Winona Ryder" would likely distract both of us too thoroughly for the piece to be completed or read.

At any rate, I was asked recently to delineate the character motivations for the lead in a short film script I had written. It's a personal piece, emotionally if not specifically, and I had pretty much - as writers often do - drawn heavily from myself when writing the lead. Why? was the question I was being asked. Why would this seemingly normal person suddenly adopt such extreme behaviour, even under tragic circumstances?

My response was telling, "Cause I would." Now I have, it would seem, been bipolar for most of my life. I'm USED to the way I am. I've developed coping skills to allow myself to remain unmedicated, as meds remove my ability to write or compose.

I'm not even one of those people who say, "But I'm not crazy!" I am crazy. By any current, sociological standards, I am a nutjob. I am not DANGEROUS, except to perhaps myself and the nerves of those closest to me, nor am I currently delusional, psychotic or prone to vote Conservative. But I am certainly crazy.

Actually, in all honesty, it's YOU lot that I don't understand. Now, I'm aware I'm ill, that my brain isn't meant to be wired this way, and you're not actually SUPPOSED to bounce from elation to despair and back again over the duration of the fish course. Nonetheless, it always seems to me that those who have healthy, functional minds - well, I'm not being rude, but your emotions seem a bit flat to me. Whither the valleys? Whither the peaks? Whither the nonsensical use of the word "whither"?

Now I don't mean to suggest that Hollywood's "Hey, Look At the Inspirational Mentally Ill Person! See How They Wackily Subvert Society's Norms!" brigade are to be encouraged. They're not. They don't know a goddamn thing about it. They don't understand what it is to exist like this. On the other hand, I don't understand what it's like be underworked and overpaid, so I suppose we're even.

Stephen Fry has described it as being "just them but with something extra." I happen to agree. It is painful. Sometimes unbearably so. It's also inordinately frustrating, which for some reason always makes me resent it more. For instance, I believe that the way that I am - who I am - is what drove me to become a writer and musician. However, it makes me almost exactly the wrong person to thrive in an industry where you have to fight tooth and nail even to be listened to, let alone break through. And never mind taking criticism personally - that's part of the job - you don't want to know what happens when I have to deal with apathy or ignorance. You would not be surprised to learn that it takes up a large portion of my day.

And yet... and yet... somehow I wouldn't be without it. I'm not sure I'd take a cure if it were offered. It's such an intrinsic part of my nature, I fear that I'd - and this is the same I that I spend so much time loathing and wishing to cease its ridiculous existence - disappear in a puff of medical self-congratulation.

There are days where I wish I could be less unpredictable. There are days where I wish I could plan my activities around something more concrete than how I'm feeling at this moment. I've had to learn to hide it, to work around it, to survive it, simply because there are things I need to accomplish, people I don't want to disappoint, and people for whom I am responsible.

However, I have a terrible feeling that if I ever became completely well, I would be crushingly dull.

Crazy, isn't it?

On Seduction...

I spend a lot of time trying to figure out what's wrong with the world. Primarily because I enjoy nothing more than a good rant, and the world is - generally - quite generous with its catalysts.

But let's be honest, when I say I enjoy NOTHING more than a good rant, I am dissembling, as they say, like a motherfucker. Being a human male of no fixed weight or hairstyle, and sprinkled liberally with low self esteem, there's at least TWO other things I enjoy more.

Which brings me to our subject for today: Seduction.

Our story begins in a pub toilet. Not in the way you might imagine, but only because you have filthier minds than I have toilet-related opportunities. No, I was merely present for an act of urination, when I glanced - as I often do - at the machine which sells contraception. My feelings were, as usual, a mixture of bemusement and envy - for despite the fact that I am often in said toilets whilst plying my trade upon the stage and shaking my verylittlemoneyreallymaker, I can not recall a time when I have had need to make use of them in an spontaneous, carnal emergency manner.

However, last night, what I saw was this:



"A Seduction Kit! Well, that's more like it!" I thought. Nice to see a little old-fashioned seduction creeping back into play, rather than the time-honoured method of both parties drinking until the other becomes attractive.

So intrigued, I read on - curious to see what magic ingredients were to be considered essential to modern seduction. Was I to discover aphrodisiacs? Tickets to the theatre? Instant floral bouquets? A pocket guide to the most sincere and least-worn compliments to be paid to a potential sexual partner?

As it happens, no. What I was being offered by way of transforming my bloated Canadian bulk into a modern-day Casanova or Don Juan, was the following:

1 X ID Glide Sachet
1 X ID Juicy Lube Sachet
1 X Skins Natural Condom
1 X Skins Dots & Ribs Condom

(And, of course, the wise, if somewhat lacking in romance, advice: "Never Go In Without A Skin". I mean, I've never been hit on by anyone that didn't at least have skin, but I can imagine it is unpleasant.)

Stop me if I am being overly fussy here, but this doesn't sound terribly seductive to me. Were YOU to be approached by a stranger with the opening line, "I just wanted to say that you are the most beautiful man/woman/androgyne I have ever seen, and as it happens I have a sachet of Juicy Lube with your name on it", I am willing to bet that - even if you decided, in a moment of what the fuck - to go home with them, you would not considered yourself to have been seduced.

Now I'm no expert here. Apart from one friend of mine who considers me, despite all evidence to the contrary, to be an unrepentant lothario unfettered by moral rectitude, most people who know me would not call me a seducer.

Nonetheless, I'd like to think that even with the handicaps of my looks, mental strangeness and general hobo-on-an-off-day dress sense, I could do better than offering my potential conquest a choice of condoms and lubricants. I would, at very least, start with "Hi".

It seems endemic to the modern world, this sense of romance and wonder being surplus to requirements. Lyrics have no poetry, music has no soul, sex has no subtext and television has no fucking writers or actors.

You may think I am inferring a lot from the contents of a contraceptive machine, but these things do matter. Words like "seduction" shouldn't be bandied around by just anyone, you know. They should stand for something, they should be - if only in the moment - transcendent.

Also, I really shouldn't have spent the three pounds. Anyone need any Juicy Lube?