“What the hell are you doing in the UK?”
“Why would you leave Australia for this?”
Because, when you wake up in your own sweat for nearly 25 years, have been sunburned more times than laid, and a couple English blokes you met last year told you that girls in the UK love Australian accents, you feel like trying it out. Plus I was no longer interested in pathetically attempting to claw my way into the closed-group Australian music industry, or working soul-crushing office ‘career’ jobs sat next to fat, miserable people.
I had no clue what was out here for me, but I think I’m slowly finding it. Or at least, finding the beginning of the path to follow. Despite being in a job I never expected to somewhat enjoy (but do), which pays less than half of my previous jobs back home, I am legitimately happier week to week. I’ve been casually dating a nice girl from Manchester or Chesterfield or somewhere. I am barely ever anxious anymore. Except about weird pains around my right kidney. But they’re mere passing thoughts in comparison to the anxious hell I drifted in and out of for the last three or four years back home. I have no explanation as to why.
I’m determined to keep my Australian accent. Except I’ve been here six weeks and have already started saying “hiya, y’allright?” upon every greeting.
I miss the beach and the dog, but not much else at this point.
I bought a MacBook Pro and started learning electronic music production around August last year. I’ve been in rock bands for years, but always wanted to go solo because I’m a prick who was always arguing with bandmates. Electronic music sounds cool, seemed easier to make than playing guitar in a studio, and was something I could do on my own. Except there’s still a learning curve. And of course, I sucked initially. I still suck. All I could think about was the fact that there were a lot of other producers out there (younger than me) who could make sicker beats than me, right now. And I held that mentality for what’s nearly been 10 months (too lazy to count). It delayed my progress and scared me out of trying to get better. Because all I could think was “man I suck, this is going to take forever to learn”. Except the other day when I was out driving somewhere, I thought “If I’d kept a consistent practice and learning schedule each day, I’d probably be starting to get somewhere with electronic production now”. So now I feel like shit for wasting all those months. Now I feel like shit for sitting around watching Sex & the City these past three or four weeks. I’ve had all the free time in the world, and all I’ve done is watch re-runs, gain weight and occasionally update this shit blog. Fear of failure can actually paralyse productivity. That’s not just some bullshit cheesy line. Stop reading this shit blog post, and go spend an hour doing something you know you should be doing but are putting off on account of a fear of not getting anywhere.
I’ve been watching five or six back-to-back episodes of Sex and the City in the middle of the day at my parents’ house this week. The title of this post is how Miranda casually described yet another muscular, financially successful man she’d been seeing. He had an impossibly perfect hairline. But she was somewhat unsatisfied with him because he was too verbal during sex. A muscular, financially successful man with an impossibly perfect hairline enjoyed her company, yet she found fault. This confirms my fears that because I am going bald at 23 and have no interest in being an investment banker or doctor, I will never date again. I will never be who Chris Noth was in the 90s. I am not Samoan and probably wont ever use steroids, so don’t console me by saying that Dwayne Johnson is bald and attractive. Bruce Willis, Woody Harrelson and Moby are not attractive men. They’re just rich and notable. My only chance is to try and look like Jason Statham. But even then, that will only look good for ten years or so. After testosterone has faded and man boobs have set in, I’ll basically be Nicholson minus the money and women. I should have not been fat and in a monogamous relationship when I had thick hair. I should have maximised my fleeting moments in the sun. But I digress. There are worse things in life than baldness. Like disease, poverty or tax. Reflecting on those helps put things into perspective. Now excuse me while I walk with a renewed sense of peace. Until, of course, I pass a mirror.
Good coloured New Balance sneakers are not ever available. Or if they are, they are substantially more expensive than the same shoe and model in a shit colour. You google the shoe model and you see attractive, well dressed people wearing New Balance 620s in a nice black and white. Colours which will match any clothes. But you go to the online store and they only have the model available in fluro orange with a pink “N” logo. Except they do have black and white available in a few of the shitter shoe models, but for nearly double the price of the same shoe in fluro orange. You walk into a shoe store and they exclusively stock fluro coloured New Balance. They offer good prices, too. Always a sale. But always fucking bright yellow and green or some shit. The only pairs I’ve ever owned have been weird colours like maroon. Darker and more subtle, but still annoyingly colourful. If I were to pay the extortionate price for a black pair of New Balance, I might as well just pay for Nike Roshes or Free Runs and actually look cool like everyone else. But I am addicted to the guaranteed comfort of New Balance shoes. Can’t risk that shit on another brand. Plus I get the feeling Nike would give less of a fuck about me than New Balance. They’re too big. I’d be just a number.
New Balance has heart.