Good News is No News

I see myself suspended from a washing line. The rope enters one ear and exits the other; with a look of painful sadness I flap violently in the wind.

Or maybe there is a toothless hillbilly in my head; grinning idiotically as he plays on a tight, thin strip of catgut attached to a banjo constructed out of a rusty oil can and his late uncle’s wooden leg.

Now, I’m not complaining about the weather – which would be all too British – but merely commenting on the frozen state of my ears as I trudge up the hill on my way home. It is enough to make me at least consider buying and invariably wearing earmuffs; but I’m not sure I lack the sense of self-consciousness to take such a plunge.

It’s odd, but I find myself appreciating the horrible weather. Or, to be more specific, I appreciate the appreciation it gives me of those days when the sky is blue and the sun is shining; even if said sun isn’t making things that much warmer, but the mere presence of its happy glow now makes me as retardedly giggly as a drunk Tellytubby.

Possibly I’ve come to some Zen understanding of the nature of existence… but probably not. More likely is that I’ve become an exile from the world of print media.

What makes your neighbour’s botched birthday cake more newsworthy than, say, the slaughter of a thousand Buddhist monks in Burma is the closeness of it all. The closer it is to your doorstep, the more you care.

Even though I occasionally browse South African news, I find myself not puffing out my cheeks in wild indignation, furiously punching out an angry rant in the comment box, but shrugging my shoulders and thinking: not my problem.

And even though I occasionally pick up a copy of the Herald, I can’t find the energy to exhaust myself over the pseudo-shocking headlines. It all seems like good news to me.

For instance the story today about the gormless (and pudgy) thug stuck in jail for five for threatening someone with a broken bottle. Five years! That’s about the average term murdering rapists face is SA; and that’ll probably be suspended.

In South Africa criminals are scary and intimidating, but here in Plymouth they just seem incredibly stupid and ridiculous.

Like the asinine monkeyboy caught spray painting “Dorks” in fancy tags all over the city who barely escaped tchookie. There we see his simple mug, his puerile smile, and we just know he’s looking at the photographer while his small brain is thinking: “Yes… Yes! Fame at last!”

So while some stop reading the papers due to impending depression, I’ve stopped because it simply isn’t interesting enough.

However, on page eight of the Herald I see earmuffs on special at Chaplin’s, but now I’ve kind of befriended the little hillbilly so it would seem rude.