A dispatch from my safe space

I hate all this bollocks about ‘safe spaces’, as if the very notion of having somewhere you can go to be content and happy, largely insulated from the hate, fear and bullshit of the world, is somehow indicative of weakness or timidity, or an unwillingness to engage. “Get back to your safe space, snowflake!” seems to be the insult du jour on social media at the moment – often, but not exclusively, used by emboldened right-wingers (let’s call them ‘red caps’) who just love snappy slogans (Take back control! MAGA!). However, it completely loses its impact if, like me, you think of it merely as a kind-hearted suggestion. “Get back to my safe space? Thanks, I will! It’s cosy there and we have Hobnobs.”

Monty Don’s Gardens of the Illuminati

I blame Jon Ronson. There I was, a bored 26-year-old on a Sunday evening in late April 2001, lamenting the fact that TV was typically shit (before I truly appreciated Countryfile and The Antiques Roadshow), when I half-arsedly flicked to Channel 4 to watch something called The Secret Rulers of the World.

I hate the 21st century

One minute you’re a massive wanker on a Cairo-bound EgyptAir flight, and the next, you’re a globally ‘famous’ massive wanker after having your photo taken with a hijacker wearing a suicide belt, grinning beatifically for the camera like the embalmed corpse of a man who’d died suddenly only a few pleasurable seconds into his very first blowjob.

This is viral fame in the 21st century.

The new normal

Last Friday felt a bit like Invasion of the Body Snatchers, where everyone appeared to look outwardly normal but you knew that some of the people you were brushing shoulders with had voted to leave the EU. It was strangely disconcerting.

I worry…a lot

I worry. I worry about lots of things. Only a couple of weeks ago, I cheerfully said “white rabbit!” to welcome in the new month, before blowing off loudly in the confines of my shower. I then started to overthink the consequences of my actions, speculating that the black squares of misery and misfortune on the Gods’ chessboard might be reserved solely for the flatulent and disrespectful. Is that bad luck, I thought? Has my farty observance of this superstitious ritual now cursed November? Should I apologise and repeat the saying… or will my repeating it only serve to amplify the bad luck that will likely befall me this month?

An irradiated fox with a hubcap melted into its face

Police in Seattle were recently called out to a local park, where they discovered a shirtless, hammer-wielding man hanging upside down from a basketball hoop, who thrashed around wildly until firefighters released him. If you change “shirtless” to “trouserless”, “hammer” to “secateurs” and “hanging upside down from a basketball hoop” to “trapped under the roller shutter of a looted and partially destroyed Waitrose”, it’s how I imagine I would end up after a few days of trying to survive in a war zone or post-apocalyptic future.

‘Tis the season for me to write about Christmas

“Always winter but never Christmas,” said Mr Tumnus when explaining the White Witch’s icy grip on the wintry kingdom of Narnia. It’s a quote that evokes a desperate sadness, a snowy landscape that no longer captivates with its untouched, velvety beauty but instead torments and imprisons, injecting a deathly cold into the shivering core of every living thing. ‘Christmas’ is nothing but a whisper evaporating in a cloud of foggy breath.

I have a son…and I’m writing about it. Sorry.

You have to believe me: I never planned to write anything about becoming a father. I’ve written the obligatory Facebook post, in which I efficiently announced my son’s arrival and immediate retirement from social media, but I didn’t want to dribble on about it too much. It was my brother-in-law’s recent admission that he can’t remember anything about the very early months of his sons’ lives that prompted me to scribble down some thoughts. Both he and my sister claimed that these first few gruelling weeks of fatherhood will eventually be purged from my mind to make the thought of having a second child seem like a good idea. So I’m writing this now before the last few weeks of my life disappear down the memory hole.

So here’s the abridged version from the beginning.

The poor man’s apothecary

I recently moved into a new house and inherited my very own little garden. You could probably swing a cat around in it, but after a few dizzying revolutions – smashing it repeatedly against the fence, shed and patio door – it would be bit like swinging a porridge-filled sock. Given that I would have to borrow a neighbour’s cat for such an exercise, it didn’t feel like the best way to introduce myself to the neighbourhood.

Magaluf party shithole

A few months ago, I attempted to shield myself from all news bulletins after I heard a quote from William Hague, in which he said that Europe faced the great danger of “a real shooting conflict” if Russian forces entered eastern Ukraine. That sounded much scarier than a purely imaginary non-shooting conflict, where enemy troops merely startle each other by jumping out from behind bushes, tooting on kazoos, so I tried to avoid all mention of the crisis.