OMG! Have you heard the news? Foxes, are, like, getting their own back and hunting us! Yes, if you read the tabloids, you will now 'know' that urban foxes have deliberately left the countryside with the sole purpose of murdering our children. No-one can sleep safe in their beds with all these scarlet-furred slashers on the loose!
I am, of course, referring to the ridiculously hyped-up furore over the horrible and tragic injuries a fox caused female twin babies in London at the weekend. Before anyone gets their knickers in a twist, I am not for one second suggesting that that is funny or anything other than appalling. My heart goes out to the poor girls and their families. What I am going to rip the shit out of is the tabloid attitude to the event, which is to whip itself into a nonsensical frenzy over 'evil' foxes.
Nonsensical, because everyone knows that foxes are evil - Foxy Bingo sponsors the Jeremy Kyle show, for fuck's sake! Every time that annoying Northern Chancer fox character does one of his little catchphrases before and after ad breaks, a hell mouth opens incrementally wider beneath Doncaster. And after he has sponsored the breakdown of civilisation as we know it and possibly helped quicken the coming of the Apocalypse, the jive-walking bastard relaxes with a spot of murder. He has a weighty duffle bag fashioned from the same lurid velour as his pimp suit, filled with grotesque and terrifying instruments, both medical and home-made, that he uses on his victims in ways more grotesque and sickening than anything Saw, Hostel or any other torture porn flicks could ever come up with.
Not.
What most people don't know is that foxes are wimps. They are pathetic. I used to be a hunt sab and the very reason cunters, sorry, hunters chose foxes and deer is that both species have great stamina but will panic and brick it when chased. A fox could easily take on a few dogs, or at least try to, but they just cower and freeze. Several years ago, when living with The Ex, he had an annoying habit of going outside for a fag just before bed and forgetting to lock the back door (despite my nagging). One winter morning I had to wake up earlier than him and as soon as my alarm went off and I realised I was mindbogglingly cold, I also realised that the back door must be open. As I made my way, shivering, downstairs and opened the door to the kitchen, I noticed two things - one, that everything in the kitchen was covered in frost and two, that the back door was wide open and there was a fox staring straight at me, its front paws just over the doorstep. Whilst my mind was forming the thought 'Aaaargh,I'mgoingtobemauledbyafox', the fox made a strangulated sound that was clearly the vulpine version of 'FUUUUUUUUCK!'. Never taking its eyes from mine, it slowly backed away, removing each paw from my kitchen with slow and deliberate movements - the same movements we all make when trying to appear casual when backing away from a loony at the late night bus shelter - and then turned and absolutely pegged it, crashing into the fence and then crazily jumping onto the shed to make its escape, all the while making sounds that I did not need to be Johnny Morris to know meant 'oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit'. Frozen human shortarse in novelty Xmas pyjamas 1: supposedly killer vermin 0.
They say foxes go into a frenzy in a chicken coop, but this is just emotive language - a hungry animal getting food for its family is going to do more than give a single prey a nasty bite and also, foxes are so easily freaked-out that all the squawking and flapping and flying about probably panics them into attacking everything in sight out of a sense of misplaced self-defence. They're like the terrified first time teenage burglar of the animal world in this respect. I hate the dark side of anthropomorphism; that when animals kill or attack, they are doing it due to 'evil' intent; that they are cold-hearted, cold-blooded killers, that they are specifically targeting us for some twisted reason. Leaving aside the obvious point about the destructiveness of humanity, this is not only embarrassingly kiddy-level illogic, it just serves to threaten a further sense of isolation and disconnect between humans and the natural world. Carnivorous and omnivorous animals kill to survive; there is no intentional cruelty involved. Well, apart from cats, but let's leave them out of things for now (I don't want to make them mad). We forget that humans too are omnivorous creatures that eat other creatures to live; we've just found sophisticated ways of both killing and alienating ourselves from the reality of doing so. Ways, that if other animals had our level of understanding and morality, would truly appal them. Well, again, apart from cats (more on the madness of cats later).
We also forget that humans too are animals made of tasty meat. In the main, considering we're so much smaller and/or feebler than so many other meat-eating animals, as a race we get off pretty bloody lightly in the being-eaten-or-attacked stakes. The subtext of the Killer Foxes hysteria is that the fox was trying to eat those poor babies. I don't believe this for a second, but the sad fact is that it does not make it 'evil' if it was. No-one has stated that the injuries were even caused by the fox biting them, although it's entirely reasonable to presume that if might bite if freaked out - after all, foxes belong to the dog family and we all know how unpredictably nervous dogs can act, especially around babies and children; this does not make it 'evil'.
There is one very important thing that all these wildly speculating hacks have overlooked in their clamour to exploit a family's suffering: that a fox's call sounds eerily like a crying baby. Okay, to be precise, it sounds like a nightmarish synth version of a possessed crying baby in a mid-80s shlock horror, but it still sounds like a baby crying - the first time I heard one, in my teens, I woke my parents up in a panic because I thought one of the neighbours must be doing something terrible to one of their infants. It is entirely reasonable to imagine that the fox found the house open and heard what it thought was the cry of another fox - maybe even the cries of some cubs - and went to investiagate. It's entirely reasonable to imagine that the fox couldn't see what it thought it would and, alerted by noise, jumped in the cot to investigate. Just that, or the fox scrabbling to get out could cause horrendous claw injuries on human flash. I am not trying to lessen the devastation the family must feel or gloss over the reality of the horrible injuries suffered. One of the twins most likely faces a childhood, if not lifetime, of corrective plastic surgery procedures. I just find the callous way the tabloids have jumped on this unheard-of occurrence to create The Next Big Scare that preys on the minds of parents the only 'evil' thing about it all.
Above all, the silliest thing about the whole Evil Murdering Foxes horseshit is that the tabloids are getting everyone so worked up over a freak event so freakish that until a few days ago, none of us had ever heard of a fox attacking a human, much less thought of them as any sort of threat to us and ours. Animal experts have been rushing to explain that they just don't know of instances where foxes attack people and when foxes do gain accidental entry to houses, they tend to act like dogs; curling up to sleep on beds, chewing rugs and shoes, opening cupboards and eating accessible food, etc. Certain animals are called vermin and depicted as 'bad' or 'evil' purely because they aren't any use to humans ie for food, as beasts of burden, as pets, etc. This seems to especially be the lot of foxes and I worry that far too many people forget or do no want to expect that animals are actually, um, allowed to be animals regardless of the needs and interests and lives of human animals. This doesn't stop me being heartbroken when an animal maims or kills humans, but it does stop me feeling the need to look like an idiot by screaming about culling whatever species has offended us most recently. Pet cats are responsible for the deaths of a few babies a year, as they are prone to sitting across their faces and suffocating them (anyone who owns, or has ever owned, a cat will know they love to lie over your throat at night as your breath is so warm), but no-one suggests that mankind is under threat from cats (AKA Moggy Murderers, Feline Fiends). Even though all you have to do is be stroking them and they can go from purring in ecstasy to trying to screechingly rip your face off in 0.00001 seconds for absolutely no discernible reason. Which we find adorable!
I guess the point of this blog, apart from defending foxes, which get a pretty bum deal, publicity-wise, and hoping that this doesn't somehow create a resurgence of support for fox hunting from ignorant fucktards, is to release a strangulated cry of exasperation over the ridiculous lengths that the gutter press will go to to scaremonger and create sensation from absolutely anything. Portraying utterly bizarre events that they blow out of all proportion in their 'reporting' just adds another tiny layer of worry, panic and dissatisfaction with the modern world in the minds of those too gullible and kneejerk to see through the nonsense they're being spoonfed and benefits no-one apart from Moloch, sorry, Murdoch. The tabloids have managed to create yet another reason why the people they make unnecessarily scared of their own lives feel the need to cling to the every spurious, hateful word of the very people that make them so unhappy, like a whipped dog lovingly licking the hand of its master. Or a fox thanking a hunt master for the exercise.
I'll let the last words on this go to my wise friend Hannah W: "We like cuddly foxes in the country but we don't want them in towns, thank you. We don't want to ban fox hunting but we're perfectly happy to lay traps and put down poison to get those urban foxes who try to murder our children. Or we'd like to maybe bring back fox hunting, because look what's happened - we ban it and this is how they repay our kindness! We want to continue dropping litter in the streets and scattering fast food at midnight but we don't want any nasty predators taking advantage of it. We want our wildlife to look pretty for Springwatch but don't want it near us".
Amen.
By E.
PS Nuffink for 5 weeks then two in one day! Blogs, I mean, hur hur. Stayed tuned for more schizo blog posting, folks!
Wednesday 9 June 2010
Nervous Nelly
It is slowly becoming clear to me that the rest of the world may not be quite as anxious and neurotic as me. I should've realised this a long time ago, but I was too busy worrying about crap to notice (ho ho). I was 25 before I could watch a horror film and not imagine it was somehow going to happen to me, 30 before I stopped sweeping my dearly-departed Granddad's walking stick around my wardrobe before retiring to bed, in case a lunatic was hiding in there (when clearly the only mental in the room was me). I am already depressed and nervous about how scared I'll be about dying when I'm an old lady. I have to be soppy to M before bed not only because I love him *pauses for mass vomiting to subside* but also in case he dies in the night - quite how and why this would happen to a fit, healthy young man in his late twenties I do not know, but that's irrelevant because I once read a book where this occurred so it must be considered as part of My Long List of Freaky Shit That Could Theoretically Happen (in fact, just writing 'fit, healthy, young...' has brought me out in a cold sweat, in case there's some black-humoured, piss-taking deity out there wanting to punish Atheists like me in sick ways. I know that's what I'd do if I was some some sort of Supreme Overlord).
When I am ill or just experiencing some weird, unusual, vague physical pains or twinges, I mentally write a tacky article for Take A Break mag or one of its ilk, going into lurid, gruesome and sensationalised detail about my horrific and freakish demise from some weird, unheard-of condition or bizarre accident. I have just discovered that no-one else does this and am confused - how do you cope with the panic you feel over every little thing? Wait, you mean you don't feel panic over every little thing? How does THAT work? I must be one of the few people who doesn't laugh at Woody Allen's supreme nervous nebbishness (nebbicity?) in his earlier, good films, because I think he's being entirely reasonable and, in fact, not worrying about things enough.
How I hate people who can be spontaneous, who can think 'that'll be a laugh' and just do things. I have been a massive loser work-wise because I second-guess and fret myself out of making even the mildest of professional risks. Or even just 'giving things a go'. Or even bothering to apply for things I could easily do. Or even doing anything other than moaning 'what's the point?' to myself or those (un)lucky enough to be enamoured of me. And how I hate the phrases 'just relax and it'll happen' or 'stop worrying about it' - HOW, exactly, do you stop worrying about stuff when it's your default setting? Casual phrases like that not only make me worry even more about needing to not worry but make me seethe with rage over their blasé attitude to life and my inability to relax.
Recently, I was given Temazepam to calm me down before a minor op (a procedure I prepared for by obsessively and tearfully discussing hysterical 'what-ifs' with M and my Mum and sobbing in the middle of the night imagining my freak death under sedation or them finding something terminal. I also wrote M a goodbye love letter although managed to tell myself I was being a twat enough not to also write a rudimentary will and jot down all my online passwords lest he needed to close accounts down or tell online pals the sad news). It was less than 2 minutes before I was then given the general anaesthetic but mein gott, it was fan-fucking-tastic. I didn't feel spaced-out or drugged or anything 'altered' - I just felt... calm. Relaxed. Totally unanxious. It was wonderful. It was freaky. It was WRONG.
But I can't stop thinking about those 90 seconds of peace. Not that I want to get hooked on jellies, because I just don't have an addictive personality and besides, it would such a naff, 90s thing to do, but because it was, well, nice. 'Wrong' for me, but in a right way. Perhaps those absolute bastards who don't squander their adrenal reserves away via dry-eyed insomniac panic about absolute triva might be onto something. I really want to be less anxious about everything. I'm going to try to not be so neurotic and worrisome about everything, which is now making me worry about how much change this will involve and how, exactly, I will achieve this. How will I manage to do things without the excuse of anxiety to hold me back? How will I fill a mental void free of incessant fretting? Will being more laid-back ruin my perceptive and analytical skills if my mind is floating around on a chilled-out cloud of kittens and cupcakes? And how will I internally reassure myself over genuine worries? Being anxious and neurotic, in a weird way, is very soothing and acts as a buffer against life's blows - if you're imaging you've got necrotising fasciitis every time you gets pins and needles (disclaimer: I'm not actually this bad) then whatever shit life throws at you really isn't so bad in comparison.
Also, everyone hates happy cunts. They're almost as bad as born-again Christians... if they're not one already. I associate a lack of anxiety as a lack of intelligence, because both are a result of not thinking deeply. I guess I just need to find the line between ignorance and getting things in perspective. Watch this space.
By E - even writing the initial of my name makes me start worrying that unhinged strangers will work out who I am and come hunt me down and turn my life into a hellish Serial Killer Nightmare. Then I remember that there's probably less than 10 people will read this anyway, 99% of whom know me already and I can 'relax' with the lesser worry that this blog is crap and a failure and I'm a massive, talentless loser. I have a long, long way to go, don't I?
When I am ill or just experiencing some weird, unusual, vague physical pains or twinges, I mentally write a tacky article for Take A Break mag or one of its ilk, going into lurid, gruesome and sensationalised detail about my horrific and freakish demise from some weird, unheard-of condition or bizarre accident. I have just discovered that no-one else does this and am confused - how do you cope with the panic you feel over every little thing? Wait, you mean you don't feel panic over every little thing? How does THAT work? I must be one of the few people who doesn't laugh at Woody Allen's supreme nervous nebbishness (nebbicity?) in his earlier, good films, because I think he's being entirely reasonable and, in fact, not worrying about things enough.
How I hate people who can be spontaneous, who can think 'that'll be a laugh' and just do things. I have been a massive loser work-wise because I second-guess and fret myself out of making even the mildest of professional risks. Or even just 'giving things a go'. Or even bothering to apply for things I could easily do. Or even doing anything other than moaning 'what's the point?' to myself or those (un)lucky enough to be enamoured of me. And how I hate the phrases 'just relax and it'll happen' or 'stop worrying about it' - HOW, exactly, do you stop worrying about stuff when it's your default setting? Casual phrases like that not only make me worry even more about needing to not worry but make me seethe with rage over their blasé attitude to life and my inability to relax.
Recently, I was given Temazepam to calm me down before a minor op (a procedure I prepared for by obsessively and tearfully discussing hysterical 'what-ifs' with M and my Mum and sobbing in the middle of the night imagining my freak death under sedation or them finding something terminal. I also wrote M a goodbye love letter although managed to tell myself I was being a twat enough not to also write a rudimentary will and jot down all my online passwords lest he needed to close accounts down or tell online pals the sad news). It was less than 2 minutes before I was then given the general anaesthetic but mein gott, it was fan-fucking-tastic. I didn't feel spaced-out or drugged or anything 'altered' - I just felt... calm. Relaxed. Totally unanxious. It was wonderful. It was freaky. It was WRONG.
But I can't stop thinking about those 90 seconds of peace. Not that I want to get hooked on jellies, because I just don't have an addictive personality and besides, it would such a naff, 90s thing to do, but because it was, well, nice. 'Wrong' for me, but in a right way. Perhaps those absolute bastards who don't squander their adrenal reserves away via dry-eyed insomniac panic about absolute triva might be onto something. I really want to be less anxious about everything. I'm going to try to not be so neurotic and worrisome about everything, which is now making me worry about how much change this will involve and how, exactly, I will achieve this. How will I manage to do things without the excuse of anxiety to hold me back? How will I fill a mental void free of incessant fretting? Will being more laid-back ruin my perceptive and analytical skills if my mind is floating around on a chilled-out cloud of kittens and cupcakes? And how will I internally reassure myself over genuine worries? Being anxious and neurotic, in a weird way, is very soothing and acts as a buffer against life's blows - if you're imaging you've got necrotising fasciitis every time you gets pins and needles (disclaimer: I'm not actually this bad) then whatever shit life throws at you really isn't so bad in comparison.
Also, everyone hates happy cunts. They're almost as bad as born-again Christians... if they're not one already. I associate a lack of anxiety as a lack of intelligence, because both are a result of not thinking deeply. I guess I just need to find the line between ignorance and getting things in perspective. Watch this space.
By E - even writing the initial of my name makes me start worrying that unhinged strangers will work out who I am and come hunt me down and turn my life into a hellish Serial Killer Nightmare. Then I remember that there's probably less than 10 people will read this anyway, 99% of whom know me already and I can 'relax' with the lesser worry that this blog is crap and a failure and I'm a massive, talentless loser. I have a long, long way to go, don't I?
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