The philosophy of the ‘New Year, New Me’ recognises that however disappointed you might have been by your last year, you will improve, and due to some cosmic equation the next year will be kinder to you. So we choose achievements to work towards. Some people start hitting the gym, some take up knitting and some of us attempt ‘Veganuary’ (it’s been a week and I want to die).
2015 was full of disappointment. But there can be no disappointment without initial longing, although it necessarily falls to a depressing anti-climax. It goes without saying that the most obvious entwining of disappointment and desire is sex. That’s just me? Oh, OK. Introduction over.
First huge disappointment: the long-awaited Fifty Shades of Grey finally hit the big screen in 2015. I had been anticipating the arrival since reading the entire trilogy in a fortnight as a teenager. I had wanted to be as prepared as possible for the big day when I was granted passage into an exciting new world of spiritual and physical connection between two people (ft. butt plugs).
Most people only need to lose their virginity once to learn that the realisation of desire can be disappointing. Having not learnt my lesson the first time, I relived my adolescent naïveté and allowed myself to be excited for the film’s release. In fact the experiences were not dissimilar; they both followed stuttering female protagonists romanticising intimate relationships with sociopaths. My Ex didn’t have a helicopter, though. He didn’t even let me stay for breakfast. (Advantage: Christian Grey.)
hankfully the film didn’t deter me from lusting after sociopaths – just taught me the valuable lesson of ensuring they earn enough to support you in your decision to stop chasing that pipe dream of a career in journalism. (Advantage: Anastasia Steele.)
As we were discovering our kinks and quirks, the general election kicked off, bringing with it the tall glass of warm milk to lull us into our Freudian nightmares: Ed Miliband.
I say this because Ed was the ultimate Dad. He dressed exclusively in outfits from the Blue Harbour range at M&S, tripped over his own feet, and floundered under pressure. Yet the Milifandom rose to national notoriety, and Ed became an unlikely sex symbol. He even met with philosopher/philanderer Russell Brand in a competitive display of who could soak their politics in more pheromones.
I was totally on the Milibandwagon. I dreamed of getting stuck deeper down Miliband’s throat than most of his vowel sounds. But the old adage held true, nice guys finish last. And he did. He was disappointed; I deflated.
Desire was met with disappointment even at Christmas, the time for gluttonous surfeit of pleasure. Nothing made this clearer than the John Lewis advert. Yearning only for contact with the world, an elderly man was left stranded on the moon with only the trappings of bourgeois capitalism to keep him company. Sorry Old Man exiled on the moon, let’s hope a nicely wrapped commodity bridges the boundless distance you feel from humanity.
And so, we ended 2015 feeling thoroughly downtrodden. We don’t dare to dream; no one even had enough hope in the future to watch X Factor. Why would we? We are austerity Britain. But disappointment is a fact, and we must embrace it.
Remember how fervently you wished for an offer from Cambridge? Remember how eager you were to arrive and etch your mark upon those cold stone walls? Remember the first time you stayed up all night on an essay only to be told that ‘No, you STILL don’t understand the postmodern condition’?
Desire is often disappointing. But that rarely diminishes it. We feel deeply disheartened when things don’t go as we wished they might. And then we chase something else. Disappointment paves the road to self-improvement. It also paves the road to finding your strengths, and playing to them. (Disappointed in your inability to write astutely about issues that you care deeply about? Why not just write derogatory jokes about politicians as sex objects?)
Is there a case for optimism in 2016? The biggest news story so far has been a puddle. Half a million people watched a live stream of people trying to cross a rather large puddle. It seems ludicrous, but it might be brilliant.
That puddle was clearly a fucking nuisance. But some bright spark decided to film it. It entertained people around the world. Someone made £11 selling the stagnant puddle water on eBay, and if that’s not the dream of every venture capitalist then I don’t know what is.*
We are all gingerly stepping around the Drummond puddle, circumventing the dirty water that symbolises our fear of everything going wrong, making us soggy and smelly and late. Don’t fear the puddle. Don’t walk through it either. But make the most of it, however you see fit, especially if that means using it as a baggy allegory in your first column of term.
(*There is a significant chance that I also don’t know what the term ‘venture capitalist’ means.)
Resource: http://www.varsity.co.uk/comment/9505
2015 was full of disappointment. But there can be no disappointment without initial longing, although it necessarily falls to a depressing anti-climax. It goes without saying that the most obvious entwining of disappointment and desire is sex. That’s just me? Oh, OK. Introduction over.
First huge disappointment: the long-awaited Fifty Shades of Grey finally hit the big screen in 2015. I had been anticipating the arrival since reading the entire trilogy in a fortnight as a teenager. I had wanted to be as prepared as possible for the big day when I was granted passage into an exciting new world of spiritual and physical connection between two people (ft. butt plugs).
Most people only need to lose their virginity once to learn that the realisation of desire can be disappointing. Having not learnt my lesson the first time, I relived my adolescent naïveté and allowed myself to be excited for the film’s release. In fact the experiences were not dissimilar; they both followed stuttering female protagonists romanticising intimate relationships with sociopaths. My Ex didn’t have a helicopter, though. He didn’t even let me stay for breakfast. (Advantage: Christian Grey.)
hankfully the film didn’t deter me from lusting after sociopaths – just taught me the valuable lesson of ensuring they earn enough to support you in your decision to stop chasing that pipe dream of a career in journalism. (Advantage: Anastasia Steele.)
As we were discovering our kinks and quirks, the general election kicked off, bringing with it the tall glass of warm milk to lull us into our Freudian nightmares: Ed Miliband.
I say this because Ed was the ultimate Dad. He dressed exclusively in outfits from the Blue Harbour range at M&S, tripped over his own feet, and floundered under pressure. Yet the Milifandom rose to national notoriety, and Ed became an unlikely sex symbol. He even met with philosopher/philanderer Russell Brand in a competitive display of who could soak their politics in more pheromones.
I was totally on the Milibandwagon. I dreamed of getting stuck deeper down Miliband’s throat than most of his vowel sounds. But the old adage held true, nice guys finish last. And he did. He was disappointed; I deflated.
Desire was met with disappointment even at Christmas, the time for gluttonous surfeit of pleasure. Nothing made this clearer than the John Lewis advert. Yearning only for contact with the world, an elderly man was left stranded on the moon with only the trappings of bourgeois capitalism to keep him company. Sorry Old Man exiled on the moon, let’s hope a nicely wrapped commodity bridges the boundless distance you feel from humanity.
And so, we ended 2015 feeling thoroughly downtrodden. We don’t dare to dream; no one even had enough hope in the future to watch X Factor. Why would we? We are austerity Britain. But disappointment is a fact, and we must embrace it.
Remember how fervently you wished for an offer from Cambridge? Remember how eager you were to arrive and etch your mark upon those cold stone walls? Remember the first time you stayed up all night on an essay only to be told that ‘No, you STILL don’t understand the postmodern condition’?
Desire is often disappointing. But that rarely diminishes it. We feel deeply disheartened when things don’t go as we wished they might. And then we chase something else. Disappointment paves the road to self-improvement. It also paves the road to finding your strengths, and playing to them. (Disappointed in your inability to write astutely about issues that you care deeply about? Why not just write derogatory jokes about politicians as sex objects?)
Is there a case for optimism in 2016? The biggest news story so far has been a puddle. Half a million people watched a live stream of people trying to cross a rather large puddle. It seems ludicrous, but it might be brilliant.
That puddle was clearly a fucking nuisance. But some bright spark decided to film it. It entertained people around the world. Someone made £11 selling the stagnant puddle water on eBay, and if that’s not the dream of every venture capitalist then I don’t know what is.*
We are all gingerly stepping around the Drummond puddle, circumventing the dirty water that symbolises our fear of everything going wrong, making us soggy and smelly and late. Don’t fear the puddle. Don’t walk through it either. But make the most of it, however you see fit, especially if that means using it as a baggy allegory in your first column of term.
(*There is a significant chance that I also don’t know what the term ‘venture capitalist’ means.)
Resource: http://www.varsity.co.uk/comment/9505
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