Editor Christopher Writes – #PoemADayForAYear: 18/03/15

They say, as a British person, you should always root for the British team in an international cup. If Chelsea were playing in the Champions League, given they are a British Club and I am British, I should support them despite my true allegiance lying with Manchester United.

I personally think this is complete shash. Manchester City were playing Barcelona tonight. Now, as I have just said, I support Manchester United, so my feelings towards City are self-evident. (I know there might be some artsy-ready types so here is a little clarification. Manchester City wear blue and are crap. Manchester United wear red and are the greatest team in the world. That’s about end of.)

Manchester City lost to Barcelona and have been knocked out of the competition. This is good. I was glad when this happened. Chelsea also got knocked out of the Champions League last week too, another British team, Good. These things make me happy.

True, here I should probably take a good look at myself and my own life and wonder why these things make me happy. I know football is, in the grand scheme of things, pointless. I can cause rifts between people just because of the colour shirt they are wearing. It can bring out the most sexist, racist, homophobic and damn ugly sides of people. Those people though, are the very small minority.

Football at its best can be a great unifying force. Look at the World Cup. For about a month, all the nations of the planet come together to celebrate what is basically the most popular sport in the world. The host country also puts on a good spread and a good time is had. Largely. Again, there are small pockets who would want to cause harm but again, these are small pockets.

Also, in the grand scheme of things, isn’t everything pointless? I mean, we all die eventually anyway. There is no way in hell that what we do today is going to be remembered in a barren universe 1 million years into the future. Much in the same way that what happened on this planet millions of years ago has no immediate impact on our lives today. True, they are of interest but we are not going to die or become destitute because of these things.

In the same vein though, we are all going to die eventually, probably a lot sooner than we would like so we have to make the most of this half-a-blink moment we have in the sun’s warmth. If we find something we like, feel passionate and connected to, then what is the harm? Either way, none of it matters in the long run so why not try and be as happy as we can be for as long as we can be? If that means throwing yourself into academia, sport or simply having an avid interest in something, as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone, it’s all good. As long as we all acquit ourselves appropriately to within our own means, there’s no need to judge someone’s interest or passion as worthless.

I like knowing about the people involved in a TV show and how they connect to other TV shows, whether by actors guest and/or star-appearing in different shows or the same writers or whatever. No of it matters but I find it interesting, it doesn’t hurt anyone so BACK OFF!

Here is a poem.

Taste is a funny thing.

It is one of the most fluctuating

constants we have. Everyone has taste,

that is a consistent fact, but everyone’s

taste varies, not only from person to person

but from time to time in the same person’s

spectrum.

I like peas now I am an adult. I have them

with a roast dinner, in rice. The possibilities

are those.

When I was younger, I hated peas.

Violently detested them.

When I was ten, my big sister

made me Sunday tea. It was delicious

except for the steamy, healthy portion of

peas on my plate. I did not want to eat them.

She told me I couldn’t go outside to play unless

I ate them. So I shoveled them into my mouth,

forkful after forkful, chewing through a grimace

without swallowing to make room for more.

When my plate was clear, I ran to the door.

My friend was waiting for me outside

on his beautiful black-and-yellow BMX,

with the biggest water pistol I have ever seen

strapped over his shoulder, like a futuristic cowboy.

I ran to the nearest grid and spat the

green funk from my mouth into the gutter. Some

of them gulch did not clear from the grid and I

was worried my sister would see this and be unhappy.

Like all cowboys do, my friend saved me from a showdown.

He unstrapped his water pistol, pumped it

to pressurise and blasted my detritus from the grid and down the

drain. I smiled at him widely. Without saying a word,

he nodded at me, returned his water pistol to

its position, turned on his bike and rode away,

the sound of a crushed pop can buzzing against his back tyre fading away.

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