Sunday, 28 February 2010

On Being a Bloke III

I didn't give this bit up for Lent! 

Now, the thing is this: there are few things that make me more angry that those things that seek to injure my family, or more specifically, my beautiful girls. Having posted on 'anger', I found that I am in the centre of a maelstrom of temper that seeks to overwhelm me!

For those who want a framework for this - let me explain. As a bloke, a less-than-touchy-feely individual, I am no stranger to rage. Rage is not exclusive to blokes, but it rates high in our arsenal of reactions to our world. We do not suffer fools gladly on the whole, and while we might founder in our efforts to describe how we have come to feel happy, elated, relaxed, peaceful or bloody 'postmodern', let me tell you, we never fall short of the verncular to describe those factors in our inner rage. For me it can focus on a whole panoply of things: those who insist on driving in the middle lane of motorways; those who jump queues; those who humiliate their children in public by screaching at them like deranged harridans; those who park their cars in 'parent-toddler' parking spaces without a child to mitigate their presence there; worse still, the able-bodies-yet-obscenely-lazy people who park in 'Disabled' parking bays; those who reduce marriage to the state 'well it's just a piece of paper'; plus a whole array of other things. 

My ire of the week has been brought to life by two types of person who, whilst made in the image of God and while bearing the face of Christ, transgress in such a way as chokes the world that my babies are growing up in. I speak first of the fly-tipper, and secondly of the classy folk who use my children's environment as an ash tray. Let me explain: on a journey that took me across some stunning countryside, my bucolic rapture was burst by the presence of not one, but two, piles of fly-tipped crud dumped on the verge next to serene space like a wart on the nose of a super-model. The second is concerning those who are still stupid enough to smoke cigarettes (despite being told that it is prolonged suicide), and yet don't want to pollute their beautiful motor-cars while indulging in their suicide of choice; no - they flick their carcinogen laden butts out of their windows as they drive along - you disgraceful eejits. Whilst I am peace loving sort of bloke, I feel inclined to do a couple of things - the first is to gather up the cancer-carrying tar pellets disposed from passing cars, and ram them down the throat of the nearest smoker. The second is to take my dustbin and empty it on the fluffy pillows nestling on the marital bed of the nearest fly-tipper (soiled nappies and all). 

However, it is incumbent upon me not to sin in the face of anger - so I will have to restrain myself. I shall pray for these algae-feasting bottom-feeders instead. 

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