Fate and Luck
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Fate and Luck.\u00a0\n
These two words describe life. They describe that feeling you get when you try your best and everything goes wrong anyway. It\u2019s the feeling of not only walking through treacle, but of walking through treacle that is flowing against you.\u00a0\u00a0\n
It is designed to piss you off, of course it is. You stub a toe, and then drop your toast, and the fuse in the kettle blows. All these things are designed to annoy the living shit out of you \u2013 but why? For the pleasure of the gods, that\u2019s why.\u00a0\u00a0\n
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Some might say that these are tests thrown up to see how you react. You\u2019ve been sitting at the same red light for just over a minute, wondering how far up the road that minute would have taken you, wondering how much that minute has cost you in diesel. As the lights finally change to green you can see some guy approaching in your review mirror \u2013 he\u2019s barely had to slow down as you set off from the line. It\u2019s as though the lights saw him coming and changed for him.\u00a0\n
He drives a top of the range Audi. Only wankers and knobheads drive top of the range Audis. Let\u2019s get that clear from the off, shall we. They are the elite, the entitled arseholes who trample on traffic laws because they exist only for the little men who don\u2019t drive Audis \u2013 top of the range or not. Look at him. Go on, take a look as he speeds by you, straight through the next green light that changes to red just as you approach. He\u2019s called Charles Smarmy-Pants. Did you see the smugness on his face, how the lips were smiling even when they weren\u2019t smiling. That\u2019s Smug. He goes through life completely unobserved by the gods and so he is not a part of their game.\u00a0\n
He can run over old ladies and cripples in wheelchairs and manage to sue them for the paint damage to his Audi. He wins the lottery so often that he\u2019s given up checking each week; instead he throws the tickets onto a pile and gets a servant to haul them to the Post Office for encashment.\u00a0\u00a0\n
His treacle doesn\u2019t exist because, remember, he is unobserved by the gods, but if it did exist it would be flowing with him and not against him. He is one lucky son of a bastard!\u00a0\n
And on the other hand\u2026 is you. Your steering feels a bit stiff, and you wonder if that slow puncture is back again.\u00a0\n
Eddie Collins uses these two words frequently to describe this unlucky, unfair, state of treacleness: Luck and Fate. But one might not know it as that. Instead you might read an amalgam of those two words: Fuck (he could have chosen Late but where\u2019s the fun in that?). It is a law of Fuck that the more urgent your journey, the greater probability that all traffic lights will change to red as you approach, just at the very last second. And further, while you wait at that red light for what seems like half an hour, no cars whatsoever cross your junction. Not a one. This is Fuckery.\u00a0\n
The Laws of Fuck.\u00a0\n
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Eddie has been known to shout at the gods as he locks the wheels up because of the red light. There really is something deep at work here; have you ever had the chance on a journey to take your time and enjoy it, and in fact could do with a little red-light time to light a cigarette or change radio stations? Of course you have, and that\u2019s when the inverse Laws of Fuck apply. You will nary encounter a red light. So in both instances you will \u2013 eventually \u2013 arrive at your destination stressed, anxious, and ever-more weary of the gods and their games. Twats.\u00a0\n
Ever more so when you look across at the checkout queues at Marks & Spencer and see Charles Smarmy-Pants verily tossing the contents of his trolley onto the conveyor utterly convinced, completely knowing they will all plop out the other end and fall neatly into a bag for life \u2013 not a bead of sweat daring to glisten on his clean-shaven, smiling, Smug-bastard face.\u00a0\n
And yet further \u2013 on another hand entirely, if you please \u2013 your wobbly trolley wheel \u2013 the one that has given you vibration-white-finger \u2013 has just fallen off as you approach the checkout and spilled out tonight\u2019s food across the floor in front of a toddler learning to play football. As you scoop colcannon onto the conveyor the conveyor breaks down and the cash register explodes. Charles Smarmy-Pants is heading out of the door with a \u00a3200 gift voucher as compensation for the stress caused by being undercharged\u00a0\u00a3150. That stress manifested itself as a tut.\u00a0\n
You hit the car park dragging your bags behind you having been charged for damaging an M&S trolley, and the kid\u2019s parents have demanded \u00a325 for dry cleaning little Tarquin\u2019s trousers.\u00a0\n
The Laws of Fuck will ensure Charles Smarmy-Pants gets home a full hour before you do. He will feel refreshed as he changes into his dinner jacket and lights one of those little cigars that make him look handsome and so cool. His wife will lick his face and swoon at his wonderfullery and his children will take photographs of him that they print off and blue-tac to their walls so they can worship him as a superhero.\u00a0\n
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Eddie arrives home exhausted just as the slow puncture finally goes completely flat. He discovers that the milk he bought was out of date by nearly a week and has that ripe cheese kind of odour, and has leaked all over the back seat, and the bread is crushed under the wrong bottle of wine; the wine he cannot abide. He discovers the puncture can\u2019t be repaired by the AA because his membership ran out one and a half hours ago, having not used the service all year.\u00a0\n
He staggers into the house and as he finally lights a cigarette that makes him smell like death, his dog cocks its legs up against him and the wife complains that the bread is crushed and you forgot the butter \u2013 and \u2018you only had one job!\u2019. The kids laugh at him and kick him as they head out for a KFC.\u00a0\n
These are the tests given to you to see how you react, and your constant moaning has ensured you failed every one of them. Your dour face and incessant dribble of expletives, your overhung brow and your jealous revulsion of Charles Smarmy-Pants earns you negative equity in life, and this ensures more tests will head your way tomorrow, and don\u2019t think for a minute that it\u2019s at an end. All this moaning goes into a file, and that file is opened up in the next life, and the river of treacle flows again \u2013 in the wrong direction.\u00a0\n
This is life. These are the Laws of Fuck.\u00a0\n
And people have the audacity to call you a miserable bastard.\u00a0\n
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Time\nJust as we hit the third month of the year, I squeeze out my first blog of 2020. Doesn\u2019t sound very glamorous that, does it. Hmmm.\n
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This blog post is about learning. And how I don\u2019t do it. In the last three months I\u2019ve learned that I\u2019m still no good at advertising my wares, and that no matter how often or how hard I smack my head against a brick wall, this knowledge will not suddenly become available to me. It also means that I get blood on the wallpaper and the wife gets miffed at me.\n
But I do have a bit of good news. While I\u2019m still terrible at promoting my books, I\u2019m doing okay with writing them. The latest CSI Eddie Collins novel \u2013 tentatively entitled Juniper Hill is finished. No, no, wait, that\u2019s wrong. I have written the first draft, that\u2019s all. That means I\u2019ve got 90k words ready and lined up to put in a different order. Sigh.\nA New Release\n This is good, though. Listen, I began with a blank page 27th September 2019. I now have a truckload of words only five months later \u2013 exactly five months later: 27th February 2020 to be precise. And those five months were comprehensively interrupted by Christmas and by launching the SOCO Roger Conniston books as a box set called The Dead Trilogy. Good, eh?[image error]\n But there\u2019s more!\n Have you heard of a lass called Emma Mitchell? Yes, you\u2019re right, she\u2019s an editor, but she\u2019s also responsible for putting together an anthology of short stories by some stunning authors, and then flogging them under the title, When Stars Will Shine: Helping Our Heroes One Page At A Time, and giving the proceeds to Help the Heroes. So, all in all, a very charitable lady.\n [image error]\n Why am I telling you about this? Good question. After the success of the first anthology, Emma is putting together another one. And I\u2019ve written a short story as a contribution. I was given a maximum word count of 5000. And after the first draft I had 5555 (true!), I had to get the red pen out. But guess what? It\u2019s now at 5000 precisely.\n Nope, it\u2019s not a CSI Eddie Collins short story. I don\u2019t think it could be further form that, actually. It\u2019s called The Magic Roundabout, and it\u2019s all about what happens when\u2026 um, no, can\u2019t tell you, sorry. I think the new anthology comes out in June, so I\u2019m sure I\u2019ll be able to tell you more nearer the time \u2013 probably in my next quarter\u2019s blog post!\n [image error]\n I was looking through a folder I keep on my computer called Novel Ideas - it's where I keep my ideas... for erm... novels. And it in was one entitled Theatre of Consequence, and I quite liked the sound of it. This idea was born around 2014 but was destined to be a full-length novel. But then something a bit sneaky crept into my mind (they're apt to do this, beware!) about a woman who... wait, no, you nearly tricked it out of me then! Emma will batter me!\n Okay, so you want to know what\u2019s next? The short answer is: loads, actually. Did I ever tell you how much I loved writing? Well, I love writing. I love disappearing through some loft hatch and into another world. I enjoy it so much that, aside from family time, I\u2019d rather do it than anything else.\n Once I\u2019ve nailed Juniper Hill, I\u2019ll be working on the next CSI Eddie Collins short story. When it's done I\u2019ll consider releasing them as a collection (or I might wait until I have six, don\u2019t know yet). And I have another stand-alone thriller in mind that I am absolutely itching to write.\n [image error]\n This was a fairly short and very sweet blog post today, so please forgive me. I\u2019ll try to do better next time. I\u2019m going to begin the edits for Juniper Hill as soon as I\u2019ve posted this.\n Stay safe.\n"}},"slug":"et_pb_text"}" data-et-multi-view-load-tablet-hidden="true"> I wrote this for Eddie. He says he would have written it himself, but he couldn’t be arsed. Sorry. Oh, and be warned, this passage contains expletives – nothing to do with me; they’re Eddie’s words. Fate and Luck. These two words describe life. They describe that feeling you get when you try your best and everything goes wrong anyway. It’s the feeling of not only walking through treacle, but of walking through treacle that is flowing against you. It is designed to piss you off, of course it is. You stub a toe, and then drop your toast, and the fuse in the kettle blows. All these things are designed to annoy the living shit out of you – but why? For the pleasure of the gods, that’s why. Some might say that these are tests thrown up to see how you react. You’ve been sitting at the same red light for just over a minute, wondering how far up the road that minute would have taken you, wondering how much that minute has cost you in diesel. As the lights finally change to green you can see some guy approaching in your review mirror – he’s barely had to slow down as you set off from the line. It’s as though the lights saw him coming and changed for him. He drives a top of the range Audi. Only wankers and knobheads drive top of the range Audis. Let’s get that clear from the off, shall we. They are the elite, the entitled arseholes who trample on traffic laws because they exist only for the little men who don’t drive Audis – top of the range or not. Look at him. Go on, take a look as he speeds by you, straight through the next green light that changes to red just as you approach. He’s called Charles Smarmy-Pants. Did you see the smugness on his face, how the lips were smiling even when they weren’t smiling. That’s Smug. He goes through life completely unobserved by the gods and so he is not a part of their game. He can run over old ladies and cripples in wheelchairs and manage to sue them for the paint damage to his Audi. He wins the lottery so often that he’s given up checking each week; instead he throws the tickets onto a pile and gets a servant to haul them to the Post Office for encashment. His treacle doesn’t exist because, remember, he is unobserved by the gods, but if it did exist it would be flowing with him and not against him. He is one lucky son of a bastard! And on the other hand… is you. Your steering feels a bit stiff, and you wonder if that slow puncture is back again. Eddie Collins uses these two words frequently to describe this unlucky, unfair, state of treacleness: Luck and Fate. But one might not know it as that. Instead you might read an amalgam of those two words: Fuck (he could have chosen Late but where’s the fun in that?). It is a law of Fuck that the more urgent your journey, the greater probability that all traffic lights will change to red as you approach, just at the very last second. And further, while you wait at that red light for what seems like half an hour, no cars whatsoever cross your junction. Not a one. This is Fuckery. The Laws of Fuck. Eddie has been known to shout at the gods as he locks the wheels up because of the red light. There really is something deep at work here; have you ever had the chance on a journey to take your time and enjoy it, and in fact could do with a little red-light time to light a cigarette or change radio stations? Of course you have, and that’s when the inverse Laws of Fuck apply. You will nary encounter a red light. So in both instances you will – eventually – arrive at your destination stressed, anxious, and ever-more weary of the gods and their games. Twats. Ever more so when you look across at the checkout queues at Marks & Spencer and see Charles Smarmy-Pants verily tossing the contents of his trolley onto the conveyor utterly convinced, completely knowing they will all plop out the other end and fall neatly into a bag for life – not a bead of sweat daring to glisten on his clean-shaven, smiling, Smug-bastard face. And yet further – on another hand entirely, if you please – your wobbly trolley wheel – the one that has given you vibration-white-finger – has just fallen off as you approach the checkout and spilled out tonight’s food across the floor in front of a toddler learning to play football. As you scoop colcannon onto the conveyor the conveyor breaks down and the cash register explodes. Charles Smarmy-Pants is heading out of the door with a £200 gift voucher as compensation for the stress caused by being undercharged £150. That stress manifested itself as a tut. You hit the car park dragging your bags behind you having been charged for damaging an M&S trolley, and the kid’s parents have demanded £25 for dry cleaning little Tarquin’s trousers. The Laws of Fuck will ensure Charles Smarmy-Pants gets home a full hour before you do. He will feel refreshed as he changes into his dinner jacket and lights one of those little cigars that make him look handsome and so cool. His wife will lick his face and swoon at his wonderfullery and his children will take photographs of him that they print off and blue-tac to their walls so they can worship him as a superhero. [image error]weichhardt Eddie arrives home exhausted just as the slow puncture finally goes completely flat. He discovers that the milk he bought was out of date by nearly a week and has that ripe cheese kind of odour, and has leaked all over the back seat, and the bread is crushed under the wrong bottle of wine; the wine he cannot abide. He discovers the puncture can’t be repaired by the AA because his membership ran out one and a half hours ago, having not used the service all year. He staggers into the house and as he finally lights a cigarette that makes him smell like death, his dog cocks its legs up against him and the wife complains that the bread is crushed and you forgot the butter – and ‘you only had one job!’. The kids laugh at him and kick him as they head out for a KFC. These are the tests given to you to see how you react, and your constant moaning has ensured you failed every one of them. Your dour face and incessant dribble of expletives, your overhung brow and your jealous revulsion of Charles Smarmy-Pants earns you negative equity in life, and this ensures more tests will head your way tomorrow, and don’t think for a minute that it’s at an end. All this moaning goes into a file, and that file is opened up in the next life, and the river of treacle flows again – in the wrong direction. This is life. These are the Laws of Fuck. And people have the audacity to call you a miserable bastard. 
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