Metaphorical Coin Toss of Biological Force — Stoned Thoughts on Discrimination

26 Feb

Out here I can walk for miles and miles, surrounded on all sides by fields, brown mountains watching over me from afar, and I won’t see another person or hear a single car. And I can talk to myself as loudly as I want without anyone overhearing and presuming I’m loco. I can watch the clouds, the rabbits, the birds, and I can smoke as much as my heart desires without having to worry that someone unapproving might catch a whiff of it in the air. There’s no one to interrupt my thoughts. And then without warning a dirt path drops me on the edge of an urbanisation. And there are pavements. And detached houses, protected by thick, metal gates. And I’m not in Spain anymore. I’m on the suburban Hertfordshire estate that I used to stay on as a little kid when spending a couple of weeks of summer with my aunt. They may as well stop calling it an urbanisation and start calling it what it actually is, a British colony. Even the streets have got English names. Winston Churchill Road. Dublin Road. Does Dublin count as an English name? I don’t think so, actually. It’s an Anglophone word though. I think. Or not. Is Anglophone a word or have I just made that up? It doesn’t look right. I may have made it up. No, it must be a word. Shit, I’m watching my neuromotor skills deteriorate in real time. Is ‘neuromotor skills’ the right name for what I mean? Is neuromotor even a word? Well, I think I’ve just proved my point! I’ve forgotten my point. Did I have a point?

Unmistakably British gentlemen, retired, walk their dogs at dusk. ‘Come on Tiddles, there’s a good boy.’ And I can hear people talking in their gardens. Every regional accent from up and down our island. I feel a bit embarrassed, like I don’t want the locals to take these sun-seeking immigrants as a representation of British people as a whole. Insulated. Not making any effort to integrate. To even learn the language. But then I think ‘Hang on, these people are retired. They’ve probably worked hard their whole career and had to tolerate our climate and pace of life for long enough, and so now, in the final stage of their lives, they deserve a break. And if that means a bit of home away from home, next to the mediterranean and under the old currant bun, then I suppose I see no real problem with these little ‘colonies,’ so long as nobody is doing anything to offend anybody else. I’m talking bollocks again, aren’t I? I don’t actually know what I mean. I started out bitching about this particular section of the diaspora, and within a few sentences I’ve completely changed my stance and now I’m defending them. Excellent! Well done me, that’s how to stick to your guns. Anyway, each to their own, but I can’t imagine much worse than living abroad but having all British neighbours. How are you going to learn anything like that?

All these Brits abroad not integrating makes me think back to the elderly Indian man whose family owns the paper shop back in England, the news agents, who sits behind the counter watching Bollywood movies on his little telly, and he’s wrapped in layer upon layer of clothing, blankets even, and yet he’s still cold, even in the middle of our summer while we’re all walking around half naked, baking. Much like the English in Spain, me included, who dress and behave as if it’s the peak of summer even though it’s only February. Winter to the locals. But still warmer than the summers we’re accustomed to at home. And all because chance alone saw to it that we were born in a country with miserable weather. That’s all that it was. Chance. Chance – the only thing that differentiates me from anybody else on the planet. Chance. Chance could have made any other person my blood relative. The difference between an Englishman and a Spaniard: Chance. I would say that the other difference is amount of body hair, but I am not in a position to make such a jibe. Even by their standards I fall into the category entitled hirsute. The difference between a man and a woman: Chance. I could have been born in the shoes of anyone. Any race, any nationality, any social class, any gender, with or without any disabilities, any sexual orientation, ANYTHING, ANYONE. We are all the fucking same underneath all the layers. Just playing the hand we were dealt.

I escaped the urbanisation and I’m sitting on a chopped tree in a field.

How can anyone hate anyone for the colour of their skin? When it is something purely down to chance! It is the most stupid concept my brain can think of at this current moment in time. Killing people because they are a different ethnicity to you is like giving a person a dice (I know that dice is a plural word and that the singular is die, but I’ve always called it a dice and I’m not gonna stop now), telling him or her to roll it, and that if they roll anything other than a 3 you’re going to murder them. Actually, something with even less chance of hitting the required number. A roulette wheel. Telling them to spin the wheel and if they don’t hit a 17 then they’re gone. Finished. Brown bread. It’s all just a random dip, man. Even then a person can always refuse to spin the wheel. Even if he or she is killed as a result of not participating, at least they had some sort of a say. They chose to be murdered for not recognising the tools of separation imposed by someone else, rather than for failing to roll a 4 or spin a 17. But nobody can refuse the body they’re born into.

Women getting paid less than men for doing the same job. What the fucking fuck is that all about? That’s no different to a company going around every single one of its employees and telling them individually that someone somewhere far away is going to toss a coin, and if that coin lands heads up then the employee will get standard pay, but if it lands on tails then the employee will take a reduced salary. Because that’s why I was born a boy and not a girl, a metephorical coin toss of biological force that I had no influence over whatsoever. Man, why can’t enough of the world’s population just see how simple it actually is? It’s not difficult, is it? WE ARE ALL THE SAME. We all like biscuits. I hear people say ‘If we all just made more of an effort to be nicer to each other….’ Bla, bla, bla. Why should it take any effort? It should be taught to everyone the world over that it’s the easiest thing to do. Life when you have no enemies is pretty fucking nice. I can confirm that. Life without enemies is pretty fucking nice!

Along with my neuromotor skills goes my once upon a time impeccable handwriting.

Coming back to women getting paid less than men for doing the same job, I would love to ask every single man who thinks that gender discrimination is acceptable if he would be content to see his own sister get paid less than his next door neighbour’s brother for doing the same job. I don’t think many could look me in the eye and truthfully say that they would. But I might just be being hopeful here. Misplaced optimism. Or maybe not. Maybe the world ain’t that bad. Hope is always the last thing to die.

I’m not the first to write what I’ve just written. I’m not saying anything pioneering here. Most people know how it really is. I’m just a stoned bloke sitting in a field.



4 Responses to “Metaphorical Coin Toss of Biological Force — Stoned Thoughts on Discrimination”

  1. Jo Magpie February 27, 2014 at 11:18 pm #

    We miss you Mr Mole.

    • Kris Mole March 3, 2014 at 11:04 am #


  2. ChasingWaterfalls February 28, 2014 at 11:22 am #

    Great, a new cockney saying! The old currant bun! Nice thoughts and I especially enjoyed the battle of views in your head haha

    • Kris Mole March 3, 2014 at 11:15 am #

      Cheers, Claire! Always glad to entertain…..

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