Born to Lose. Live to Wean

At the beginning of 2016, on a relatively infrequent visit to the gym, I was on the fast-walking-thing listening to Orgasmatron. Actually it was the running machine but I can’t run on it because of my hopeless lower back, so there I was, all sweaty, gently entering into that zone when the music and adrenalin converge and make about fifty seconds of the three quarters-of-an-hour session rather beautiful. My imagination, saturated with Motörhead and the impending birth of my little boy, suddenly found itself at the bedside of the Sposa just after he’d been delivered. What followed was a full-on daydream beyond my control, I gathered my son up into my arms and cried ‘he’s alive, HE’S ALIVE!’ and held him aloft to open skies against the din of the music blasting into my ears. Without warning all of the emotions I could’ve imagined conspired against my physical self and I slapped the emergency ‘stop’ button on the machine for fear of wobbling onto the floor in a state of projected distress. I felt like a right tit at the time but later that day, when I remembered what’d fleetingly occurred, I realised that if I’d been listening to Hootie and the Blowfish, say, that couldn’t have happened.

Music is a very personal thing to some people -I say ‘some people’, there are a vast number of weird folk who really don’t care what they listen to- and in my case my preferred music, my affliction, is a largely blinkered adoration of (very) heavy metal and punk (and occasionally R.E.M). This irreversible condition of ‘metal’ began at a very young age and has continued into the present. I’ve no doubt I’m sat where I am because of it, that if I’d liked Motown, Jazz or Limp Bizkit I’d be elsewhere; whether that be a good or a bad thing isn’t pertinent, it’s merely a fact of life, like if I’d not gone to school or chosen the guitar over the trumpet.

The simple fact is that HM (I’m going to call it ‘HM’ herein because it saves paper) has an effect upon me in ways not dissimilar to that of those found at the extreme end of the pleasure spectrum, most obviously drink, drugs, sex and to a lesser extent, pain. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that combining HM with these things can have explosive (and occasionally fatal) consequences, so let us just take HM in its purest, unadulterated form, for the time being at least.

I also know that the reality of physically giving birth, or watching it happen dad-side, isn’t anything you can imagine unless you’re actually there. And there is nothing you, or I, can do about that.