Hi I’m Paul.
If you reached this site you probably know me but if you somehow got here without knowing me, I’m very sorry. I am going to ramble as practice for putting words together. Here is a very boring story that happened to me in work.
Some poet bloke, he’s not very popular you probably haven’t hear of him, wrote
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
I met the Ozymandias of my work today. It isn’t that unusual a situation, he shows up in the building sometimes but our interactions are usually limited to the international sign of male acknowledgement, the nod. Today however we spoke, he told me that there was a very nice Ferrari outside in the car park.
This was a dilemma. I didn’t want to be rude to Ozymandias but I don’t gave a flying fuck about cars. I would go as far to say that I fucking hate cars. They are useful, don’t get me wrong, but I fucking hate them. Here is some wheels and an engine and everything that can go wrong with the damned thing will go wrong. See this constant beeping alarm that drives you mad everytime you drive. You know the one, the constant beep saying that your fuel cap is open, well to fix that it will cost two hundred quid and no we can’t just deactivate it because it is a vital piece of machinery that really helps the wheels attached to an engine run.
Not that I’m bitter about anything.
Back to the point, when this piece of information was passed to me that there was a very nice Ferrari outside I had to decide how to react. I couldn’t just ignore it, that would be unthinkable. Let us not forget, this wasn’t just a Ferrari, it wasn’t even just a nice Ferrari, it was a very nice Ferrari. I couldn’t even just be honest because what would he think? A man who doesn’t like cars? A person with a penis who isn’t fascinated by an engine and some wheels? What a monster. So I did what any sensible man would do. I faked it.
I looked out the window at the engine with some wheels and put on my best interested face. I pretended it was something really fascinating like scale model of the battle of Thermopylae (nerd!). With false wide eyed wonder I deployed the ancient symbol of masculine approval, the nod.
That was that, I naively thought, crisis averted with my masculinity intact. But no. Ozymandias looked at me eagerly, expecting me to make some sort of comment. No doubt he expected me to wax lyrical about how awestruck I was by the beauty of an engine with some wheels. I mined my brain for something to say, as Oz (I figured we were close enough that I can call him Oz) stared at me in anticipation. What was I supposed to say, that sure has wheels? I bet those wheels are attached to an engine and it is probably quite powerful? I bet the body of that car is both lightweight and aerodynamically efficient?
I said, not sure about that colour.
What a review! What a triumph! Surely I will be asked to host the next series of Top Gear now that Chris Evans has dropped out. Never-mind all that technical knowledge about horsepower and gigawatts and whatever else, what the people out there really want to know is what colour it is. Only I can bring that razor sharp level of journalistic prowess to car reviews. Maybe I should give up writing forever and just question whether or not the color on a car suits it.
No doubt that people will come for miles to question me about matters great and small. They will flock to me in droves like I am a modern day Oracle of Delphi. They will look up and shout, ‘Great Oracle, do you think this shirt matches these jeans’ and I will look down and whisper ‘Yeah, its alright I suppose.’
Then Oz said, ‘I could live with it,’ and left to take a call. Thank fuck that was over I thought.