Intelligentsia

Perhaps it isn’t the best time to write this as I’m suffering from a hangover. Still, it’s been on my mind the last week and has been lingering around in my head for quite sometime now.

What I find difficult to understand is how to quantify level of intelligence. I know it sounds stupid that I think of things like this but I do. At school we take exams to test our knowledge of a particular subject. Some actually concentrate more on playing the exam system which is probably a pretty clever thing to do in itself. Journalists and a lot of media outlets deem footballers thick and stupid especially Cristiano Ronaldo (at the moment). However, he speaks two languages, Portuguese and English. He even demonstrates his new learned language in television interviews broadcasted all over the country and on the internet. That’s something I’m sure not many people would do. And this is without mentioning his actual profession, surely he must have a high level of intelligence to understand the runs, plays and reactions required in anticipation of receiving the ball. However, I expect that he is no scholar of academia.

Academics themselves are pupils of their chosen expertise and generally accepted by all as intelligent human beings. They must be having past many exams in their life time and written papers that are printed in journals. But is it possible that sometimes they become so engrossed in their work that they forget about ‘basic’ intelligence to get through the day? I mean in the sense of perhaps conveying opinions on ‘mundane’ matters of what’s in the paper or just general conversation because they are too focussed on intricate algorithms or the latest experimental break through.

And what about those people that do not have high paid jobs? I spoke to a dustman on Wednesday and he began to tell me of his travels to Sri Lanka, his old job working as a clerk in India and learned how to cook a traditional Indian curry. And now he was currently studying A-Level biology at evening classes. And there it kind of dawned on me that although some people may not be deemed clever a lot must be said for those that strive to be. Ones that wish to better themselves to learn new things and gain experiences from places they didn’t expect. Even though he may obtain a recognised qualification in biology I still think he must be clever if he can cook a traditional curry.


I guess we are own judges of who is intelligent and what level they are at. Society does give us indicators by the type of job one has or how much they get paid. For me, and this will be different for others, it is wit. When I meet someone witty, genuine bona-fide unique wit I completely become in awe of them and listen to them intently. To think that quickly and deliver what they wish to say the way they do is nothing short of genius, in my humble opinion. True, it is unlikely a medical cure will come out of a great comic or orator. And yes, perhaps the bridges I walk on wouldn’t be as sturdy if they made them. Still, they do contribute to the enjoyment of life.

Come back to Radio 2 Russell Brand. I miss your chaotic wit and four syllable words.

In other news, it’s still freezing! Here are some photos of a frozen river and frost on my scarf from a short 5 minute walk to the shop.

Sick

This is a more relaxed entry today as I’m writing from my sick bed having successfully caught a cold. I don’t know how I managed to catch it but it might have something to do with falling asleep wearing virtually nothing but a smile. I woke up around 5am shivering and although conscious my body was too tired to get it self up and put on some clothes. Instead it managed to blag my mind that everything will be alright in the morning and to go back to sleep which I did but not without wrapping a pillow case around my shoulders for some token attempt to harness warmth.

So Saturday was spent spluttering all over the place and waiting for the sore throat to come on. Every time I spoke I was in pain and eating solid food made it worse so I opened the cupboard and went straight to the cliché shelf and got out a can of chicken soup. Hoping the tales of the nourishing elements chicken soup possesses were true I gulped it all down thinking it tasted more of banned preservatives, gone off cream with a few straggly bits of chicken that seemed to get caught in between my teeth. Nothing nourishing about that and I didn’t feel any better so decided to cut my losses and head off to bed even though I wasn’t tired.

This can be quite boring and I spent hours staring at the ceiling, waiting to see if it would move just slightly so I could have been a witness to a defining laws of physics defying moment. But nothing happened, and besides whom would I tell? About two people. And would they give a shit? Probably not. So instead I let the illness do its work while I switched on the radio and listened to the football.

Sunday was completely a day in bed and this morning I did have enough energy to make it to work where I am sure I have infected everyone in my open plan office with my cold and sore throat. It’s not my fault that ‘the man’ makes me work, I felt ill but I could still stand and so I attended. It’s just a shame that I have had to protest in coming to work by conducting germ warfare on a grand office scale.

Anyway, enough word processed inanity, I’m off to sleep.


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“I didn’t see anything, I just heard a smash and saw you all over Peter smashing his head in.” screamed Marla.

“He told me, he wanted to kill Semmi.” Was the timid sound from Peter’s mouth. He was entwined within Semmi’s embrace, nestled against her bosom like an upset child being comforted.

“What the fuck are you talking about, I never said that.”

Charles starts to move towards Peter who just recoils within Semmi’s body. Marla starts to yank him back and looks at the rest of the restaurant for help but everyone is watching quietly apart from the waiter who is shaking but still managing not to drop the tray of food. He nervously smiles at Marla letting her know she’s on her own.

“Yes you did, and then you threatened to beat me up if I told anyone and so you did.”

Charles listened to what Peter said and although initially he moved towards him to pull him away from Semmi and continue with the beatings he couldn’t bring him self to do it. What Peter was saying was absurd, utter nonsense.

“Let’s go Marla, this guy is a freak. Semmi, I don’t care what he says, I didn’t say I wanted to kill you, I have no desire to do anything like that. You should take this pathetic person to the hospital though he may be concussed or hopefully worse.”

Semmi just look at him, not in hatred or resentment, in a way Charles didn’t understand so he grabbed Marla by the wrists to stop her scratching him anymore pulled out his wallet and scooped out three twenty pound notes and threw them on the table. He turned around and strode out of the Janpur’s with Marla behind him.

“I hate you!”

They got into the car.

“You’re a violent dick head.”

He starts up the engine and begins to drive away.

“I told you not to ruin my night and what do you go and do…”

It’s at that point Charles decides to ostracise Marla from his thoughts. He can’t believe just how sneaky Peter was. Peter was trying to unsettle Charles as soon as they both sat opposite each other but he managed to cope with his inquisitive comments and questions and in fact turn the pressure around on him. He made Peter tell Semmi where he lives and with whom, but what he told her was a lie. But why? Why lie? He didn’t want to take her back so instead he attacked Charles knowing full well that he would retaliate with lethalness. His wailing and screaming had all been an act to sensationalise the beating. If Charles beat him too much there was no way he could go straight home, instead he’d have to go to the A&E and every one would be concerned with him and detest Charles.

“Fuck.” Said Charles aloud.

“Don’t you start swearing at me…” Carries on Marla.

What a conniving weasel Peter was, intelligent for sure but totally untrustworthy thinks Charles as he starts to slump into his seat. Even though he ended up on the receiving end of Peter’s emergency plan he was pleased with him self. Pleased that he initially didn’t use force on Peter when he started asking difficult questions, he couldn’t believe that he managed to worm his way out of them and then actually make Peter squirm a bit. In the end he used violence but he was attacked and that was a more or less natural reaction and he didn’t seriously injure him which he believes Peter was seriously hoping for.

The Big Chill

It was this morning when I woke up and immediately jumped back into bed as if I was dive bombing away from an on coming vehicle. I wasn’t dodging an out of control Ford Mondeo but instead was responding to the coldness that’s suddenly dawned upon us. At first I thought it was slightly cold and the fact I had been in my warm bed was the reason for my knee-jerk reaction. However after a shower and a change I soon realised that wearing a t-shirt today wasn’t going to be enough, goose pimples were erupting all over. I quickly threw on a jumper had my breakfast and opened the door when a waft fresh morning air hit me making me shiver all over and looking like a break dancer in full body popping flow. I debated whether to put on my winter coat. I was really reluctant too as I felt putting on this coat was a confirmation that winter was really here. Even though I reckon I should of, I didn’t, and froze.

I can’t believe winter is more or less here. It’s been a crap year for weather, utterly abominable. A few sunny days here or there but nothing much else. So now I’ve got to get some gloves because I lose them every time winter ends and also a scarf. I’ve also got to get a new hat too, I’m thinking a bobble style would be pretty cool. But even with all these winter bits I know I’m going to be shuddering from now right until March. To escape the inevitable for only just a little while I thought of the idea that if I was rich I would fly to another country where it was summer while it was winter in the UK and then when winter finished I would fly back and enjoy the summer here in England. Although at this rate I’d probably be spending 11 out of 12 months out of the country. If I was rich of course.

I’ve rattled out some more progressive prose for you to view at your leisure.

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The last sentence indicated that Conrad wished to speak no more on the subject his eyes glaring at Yannish enticing him to challenge his views so that he could lash out a tirade of other reasons and examples. Yannish noticing the intensity of the stare sucks in his bottom lip as some sort of prevention technique from himself shouting out answers to Conrad’s justifications but as he inhales ready to release he bites the pink part of the lip giving him pain to shake away his thoughts and realise that it’s probably better for him not carry on with the subject or else he could be there for hours. Instead he lets go of his lip takes in another deep breath and slowly breaths out through his nostrils. He looks at Conrad’s stare and notices that the edges of his mouth are curling and his rotting brown teeth are showing again. He knew the thought process Yannish just went through before deciding not to speak anymore on the subject. It was a battle of two wills and in Conrad’s eyes he was the victorious one. Cutting down the sprouting contesting views of a young man before they were even spoken. Peter too was looking at Yannish with his hawkish eyes in his studious pose. Yannish didn’t know why Peter often stared at him like that, always starting off a conversation and then gradually commenting less and less when eventually he becomes nothing more than a silent bystander nodding occasionally or just keeping completely silent. He was glad when Peter’s hair flopped forward and he was forced to break from his stance and flick back his hair so that it wouldn’t cover his eyes.

“Yes, I’ll get it for you, 8 cans right?”
“Good man. We shall see you soon boy.”

“Right, see you soon.”

Yannish started to make his way in between the hedges along a small path created by the grass’s inability to grow round these areas. He often thought how many times had people walked along this way before him until the grass finally conceded defeat and grew around the continuous trampled areas forming the little path that he was using. Were the people garage employees before his time who like him wasn’t able to get to work easily or were they people who just hang out round these parts?

Darkness was slowly dimming the sun’s presence and it was best to get out of the grass path as soon as possible. Meeting supposed homeless men wasn’t really deemed much a threat but it was very easy for someone hide in a bush and jump him from behind. Increasing his speed Yannish soon caught sight where he’d be spending the next 5 hours and sighed as he remembered what all his other peers were up to at this moment. Sliding down through the dry mud he lands at the garage with only his trousers slightly dusty and his collar half turned up, he looks through the window to see Clarence Davidson through the window. Slightly shocked but happy it’s her there he walks in.

“Hey Clarence, how’s it going? Why are you here? Where’s Tammy?

“Hey Yannish, how are you honey? I’m doing fine. Always fine. But a little tired today, you see Tammy called in sick today and so I had to take over the late-afternoon shift as they couldn’t get anyone so now you are stuck with me this evening.”

Yannish liked Clarence. She was a middle age lady who had lived round this area for most of her life. Her round puppy fat face always had a smile or at least a grin and she had a tendency to change her hair colour. Today it was pink. Short, spikey and bright pink.

“You must be shattered. Let me just sort myself out and I’ll start the shift and you can catch a break.”

“Thank you honey, I need a break.”

Yannish walked out back. He much preferred to do a shift with Clarence than Tammy. Looking round in the staff area he saw a small pile of empty energy drinks and ripped open empty instant coffee sachets scattered in the table, probably left by Clarence to keep her awake during such a long shift. Yannish hung his coat and made his way outside.

“Right I’m ready to go, you can go take your break now.”

“I’m shattered but first I want to restock the alcohol shelf because once I sit down I don’t want to get back up.” Said Clarence.

“I can do that. Look if you want to take your break a bit later you can do so and sit by the till while I do it. You’re doing such a long shift tonight you need to reserve as much energy as possible.”

A gentle smile rose across Clarence’s face and the wrinkles at the corner of her eyes became more prominent. She was grateful.

“Thank you so much honey.” And turned away and nestled back down into her seat.

Yannish spun back around and headed towards the stock room. He switched on the light that flickered once before dully illuminating the room. He walked over to the pin board where the replenishment list was, took it down and then started collecting the alcohol he needed. The silence of the room enticed him to reflect on today’s occurrences. He remembered his debate with Keith in the pub. How he hated Keith’s views, his utter contempt for rules, his raw selfishness but deep inside Yannish also knew he was slightly jealous of these and considered them virtues when in the right context. Arguing with Keith about issues in life was a frequent occurrence but convincing him to accept you point was a less frequent one, almost seldom. He now was beginning to think he had lost the argument. Not because of his choice of words or at Keith’s great skills of oratory. It was Keith’s point. It was being lived right now by him. Here he was in a small stock room with a flickering light picking up bottles of whisky when instead he should be drinking it right now at Zaks or some other place with his friends, his comrades of exam stress his peers. He noticed he was clenching the neck of the Jack Daniels very tightly making his palm glow red. To diffuse his growing anger he tried to think of what else had happened. His daily encounter with the feisty Conrad and the observational Peter, how did Conrad always seem to flex his point across but when someone wished to challenge it he would turn his back on the idea. He thought perhaps Conrad and Keith were actually the same people or at the very least related. Tommy, his flat mate was probably at a party somewhere slumped on a couch resting his head on one of his hoodies and resting a joint on his left hand. If he had wasn’t too stone he would be attempting to chat up the nearest female within speaking range. If he considered her pretty he would try and call her to him as there was no way he would be moving from the home he created on the couch, unless of course she was stunningly beautiful and then he would shuffle along to the edge of the couch and lean over towards her. As concessions would be made in these situations. He would then ask her opinion about his blond dread locks under the guise that they were newly formed. This was a lie and he was fully aware that the combination was a rare one which would spark intrigue and questions which then would form the basis of a conversation. Yannish began to smile now as he remembered the amount of times he had been around Tommy and he had used this method to get the attention of girls and how successful he was with it apart from a few, in fact thinking about it, he could only remember one. It was Karen.