On Obsession

A good friend emailed me to bemoan/celebrate her current obsession. I won’t use her name in case she wants to protect her anonymity in the obsession world, but she said:

“Why can’t I just like something in a normal way without getting really involved? You must know.”

Yes. Yes, I know. It’s a terrible, terrible thing being obsessive. You never like anything in a normal way when you’re obsessive. An-y-thing. Obsessions may last for years and years or just days, but while they exist they’ll be all you think about. I was obsessed with goats’ cheese a while back; right now it’s satsumas. ALL I WANT TO EAT IS SATSUMAS. I’m not putting posters of satsumas on my wall or following satsuma delivery vans around European supermarkets, but you see what I’m getting at here: I love them. Satsumas are FUCKING BRILLIANT. In fact, I’m going to have one right now.

So yes, if you have obsessive tendencies, you’ll never like anything in a normal way. A sad fact, but a fact nonetheless. But despite this burden it’s so much fun you can’t wish you were different, not really; I know I don’t. I spent a glorious summer being obsessive about the Mighty Boosh with Michelle. Back at school, I passed so many boring lessons being obsessed about Eddie Izzard with Kate Allenby. And then there’s the small matter of my ten-year love affair with the Manics, which dipped and sagged in the wake of Know Your Enemy, but came roaring back twice as crazy during the Forever Delayed era. And it was never anything less than fucking BRILLIANT fun, even when they were playing Kevin Carter for the twenty gadzillionth time and I wanted to cut my ears off in protest. Even then it was amazing.

The funnest part of obsession is the bonding with other people who share your insane joy for the subject at hand. Numbers will vary, but if you’re a vaguely social person either in person or online you will easily find yourself a little harem of fellow obsessives. These are the people you turn to to share joy over tour dates or new songs or amusing interviews. And if there’s something more to your friendship than just that shared obsession, you’ll find yourself with a great friend long after the obsession has faded and you’ve both moved on to being unhealthily in love with something else. I’m lucky – this has happened with the Manics, from Sarah-from-school to the FD guys I still hang out with long after abandoning FD and the Manics in general. We don’t share an obsession anymore, but we’ll still friends.

The downside to being obsessive is that you WILL bore your friends – the ones outside the obsession, that is – by constantly talking about the thing you love. Guaranteed. I’ve dealt with this in a practical fashion when it comes to Gogol Bordello: I’ve worked steadily on getting everyone I’ve ever met to listen to them or see them live. This stems from the indisputable scientific fact my evangelical belief that they are the greatest band in the world right now, but also the desire to not become a social pariah the second I open my mouth in public and the words ‘Gogol’ and ‘Bordello’ come out of it. That way, even when they’re bored out of their skull, I can at least say, ‘But hey, you’ve seen Gogol live. They were fucking awesome, weren’t they?’ 99.9% of the time the answer will be, ‘Actually, yeah. They were amazing. When are they playing here again?’ Validation, forgiveness, weary acceptance and Gogol Bordello become a little more successful to boot. God bless you, non-obsessive civillian friends. God bless you.

There’s also the downside which relates directly to money, but I’m not going to talk about that – an obsessive and her money are soon parted; it’s a sore subject right now. And anyway, there are too many good sides to obsession to dwell on the bad too long.

Now, you’ll have to excuse me – I have a date with a bag of M&S oranges.

Another shitting epidemic

I’m delighted to see yet more news of the current Norovirus epidemic.

Otherwise known as Winter Vomiting Sickness, this particularly evil bug is spreading so widely right now that they’re actually stopping non-essential surgery in hospitals to try and prevent an even bigger epidemic.

If you’ve never had WVS, imagine food poisoning twenty times more violent than anything you’ve had before, and without the joy of the dodgy curry or off-colour kebab that tasted so delightful the night before. It’s like having the festive season banned in your house as a child, and then having coal hurled at your face by your entire family if you so much as dared look at a Christmas tree in someone else’s window.

It hits you like a truck equipped with a jet engine. You crap at an unimaginable velocity, and then you projectile vomit. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. And then, when you think it can’t get any worse, you start doing both at once. You’re leaning over the bath while still on the toilet, pants round your ankles, dignity having long since deserted you, sweating and sobbing. There’s nothing more your belly or bum can give this ill-thought out project, but they just can’t help but have yet another go anyway. Eventually, you start to wonder if you’re shitting out your internal organs and puking up your very soul.

Don’t worry too much – that only goes on continuously for a few hours. You eventually get a break between rounds, and it usually allows you about half an hour’s feverish rest before forcing you to lurch in a horrified and delirious state towards the bathroom once more.

And then there’s the dehydration. You’re thirstier than you’ve ever been in your life. Your throat feels like it’s lined with sandpaper, and if you’re lucky enough to have someone living with you to help you out you can barely even croak water loud enough for passing superheroes to hear.

If you get that precious glass of water you will puke if you’re impudent enough to drink anything from it. And I mean anything. A sip is all it takes. You can’t help but try again and again, like Pete Doherty scrabbling for smack sellotaped to a Buckaroo donkey, which is in turn wired up to a particularly fractious suicide bomber; but try you will. Ten minutes later, your stomach will scream “RAUS! RAUS!” in a thick German accent and deposit that precious fluid into the unsavory washing-up bowl beside your bed.

And then you’ll cry, because that’s all you can do. You’ll sob your little heart out and wonder why you? Why now? Why why why?

But it’s not all doom and gloom! It only lasts about forty-eight hours, and you’ll emerge a pale and sickly ghost, several stones lighter and somewhat scarred by your experience… but you’ll be alive.

They say that you need to give yourself another two days of bedrest after the symptoms have gone to make sure you don’t infect anyone else. I hope I’ve scared each and every one of you enough with this post to respect that rule should you be lucky enough to acquire your very own viral friend. Because if you don’t, and I get this FUCKING illness again, I will come round to your house and use your bed as my own personal Winter Vomiting Sickness toilet.

Are we clear?