UNDERCULTURE

I don’t know how many of you are familiar with Malusi Gigaba, our Deputy Home Affairs minister. If you’re anything like me, you probably never really paid more attention to him than any other deputy minister. He was just another shadowed political figure doing what shadowed political figures do best: fighting for a bit of light and finding ways to regulate our lives whether we want it or not.

Here, before I call him an ignorant douche bag, I must step to his defence: he has a record of more hits than misses, which already puts him head and shoulders above most of the rest of our politicians. And has has been an active and successful force in the support of Human Rights in South Africa.

But, unfortunately, he will now henceforth and without delay be known as an ignorant douche bag. Why? Well, he is proposing that we do away with pornography on the Internet and cellphones. In that one instance, he has joined the repugnant autocratic totalitarians who has decided that we, rational, thinking adults, can’t be trusted to decide what is good for us. Who the fuck does he think he is?

What other open democracies does he think he’s emulating? What other shining beacons of free speech and open thought will we be joining? The We-Fucking-hate-Woman Saudi Arabia and Holy-Shit-it’s-the-Ministry-of-Truth Yemen. Excuse me for not jumping for joy at the thought.

The initial impulse: to want to protect the rights of children is, of course, a noble one but out of all the millions of possible ways to deal with it why-oh-why try and introduce a bill that both pisses all over the rights of consenting adults and kicks free speech in the nuts? It is clear that this has absolutely nothing to do with protecting children and everything about controlling what we, as lovers of curious bisexual co-eds have access to.

He must be stopped. Our access to unlimited hard-core amateur fisting bukkake orgies demands it!

I don’t think I need to sing more praises for Grant Bayman’s paintings. His works are thoughtful, wicked, charming and evocative. He’s been productive of late and he’s asked me to put them here for you to see. Enjoy them!

On Friday, my grand-father passed away. He was 87.

It’s a pity most of you never got to meet him because I’m sure you would have loved him, as everyone who spent time with him did. He would charm you with some really bad jokes and some even worse puns. He was a walking library of primary school jokes but that never stopped him from repeating his favourites a thousand times over. To us, his children and grand-children, they were a constant source of bewildered amusement, sometimes embarrassment but, despite that, we never stopped him. There was a part of us, I think, that really enjoyed that great big playful kid in him.

And anyone who spent time with him got to see that big kid trapped in this weird, sandal-wearing body. Some people saw it as a fault, accusing him of being a big child, of never having grown up but, to some of us (especially the grand-children, I think), that was part of his charm. Like the old saying goes: growing old is mandatory, growing up is optional. I’d like to think that he took that to heart. After all, what more could you possibly want in a grand-father than someone who is as much of a kid as you are? Someone who will play with you? Someone who understood and shared the true magic of life? And sure, maybe he could have spent more time in accounts or doing adult things but why? His pleasure with his toy trains, his collections of books and other brick-a-brack (”brol” for the Belgians who read this) were all part of his myth. He was forever, like a child who’s discovered a secret and creates treasure maps and pirate treasure troves. While the rest of us moved onto the autumns and winters of the “real” world, he stayed back, refusing to leave the warm summers of a childhood.

That’s not a fault, that’s magical.

And, sure, maybe he was different with his children, with his wife, with his relatives, and with other people but I, like the other grand-children, I think, got to see him as he wanted to be: unfettered by paperwork and the troubles of adulthood, like a strange, bald modern-day Peter Pan.

More than his sense of fun, there was also his generosity, a generosity without restraint. It was driven by a deep love for those around him and a need to make people happy. I remember having to walk around shopping centres with my girlfriends (those few lucky ones that got to meet him) and instructing them not to comment about anything in the windows, not to try on anything and not to point. Because, sure as the sun rises, he’d sneak off when no one was looking, go into the shop and buy it. Some people saw this as a fault but I cannot imagine it to be anything other than a true virtue. He gave and he gave without concern.

Those same people often said that he gave away too much, that there’d be nothing left if there was trouble. Well, trouble’s come and taken him away. His generosity doesn’t seem like such a bad thing now: everyone he touched learned a little bit from him. His gifts can’t be returned. His mark on the world cannot be taken away.

But what motivated him? Who knows? To say that he was stoic is an understatement. He was removed from the world, occasionally dropping words of wisdom and comfort but, for the most part, saying nothing at all. That silence, to me, at least, was a sign of strength and of wisdom, preferring to listen and observe, to understand and cogitate rather than to make noise. I think it was very easy to dismiss him as a person who didn’t know much but that would have been a mistake. His waters ran deep.

More importantly, the things that he really wished to communicate didn’t need a lot of words. Often, they needed no words at all. Whether it was flowers for my grand-mother, a bad joke when you were down, or simply a quiet presence when you needed someone, he was there.

And by his life, and by his actions, one simply knew a fundamental truth: he loved. He loved his wife. He loved his children and he loved his grand-children. Why would you really need to say more than that? Words become useless anyway.

He was larger than life, a true product of the war, working like a beast and sacrificing so that no one would need to go hungry or be without what they needed. He was a beautiful man, quirky, funny and wise. I have learned more from him than I can possibly enumerate here. He was my role-model and my idol.

When my parents divorced and separated, there was only one place of shelter where the storm, the questions and the doubts never passed, and that was my grand-parents’ house. Even now, here, at the fucking arse-end of the world, I know that their house is still there, with an open door and a warm hug. I guess it’s a little emptier now. Hell, the whole world is a little emptier now.

It’s a pity you didn’t get to meet him, you would have liked him.

A friend has recently rapped me on the knuckles. She says I have been remiss in my duties to underculture and, of course, she is right. But I do have an excuse, a lame one, but an excuse nonetheless: I have been busy putting my life back together after the storm of blood, fear and blame of what has turned out to be the most bitter-sweet heartbreak I’ve had to go through yet.

And that should mean something because I’ve gone through a few. Embarrassingly, I’ve yet to forget the drinking binges that followed ——— and the massive cloth-rending, gnashing of teeth self-pity that came in the wake of ———. By Odin’s beard, I cringe in shame just recalling those. In fact, I often muse on how some of you are still my friend after those self-pitying and narcissistic petulant tirades, and it is still a mystery to me (I love you guys).

Here, however, I think it’s slightly different. There is no self-pity, no self-destruction, just a vast emptiness. It broke and I‘m not sure I know why. She snuck away in the confusion of a cloud of cobbled reasons and questions like a ninja escaping in a puff of smoke and a flash of light. All I am left with now is this terrible hollow melancholy that visits me at the most inopportune time. Every time I think I’m ok, another emotional hook is uncovered.

But the upshot of being a bit older and less attractive is that I am, by now, quite familiar with the process of getting over a broken heart and I know I’ll get to the end of this. It’s been two months, so far and it’ll soon be three, and then four, and then five… And, soon enough, far sooner than my heart would like I guess, there will be a time when friends will mention her and I’ll go who? But that time is not yet upon me. Right now, I’m just focusing on moving forward and walking the troublesome tightrope to avoid the usual emotional traps.

Like a very wise friend (although not that wise: she doesn’t like Clint Eastwood, the fool!) once said: it’s a process and you have to go through every single stage, just make sure that you don’t get stuck on any one. She is right. Saying goodbye is a process and it takes time. There’s no way around it. And, of course, sure there are still lingering questions but these have no place on this blog. They are still best answered over late night beers and very, very patient long-suffering friends (did I mention I love you, guys?).

The long and short of it is that, if she had a choice (and I have my doubts) then what transpired was her prerogative and it is my duty to myself to simply deal with the consequences. I wish her luck and bear her no more rancour. There is nothing left to forgive. After all, I always did say it would unfold this way, I just wish I’d been wrong.

Alright, by now, many of you reading this are screaming at the screen: “fucking let it go, already!” And if you’re one of them, you’re right. Zeus knows how you’ve had the patience to sit through all my melancholy thus far but please bear with me a little longer. Just like you cannot make yourself fall in love, you cannot force yourself to fall out of love. All these matters of the heart work at their own pace, no matter how frustrating and irritating it is.

Let’s face it: for the most part I’m actually quite ok, almost all the time. After all, I know that I wasn’t the one who gave up and, while I’m aware that all breakups involve two people, I have come to terms with my part in this farce. I know where the lion’s share of the blame lies. And I therefore know my place in the story. It has allowed me to keep my centre, my core, and it also means that it’s going to take a lot more than this to break me. It’s just that, well, every now and then, one of her ghosts come to remind me of a future we were working towards that will never happen.

This is simply my Requiem for a Dream, I guess.

Luckily, I am more than blessed with such a marvellous and supportive handful of friends that this process is sure not to last long. It also doesn’t hurt that, suddenly and for very mysterious reasons, I am no longer house-bound and with pocketfuls of tequila money. This has, all in all, lead me right back into the waiting maw of Port Elizabeth’s night life (cue lightning crash and dramatic music).

I thought that I’d left those days behind me but, alas, here I am, for my sins, knee-deep in the night-owls, the dysfunctional and the functional, the players and the preys, the lonely, the heartbroken and the simply broken. Each and everyone bringing with them their handful of hope that, tonight, this time, it’ll be different. Tonight, they’ll meet The One and things will be better. Tonight, the loneliness will be kept at the door and they, too, will finally get to live the dream.

It ends, predictably enough, in beer, tequila and talks that no one remembers about things no one really cares.

But this also brings with it meeting new people, making new meaningful connections, discovering new places, changing the scenery, partying, staying up far too late and, of course, tequila.

So. Much. Tequila.

The main culprit in this is Shhugars (I finally learnt how to spell it right even though I’ve been pronouncing it increasingly better the more I drink), that fine little bar on Heugh Road. It has a lovely atmosphere and some pretty great music. It is, unfortunately, filled with way too many people who think way too much of themselves but that can’t be helped. We may even overlook that because some of them wear tartan miniskirts (in-joke. Just smile and nod). The drinks are a bit more expensive than I would like them but, hey, they make some mean cocktails and the waiters actually know what they’re doing. I haven’t been there in a few weeks but, writing this, I have given myself good reason to go this weekend. Really, if you’re looking for a nice little place for a nice little drink with friends, go there. You’ll enjoy it.

The only major drawback is the road works in front of, next to, above, under and next to the place which make it a complete nightmare to get to. To this day, I still don’t know how to get in, let alone how I leave the place. Some mysteries are best left unsolved.

On the almost complete opposite experience, we have that firm student staple: Pool City in Walmer. There’s nothing fancy here. It is the WYSIWYG (What You See Is What You Get, for you illiterates out there) place to drink and I suspect that it wouldn’t be nearly as nice if it wasn’t for the awesome group of miscreants and lowlifes there that I am only too proud to call my friends. It turns out, also, that it’s a great place to have a 30th but a terrible place to have Stroh Rum (not that I can think of a single place, ever, in the entirety of all four dimensions, which would be a good place to have that excremental drink).

In between, we have Pacino’s in Rink Street next to Uptown Theatres. I’ve only been there once for it and would be much happier to recommend it if I wasn’t so certain that they’d stolen the decor from The Golden Curtain. I would even venture so far as to say that part of the problem of that place (apart from the slow service) is that you’re always expecting some girl to walk in and start stripping. The only reason I don’t venture such an opinion, of course, is that I kind of have that expectation no matter where I go. I suppose that the best way to describe is the lounge version of Dagwoods on Cape Road. I know that probably doesn’t make a lot of sense but if you know, or go to, the two places you’ll go ah, yes, of course.

My travels even took me to the Deck Party. Did you know that PE still has Deck Parties even though Barney’s has closed down? No. Me neither. But apparently they do, down at the Oyster Catcher in the harbour every Sunday (although I suspect that they will close it down for autumn and winter). It turned out to be surprisingly fun if somewhat too full to move by the end of the evening. It’s exactly what you expect from a deck party, though: drunken men posing, drunken women posing, some drunks dancing and some drunks standing talking shit, no one looking really at each other and everyone trying to look good. Did I mention that people were drunk? It is nothing than a meat market of drunks with a live band playing cover songs. Still, if you go there with the right people, like I did (but I always go everywhere with the right people), it can be quite a blast.

None of these, though, even came close to rivalling my House Warming Party (yes, I finally had one after two and a bit months) I have to talk about it because none of the 30+ who showed up had a camera with them. The event will only live in our memories which, thanks to an overzealous tequila train, are shot. It is now just a blurred event on the corner of everyone’s minds. I think it may be time, come to think of it, to throw another one. Does anyone have a good occasion for us to celebrate? Anything really. I’m not fussy.

It is possible that this brief list of events and talk of drunks and tequila may have been giving you the impression that all I’ve been doing is partying and drinking. This is certainly not the case.

Well, not the whole case.

There were some cultural things, like attending and even speaking at a couple of EPSAC exhibitions, in Bird Street. I realize that I’ve been far too hard on them. Sue, and the rest of the committee (but especially Sue) have actually been doing a stunning, amazing job. The work on display at the New Signatures exhibition also went a long way towards restoring some of my faith in the cultural potential of Port Elizabeth (although to unpack that idea, I’ll need a whole separate article. I may get around to it one day).

I also attended a showing of Othello at the Manville theatre, where Gareth played a superb Iago. And I must say how pleasant it all was. There really is something special about sitting on the grass, wine and picnic at your feet, to enjoy a great play. It was marred by disastrous sound, constantly hissing and popping but I lived through it. All in all it was good. I missed the music in the park a few weeks later but, hey, I can’t do everything.

Importantly, although this has nothing to do with drinking and culture, I’ve finally bent to Grant’s repeated suggestion and joined their Shun Wu Tang Kung Fu classes out in Westering. Holy fucking shit! What an amazing and wonderfully uplifting thing to do. I am kicking myself for not doing it earlier (in style now that my kicks are getting fancier). I absolutely love it and it is proving to be the thing that’s getting me through my emotional rollercoaster. Guys, if any of you are interested, and I cannot recommend it enough, drop me a line or give me a call, I’ll get you into contact with the right crowd.

That’s it for the moment, now leave me alone, or buy me a tequila, or join me at kung fu. Hmmm… tequila.

Edit (15 March 2010): I drew a wizard! I didn’t feel like posting a whole new thing, so I’ve included below.

Well, it looks like I didn’t get through to the semi-final for the Contest of Artistry III. Damn. That’s what happens when you go up against much more talented people. Still, I’m in for the runner-up position and this time the inspiration is Game Over. Here’s my input.

Here’s a thing I drew. I don’t think it needs much in the way of explaining.

And here is a large high-quality version just for you, Caro

The title for this round is “surprise”.

Anyone who knows me knows that I love stories and I love analogies as a much as, say, a whale loves krill. Actually, since whales don’t have much of a say in the matter and I willingly get to choose my passions. It is quite possible, therefore, to say that like analogies even more than a whale love krill.

On that thought, I suppose that we should take a moment of silence to lament the poor whale who does not like the taste of yummy krill. What a horrible, pointless existence that must be, but I digress. The important thing to know is that I love analogies, and that there is one thing I love even more and that is analogies about buckets**.

So here, drenched in the blood and dust of the aftermath of another broken heart, I find myself in need of a good consoling moment. A moment, it needs to be stressed, that requires analogies and buckets.

Everyone has a bucket, even you. If you are an emotional being, it is safe to say that you carry a bucket. You are part of the species… erm… homo bucketus or something like it. You get the idea. And, like normal buckets, these exist in all sorts of colours, shapes and sizes. Some people carry big steel buckets and others carry small pink kids’ beach buckets. There are as many buckets as there are people. No, in fact, there’re a shitload more buckets than there are people because no one is ever stuck with a single bucket. In middle of the beautiful and infinitely rich world of Bucketland, there is a big communal bucket pile, you see, and you can go pick another one any time you want.

I lie. That communal bucket pile isn’t just big. It is, in fact, more than huge and more than, ironically, a bucket-load. It is a number of buckets as close to infinity as a real number can get.***

Picking a bucket, when faced with such an overwhelming choice can get tricky sometimes and there’s no one single way to do it either. Some people just pick a bucket at random and change over and over again until they find one they like. Others pick their buckets based on what they’ve read or what kind of buckets their heroes might carry. And yet others pick the buckets their friends pick. Most of us, though, fall somewhere in between, following instincts and a bit of rational thought. We pick a bucket that looks like something we could carry, something we’d like to be seen carrying, and something we think will survive the journey ahead.

It must also be said that picking buckets and changing buckets does tend to be a young person’s game. Let’s be honest, walking back to the big communal pile every time you feel a need for change is all well and fine when you’re still close to the centre of Bucketland but it does get tiresome after a while. This is especially true after you’ve made good progress and you like where you’ve travelled to. By then, it’s a real pain in the ass to have to retrace your steps. Also, lest we forget, younger people have more energy. Running backwards and forwards isn’t just easy for them to do, it’s also fun.

Most importantly, though, as we get older, we find ourselves getting used to our buckets. Ideally, you see, after changing buckets a couple of times, we end up finding one that’s should just right for our size and our strength. We find one that’s comfortable to hold, with a grip that’s just right for our hands. It is also hoped that, with age and experience, we get to learn how to care for our buckets and not knock them around so much. That means they last longer and don’t be changed quite as often.

Whatever the reason, changing buckets doesn’t happen as much when we get older.

But with that said, it should never, ever be forgotten that, at any time we want, with a little of effort, we can get back to the pile and chose another.

In fact, this is so important, it bears repeating: it is never too late to change your bucket. There is a bucket made for you in that pile, you must simply choose it.

Ironically, the people for whom I have repeated and stressed this notion are also the very people who simply won’t get it. They don’t want to get it. That realization comes hand in hand with the recognition that they’ve been wrong about their bucket choice thus far.

Sometimes it is pride, more than fear, that holds us back.

So, yes, as I mentioned, there is a vast amount of buckets and, while it is all very exciting and full of opportunities. It can get overwhelming. And this means that, unfortunately, there are people who are constantly changing buckets, who are never satisfied with the buckets they have. Those people, sadly, may never really leave the centre of Bucketland to explore its infinite possibilities. They are so worried about the type of buckets that they forget the simple truth: a bucket is just a tool. At the end of the day, it’s what you do with it that counts.

You can recognize them easily. Driven by fear of leaving the pile of buckets behind. It’s comfortable after all. And they’re forever going on and on about what they’ll do and where they’ll go, one day, when they find the perfect bucket. At one stage, though, for those people if you are ever to grow and seize control of their lives, they’ll have to say: “Fuck this! This one looks ok. It’s time to move.” Life in Bucketland, just like life here (because this is an analogy after all), requires a willingness to take risks.

You also mustn’t think for a moment that all buckets are perfect and free of defects. Trust me, as a person who is driven to fix other peoples’ buckets, and who has recently nearly broken his own bucket in an attempt to fix someone else’s, I can tell you that there’re plenty of them out there. But before we get onto those buckets with holes in them, we need look at why those damaged buckets are in circulation in the first place

I mean, no one would willingly choose a damaged bucket, right? No one would keep one picked up by accident if they had true unfettered access to the gigantic pile of buckets, right? I think we’re all in agreement here: in an ideal world there shouldn’t be anyone carrying broken buckets.

But, unfortunately, we’re not in an ideal world (we’re not even in an ideal Bucketland). There are plenty of unhappy souls out there shuffling around with broken buckets. How did that happen?

The short answer is that some people are fucked up and some of those fucked up people get to be parents. OK, they don’t even have to be parents, sometimes these fucked up people just get a chance to get in early and mess with young people choosing their very first buckets.

You must understand that the first few buckets you chose, and the way that you chose it, marks you for life. It sets the pattern for the rest of the journey. After all, if you picked yours up all by yourself, out of your own volition, then you’ll know that you’re in control of your choices and, you’ll also be aware of the bewildering array of buckets to choose from. You’ll know you can come back at any time you want. Chances are, though, that since you picked your own bucket by yourself in the first place, you’ll have picked something comfortable and just the right size for you.

But some people don’t get that opportunity. Some people get given a real bastard thing that barely resembles a bucket. It gets forced into their hands by some twisted individual who really, really should know better. They’ve ignored or forgotten about the pile inthe center of Bucketland and they believe that if they have to carry a punctured andrusted thing, so must their ward. The young child, forced away into the wild lands beyond, often at a far too early age, drag these damaged buckets, dying of embarrassement and shame at the filthy tool they’ve been forced to carry.

The damage done by these old fucks cannot be easily undone but they don’t care. They get to say to themselves that See? I’m not the only one like that. It must be ok.

It isn’t. You dumb shit. Children need to be given example and plenty of time. Let them choose their buckets. Let them play for a while. After all, is that not the very definition of childhood?

But doesn’t explain how those broken buckets got there in the first place.

Well, one source, of course, is the pile itself. After all, given a near inifite number of buckets, there are bound to be a few defective ones. And this is why it’s important to have good guardians, teachers and parents. If you leave the kids to choose a bucket, completely unsupervised, who knows what they’ll pick up.

Another, much more common source is the journey through Bucketland itself. There are no roads here. There are some paths wonr by the repeated traffic but even those aren’t clearly marked. The land is vast and unknown and full of mystery. Given all of this, it is inevitable that our buckets are going get dents and knocks. In fact, the more difficult the journey and the faster you move, the bigger your bucket, the worse the damage is going to be. Learning to take care of your bucket takes experience. Invariably, there will come a time where that bucket is so fucked up, you’ll have no choice but to return to the communal pile and pick out another one.

Or that’s what you would do if you weren’t the unhappy recipient of a fucked-up bucket handed to you by a fucked-up bucket carrier or, as they are more charitably known: the oblivious and the self-absorbed.

The oblivious are well-meaning but come from the short bus of Bucketland. Generally, with a little effort, they will one day realize that their buckets are all a mess of holes and leaks, and they will, eventually, slowly, make their way back to pick out another one. But, being oblivious, there’s no guarantees that they’ll pick a better one. These, while deserving of some assistance, shouldn’t be trusted to look after others.

Yes, even in Bucketland there are morons.

The self-absorbed are a lot more trouble. They are the ones who have gathered my full ire and wrath. You see, the self-absorbed are so focused on where they are in their journey, so proud of how far they’ve travelled that they willingly, wilfully ignore the state of their buckets. They mistake the journey for a race and they forget that the journey, like the bucket, is simply a tool.

And it is these people, so focused on their petty lives, so deluded by their imagined importance in Bucketland, that end up forcing broken and fucked up buckets into the hands of children. These people really should know better. These people are simply unable to take the focus of themselves, even for a second, even to help someone in need. It is they, driven by fear and pride, that force their own punctured and broken tools out just so they won’t be alone. For these people, admiting that their buckets are too damaged to continue the journey, taking a little time to go back, would be admiting defeat.

But there is no defeat and no loss, where there is only the journey. Remember how I said that some people just wouldn’t get it? Well, this is exactly why.

You might notice that I carry some anger towards them. I suppose I do. But don’t get me wrong, I have all the pity and sympathy for people with broken buckets, after all, I’ve been there myself. I think we all have. But my charity ends the moment you force someone else, young and impressionable, to carry a broken bucket. The moment you fuck with a child whose only sin was to look to you for help is the moment that you and I become enemies.

And talking of love (well, hate, actually, but you know what I mean), it’s now time to talk about what’s in the buckets.

The buckets contain krill.

OK, not krill: wine (bear with me here, I know that I’m stretching the analogy just a little but I’m hoping that, since you’ve made it this far, you’re willing to suspend your already stretched disbelief. Also, you don’t want to know what I had I the buckets containing in the first draft of this essay. Wine is much, much better. Trust me.)

Obviously, in Bucketland, this wine is magical and special. Not only does it fill up the buckets automatically as you walk, but it sates a thirst and feeds the body completely. It’s what enables everyone to travel so far and wide. There is never want of anything. And, as you can imagine, it’s a very special wine and it’s singularly unique to each and every inhabitant of Buckland, including you. In fact, to stretch a metaphor to breaking point, we can say that each person is their own cultivar.

(As a complete aside, I do love that word: Cultivar. It’s fun to say, try it yourself: Cultivar.)

What is really amazing about Bucketland wine is that, not only does it fill up as we walk but it also grows and changes depending on where we walk. Each experience, each moment, each step on our journey is another incredible ingredient. That’s why the inhabitants of Bucketland love their wine. Not only does it fulfil each and every one of their needs but it grows in complexity and flavour and richness every time it is sampled. There is a direct correlation between the richness and flavours of the journey and the richness and flavour of the wine.

It is true to say that some of the oldest wines are the best because they have the most excitingly rich flavours but, similarly, we cannot dismiss the young wines, either, as fresh and bursting with vitality as they are.

This is the great paradox of Bucketland wine. Not only is it is what keeps us going but it is also the reason we get going. It is what compels us to take the road less travelled, to cross mountains and enter darkened woods. For it is there, in the places seldom visited, that the most interesting flavours are found.

That’s why each and every broken bucket is a true tragedy. When you foist a broken bucket onto someone, you not only rob them of their ability to sustain themselves, but you rob them of their purpose.

And there is more. (What? You didn’t honestly think that I’d stop now, did you? I didn’t say that I merely liked analogies about buckets. I said I loved them.)

There is more because you do with wine more than just drink it to share your thirst. Like all good wines, they need to be shared. They must be shared. After all, we each know the flavour of our wines intimately. We know the base cultivar like it was ourselves (see what I did there?) and we know each and every ingredient we’ve ever put in it. Our own wines hold very little mystery for us.

Not only that, but if you can only add one ingredient, one flavour, at a time. You’re limited by your speed and your chosen path.

So, no, like all good wines, it needs to be shared. And the sharing happens in buckets.

That’s what happens between parents and children, between friends and between lovers. You pour out some of your wine into their buckets. You add flavour richness and experience they would never have had. It is in the mutual sharing of wine that the wines get their true richness. And if you’re lucky, they’ll return the favour, adding richness, texture and beauty to your own wine.

At first, it’s always just a sip, just a little bit of a taste but enough and as they journey, together or apart, people swop and pour their wines out because they understand that in order to contribute to their wine, in order to grow their flavour. They must be willing to share theirs out. It sounds silly but it’s so simple: the more you share, the more will be shared with you. And after a lifetime together, lovers and families and life-long friends will have wines so intermingled, so rich, it will be almost impossible to separate. In those buckets is the essence of the journey: the purpose and meaning to all of this.

A person can consider himself wealthy beyond measure simply by the wealth of wine and flavours mixed contained in that bucket, no matter how rusty, beaten up or old it may be. The bucket is a tool. The journey is a tool. The true pleasure of existence is in the wine.

Few journeys come without their falls, their trips and their spills. It is inevitable that, from time to time, you’re going to find yourself running on empty, crying over wine wasted on the ground but, if you’re lucky and if you’ve shared your wine wisely, you’ll have the right people around you. They will flock to you in your time of need and each of them will give you a bit of their wine, pouring it carefully back into your bucket to bursint point. In fact, it is only in moments of great need that you see the people that matter: they are the ones giving you all of their wine that you need, no matter how little of it they, themselves, have.

I am sure that you can also appreciate the tragedy of people with no friends or family. Maybe they are lost, having travelled too far down some unknown path. Maybe all the people they could count on are now dead, or far away. Either way, no-one should go without a bit of wine to help them along. What I’m saying here is: take time with strangers and don’t be stingy with your wine. There is no greater pain than the slow starvation of an empty bucket.

Generosity with your wine is a mark of character but be careful of not going too far. People who pour out their wine liberally and without caution do not value their wine and do not realize that they may need it for the long road ahead. These people, as generous as they are cannot be counted on for the long journeys. They do not have the resources.

Also be careful of the isolated, even though you may be moved to help them because, sometimes, the absence of true friends is the surest clue that there is a darkness in their heart.

You see, unfortunately, even in Bucketland, you have evil fucks. There are the avaricious that hoard their wine believing it too precious to share. And there are yet others that, through malicious pleasure or because their journey took them down some evil place, fill their buckets with poison and bitter things. These people are dangerous and, while I can’t tell you that you’re not going to encounter them because you will, I can tell you that it’s ok. There isn’t a danger in Bucketland that can’t be overcome with a little help, a little love, and a whole lot of wine (they’re all the same in case you still haven’t gotten the analogy).

But the poisoners and the selfish are easy to recognize. Those that never give make themselves known pretty quickly and, as for poison, it generally only takes a sip or two before the true flavour come out. Sure, sometimes it takes a little longer but, as long as you avoid the continuous wine exchange, you’ll soon be fine. You will hopefully have friends and family, and even part of the journey, only too happy to dilute the toxins with their own wine, until nothing remains of the taste. The only true danger of the poisoners is an extended exposure because, after a while, your own wine may become toxic.

At that point, you’ll have no choice but to return back to the pile, get a new bucket and start filling it up all over again. Or become a poisoner yourself but, if you want to choose that path, you’ll have no sympathy of pity from me.

No, the poisoners and the selfish are easy to recognize with a little vigilance. Even then, it takes a lot to cause permanent damage. The real danger and the worst damage lies with broken buckets, defective and leaking. For, what is a bucket with a leak? It is nothing. It is not even a bucket and it will cause you to spill your wine onto the ground where it will be of no use to anyone, not even yourself.

We aren’t talking about big, horrible holes here. Those poor souls with massive damage are easy to spot. When a bucket is that fucked, there is no choice but to run back to get another one, if one can. More often than not a truly broken bucket signifies the end of the road. This is the realm of suicide and mental breakdowns. No, the ones we’re talking about are the ones with the small leaks in their buckets.

And we’re not talking about those with leaks they just didn’t see. In most cases, they’ll eventually see the clues and get another bucket. No, we’re talking about those people that know they’re leaking but they choose not to stop. The see it dripping onto the ground, going to waste but they carry on regardless.

Oh, sure, it looks all good. There’s certainly wine in their buckets, and they’re willing to give it away, very liberally I may add, and it tastes good to boot (there’s a bit of an odd taste but you put it out of your mind). And because of that, you think that all the signs are clear: these are neither poisoners or misers. These are people that you may just want to share your wine with.

You will put out of your mind the fact that their buckets do empty rather fast, for some unfathomable reason. You will tell yourself that it’s because they are so very generous and liberal with their wine. You will put the niggling doubt in the back of your thoughts. You will want to help, you being a good person wanting to do well. And so you start pouring your wine into their buckets. And you pour. And you pour…

And while you’re pouring, supporting and assisting, you’ll notice something. You will notice that, while they are still so generous, they aren’t being generous back to you. The reasons for that are very clear: there is little else in those buckets but what you’re pouring in. If they had to afford you but a single taste, the gig would be up.

Soon enough, other clues begin to make themselves visible, like the stains on the ground and the mess left behind. And if you take a little time, you’ll soon recognize the colour and the aroma of the spill on the infertile ground: it’s yours. It’s no wonder they’re so generous to being with: it’s not their fucking wine! Theirs leaked out a long, long time ago. All that’s left is that of other people, other journeys and other sensations.

This is also not to say that they are incapable of producing their own wine, or that it’s completely inexistent but that wine cannot mature. After all, how is a wine meant to grow and mature and accrue richness when it all simply spills to the ground?

Generally, though, by the time it’s apparent you’re dealing with an empty bucket, it’s already far too late. By then, your bucket is empty and they have groomed and readied the next willing recipient, waiting in the shadows. But the replacement must be pitied, if not warned. They, like you, have been selected for your generous nature and large bucket. It is probably because of that that they judge you as selfish and mean, here at the end of it when there is nothing left to pour. But they, too, will fail and so the cycle will continue.

Broken buckets are always on the move, always scanning and selecting their next target. They have to: it’s either that or admit defeat, and pride does not like a defeat. More than pride, stopping and working their way back to the central pile carries with it a fair risk of the pain of starvation. This is not always such an easy choice to make but, with courage and the convinction of doing the right thing, it is the choice that should be made, especially before they’ve gone too far. Unfortunately, that decision remains theirs. They know the way that this will play out. This is a one way track and, deep down, in the darkest corners of their… erm… buckets, they know this.

Their bucket is leaking and the clock is ticking.

To further aggravate the situation, leaks rarely stay the same size, especially considering the journeys and the pace that must be put into this. When you’re running, there is no time to take care of your bucket and each knock, each dent, just adds to the leaks. This is a suicide run that will only end with a broken bucket but, as long as it’s carrying some wine still (always in decreasing amounts), they get to tell themselves it’s ok. The only way to carry this on is to get more wine from more people. Always more. Always faster.

For the rest of us, not driven by the urgency of a leak, we get to spend a little time looking after our buckets. Not being too damaged to begin with, we have buckets that can take ur journey’s little knocks and dents. There’s no real reason to panic when things don’t go well. Not so with the broken bucket: each and every dent is another catastrophe: a fresh hell that they cannot share or fix or change. So take my warning and beware the person who breaks at every setback. Chances are very good that they’re hiding a leak.

This game, this race against time and to nowhere, cannot end well. I would love to expound on that and belabour the point but, sometimes, we all must defer to Jethro Tull:

In the shuffling madness
Of the locomotive breath,
Runs the all-time loser,
Headlong to his death.
He feels the piston scraping
Steam breaking on his brow
Old Charlie stole the handle and
The train won’t stop going
No way to slow down.

In the aftermath of such an encounter, what of those left behind watching spilt and wasted wine slowly getting soaked into the ground? What of us? Well, if we’re lucky we have friends who are generous with their wine and willing to take a little time out of their journey to walk us so that then, after a time, our buckets will be full again and we will find yourself ready to trust someone again.

The next one may not be carrying a broken bucket, and that’s worth taking a chance.

With all of that said, there should be no anger, recrimination or hate towards these lost souls. After all, who amongst us can be said not to have taken more wine than we should from someone who gave it willingly? Who amongst us has not turned back to get another bucket when we knew we should, preferring to continue blindly? And who amongst us has not sprung a leak from all the battering and difficulties of our journeys? These things happen. We have all been there.

Let us not be so quick to point fingers. Let us recognize that our buckets are filled with the wine of friends and family, of strangers and mentors. Let us recognize that we, too, have a duty to share our wine.

And the best we can say to those who have spilt our wine is: I’ll walk back with you and show you where the buckets are, my friend. I don’t mind. I could probably use a new bucket myself. Have a sip of my wine for the journey.****

Thank you for reading my incredibly long and pointless story.

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* I believe that, with some editing and some awesome illustrations, this could be turned into something resembling a decent children’s book. If anyone agrees and wants to get involved, contact me.
** If this page doesn’t become the number 1 result on a Google search for the word bucket, then there is no justice in this world.
*** Did I mention awesome illustrations. We need god damned awesome illustrations.
**** I know a lot of you don’t understand why I would be willing to do anything but rage. Countless of you have tried to talk me out of forgiveness and acceptance. But please understand that I, too, carried a broken bucket for far too long. And once, someone was once able to make me see that and it saved me. Helping others, even if they don’t want to hear it, even if they hate me for it, is the best that I can do.

[Edit (28.02.2010): Holy Shit! I made it to the semi-finals! Keep your eyes open for the next round: Surprise!]

I’ve been involved in a contest of artistry. I’ve made it past the first two rounds of eliminations. I fear I shall not make it past the next one because I’m up against Driscoll of Daisy Owl. You don’t get more artistry-y than that.

But here are my entries so far: