JacobHDailyEffort

Given enough time, people are more often than not won over by snooker. It's great. Every shot is crucial. Throughout my various house shares, people who originally assumed it was boring end up getting into it, to the extent that I'll come back home and they're watching without me. I completely understand how it looks boring. Hours on end of an undynamic green visual, it's not a far stretch from looking at a two dimensional image. Throw in the overweight, unhealthy looking old men and the most understandable immediate reaction is this is likely to be the most tedious thing imaginable.  But as with many sports, a large proportion of interest derives from internal politics. The characters. Like naming a pet, once you form allegiances the attachment has begun. If you want to show someone who is unaware of how some snooker matches can be different, this year's two semi final's are the perfect example. One semi final containing two attacking younger players, one of wh...

When I returned to work for my team after a period of full-time office work for another team, there was an eeriness to the familiarity. It isn't long until you fall back into the same patterns; how you schedule and break up the day, task prioritisation, certain times for tea and coffee, which work you choose to do more from home and which you do in the office etc. A permanent cerebral imprint compels repetition. I'm acting like I'm saying something novel but I'm essentially saying that we are creatures of habit. My time between teams was only a few months. I am faced now with the dissolution of an almost six year relationship, a fifth of my entire life, and my inclination has already sunk lazily back into its infinite mould. I was 22. I am now 28. Same as it ever was. I make better stir fry's now but they remain stir fry's nonetheless. At least I have more money, although I have little to do with it. I have also amassed a wealth of annual leave accrued, rolled o...

Comforted by the many before me who have experienced the very same and worse, I can now add mainstream torment to accompany my other conventional traits. How predictable. I mustn't grow weary of despair, I've already lost football.  Needfull to say, I haven't grown weary of sadness. Not yet. Signs of life signified by my return to listening to music, the same lyrics now evoke new meaning; And new meaning is a positive sign of life. New meaning implies a broadening understanding. A greater appreciation. You would hope this in turn will bring maturity. Life experiences shape understanding and at the very very least, I now have another one. "I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man, like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand" - Bob Dylan

I'm thinking that maybe I need to delete my Instagram posts. For some reason at the end of 2021 I got it in my head that it was a good idea to start posting stills from my favourite films, as if anybody cares. I even knew at the time that nobody cared. I was vocal about how it was simply something for me and how I didn't care about if anybody else was interested; it was just a sort of personal collection. Bullshit. It was projected narcissism. I was kidding myself with the same spiel that everybody does about their own social media. If it's just for yourself, why are you posting it publicly? I feel dirty and ashamed. Feeling dirty and ashamed is probably good reason to delete these photos, however I just had a quick look through and I do have an attachment. Obviously that attachment is bollocks. Of course I have an attachment, they are my favourite films. It's not like deleting these images deletes the films from existence. They aren't even anything to do with me. I...

One by one I gradually realise I don't have items I need. Still mirrorless, but I have made some progress on the bookshelf situation, lugging one back from town after work. Consisting only of three miniature shelves, it got the better of me still, as I was repeatedly forced to switch arms whilst being blasted by the sun in my thick coat due to there being no space left in my bag. Posters have made a timely arrival, decreasing the square inchage of gaping void. Although my pathetic fatigue post bookshelf incident means that not all of them are on display just yet. The square inchage of gaping void is indeed decreasing but there still remains gaping void to be de-inched.  Pillowcases to match my burgundy duvet is my latest requirement realisation. I've gone for berry. Hopefully it matches and isn't as ridiculous as it sounds. It's good that you don't have to audibly specify these things in front of people at the shop. "Have you got any berry pillowcases please? O...

Make that 15 out of 19 (it was only one at the cinema). Watched a very cool film called Junk Head. Set in a dystopian future where humans are growing extinct, it follows an adventurer exploring the subterranean mutant world looking for their reproductivity secrets. The film is entirely stop motion and all but a one-man project. An unbelievable feat of creativity and detail. Unfortunately, I can’t recommend the film to anybody because it isn’t available to watch literally anywhere. Tonight’s plan is to watch the snooker at my dad’s so that will make it 15/20. Down to 75%. Progress. The Snooker World Championships has provided a much welcome distraction over the last week, which will continue to see me through for another 6 days yet. Life is a series of ticking off days, waiting for an unspecified better one. Next Tuesday will be the first snookerless day, that week will the next test. Let’s not dwell on that, stay present! Not the greatest entry today. A film recommendation which nobody...

For 14 of the last 18 days alcohol has been rubbing salt into my already problematic stomach. It is difficult to engage in British society without drinking. If it's miserable, that's reason to drink. If it's nice and sunny, that's reason to drink. If there's nothing to do, that's reason to drink. If you are doing something, may as well have a drink. Someone close to you died? Drink. It's habitual more than an addiction. Ceremonial. The ceremony of banality. Despite being a largely scathing and dismissive society, we manage to find a reason to apply this form of celebration to absolutely everything. Nobody appreciates life like the British. Well, its either the British or Buddhists. If it came down to a fight we'd lose that, our coordination and skill would be way out of calibration. You win this one Buddhists. This British drinking insight isn't anything new or enlightening. My main peeve isn't really health-related. It is that I've recently ...

" When you leave all you take is your memory and I'm gonna take mine of you with me " - Lana Del Rey Every now and then a sadness suddenly hits, indiscriminate of circumstance. Daily routine and regular activities have meant that I have generally felt okay, which is better than anticipated but sometimes the weight of memory envelops the present. Always an involuntary distraction, but these onsets of sadness aren't entirely unwelcome as recollections of some of my happiest memories also bring warmth and reassurance. Of course this can be followed by an even starker sadness, but it provides affirmation for a part of my life which I feel incredibly fortunate to have experienced.  " And I'm glad, glad about the good times that we had " - Captain Beefheart Forever didn't seem naïve. There is still a part of me which thinks it could have worked, at least to some degree. I imagine it would be okay. 50 years ago not only would it have probably lasted, it wou...

I always feel the need to at least attempt to not open my writing using a pronoun. Again I have failed. Often I will start using a pronoun led version of a sentence, then edit it afterwards. For example, in this instance the opener would change to something like - "For sake of variety and to satisfy my ego, I always feel the need to at least attempt to not open my writing using a pronoun". There's a brief English lesson. It feels strange using the word 'pronoun' in an entirely non-political context. These days. These days.  These days. Here's something about these days. Many who champion body positivity also use "small dick" as an insult. There's a thought for you. These days. Leave the small dicked men alone. They've got small enough dicks as it is! No need to punch down at their small dicks. Although maybe it would hurt them less than normal people, with there being less dick present to experience the pain. Is the pain experienced from a pu...

Forward planning dates, reviewing previous dates, forecasting for future dates. Dates. Look at the past dates. What dates are we aiming for? Which date will we look at when we approach the next date? Time is staring you in the face. Counting down the days forever in a a constant visual reminder evidencing of how long life is. The mortality of work. Unsurprisingly I currently find myself sitting in front of a forecasting spreadsheet plan which contains a multitude of dates. Numbers, letters and symbols, neatly arranged in perfectly symmetrical little rectangles. Infinite rectangles. Tabs. Buttons. Filters. The numbers, letters, symbols, tabs, buttons, filters and rectangles are mocking my impermanence, taunting me with micro-aggressions and micro-cells and micro-macro-support and micro-charts and micro-soft and micro-entity-accounts-support and micro-enable and micro-operations-support-contact-number. I get it Microsoft. I'm going to die. You're not even infinite, rectangles. Th...

Visual migranes have made an unwelcome return to my life recently. You know when sometimes there's a little visual disturbance to the periphery of your vision? It's like that but massive and flashing, taking up a large proportion of your vision, making bright rooms even brighter and electronic screens impossible to look at. Firstly you can't see, secondly it is horribly bright. There's also the side issue of the accompanying headache, but that is by far the most bearable aspect. This is what happened to me today as soon as I got into the office. After setting up my work station, making idle chit-chat and pretending I could see, I stumbled my way through the deathly bright office hallways towards the retreat of dark room, fortunately managing to avoid having to talk to anybody. What better way to begin a nice sunny April morning than with my head in my hands in a dark meeting room.  My first experience of this phenomenon was two days before the England v Italy Euros fina...

I can't see, there's too much work in my eyes! A common tactic. You often hear about people obsessing with their job as a form of distraction after a critical life event. I wonder how many senior managers are purely just escapists. That isn't the path I'm going to follow, I'm capable of finding better distractions, however I am for a rare occasion glad for being relatively busy at work. Come to think of it, I think the saying is 'bury yourself in work', not 'your face'. I prefer face so I'm keeping it. It's counter-intuitive to label it 'work' but my to-do list of creative/silly projects has built up pretty quickly. I need to not think of it as work. This will cause problems. Why must I approach everything as a task rather than as fun? Equally I don't want to be that sort of cunt who re-brands everything to ameliorate life. "Let me just check my 'what amazing fun do I have the joy of loving today woohoo list!'". ...

I fear this blog is becoming too journaly, which isn't not the intention but I want to be more creative than that. My first instinct is to quote another lyric, which being someone else's words, is the opposite of creative. I guess I'll have to do it anyway as the point of this blog is to just write what's on my mind and I can't think of anything else, so it is the Leonard Cohen lyric - "I can't forget that I don't remember what." Still awaiting delivery of posters, I sit here once again in familiar surroundings left bleaker by empty spaces on the walls standing over me. I have some pictures but I don't want to arrange them only for my new arrivals to then not suit anywhere within that arrangement. Our landlord insists on using double sided adhesive strips (called Command Strips) instead of using Blu-Tac. The intention is to not damage the paintwork on removal but the damage rate is pretty much the same. Stupid. Because of this futile rule, I mu...

A 06:30 alarm and a 07:09 Monday morning train adds a much needed novelty to proceedings. Trees, rabbits and birds evoke much more optimistic feelings than cars, tarmac and pigeons (although admittedly also birds). The intention was to return home yesterday but instead I opted for postponing my inescapable return to reality for as long as possible. This is very much at the forefront of my mind, so as much as the variety of my different commute is nice, there is an unsettling uncertainty in my stomach which either stems from emotional apprehension or its the coffee I just consumed after a poor night's sleep. It's all one and the same. Sometimes after a bad sleep coffee only serves to disorientate and grog. This is what has happened today. The unplanned extra night also means I have run out of my supply of Fexofenadine, a high strength prescription antihistamine, leaving me slightly pre-occupied with a side concern of hoping I am able to breathe well enough to host a meeting at w...

It's a shame that over the past few days there has been a distinct lack of emotive lexicon in my writing. A logical robot dominates my mind. I imagine it stems from a reticent disposition to deter from being excessive for fear of seeming disingenuous; I hate to make a big deal of things even when they are significantly impactful. Or it could stem from fear of confronting heightened emotion directly without diverting attention. I mostly do this through humour but humour hasn't exactly suited the last few blogs so instead I am left with writing which is overly analytical and lacking in poetry and emotion. Well, at least that's me. Which to be fair does make it genuine in a sense, so maybe it's okay. ANYWAY SOMETHING ELSE NOW Time to snap out of it. I espouse silliness and nonsense so lets put my money where my mouth is and distract myself out of this repetitive self-analysis. Here are some things: Here's an idea. How about a flannel, but instead of just being for your...

...No I can't see; There must be something horribly wrong with me. Over dramatic yes, but Morrissey at least adds some level of comedic relief to what is most likely going to be another self-pitying sombre entry. I wonder when Morrissey lyrics will stop being the immediate things which come to mind. I've got a feeling it won't be any time soon. I was quoting them before all this, so I evidently wasn't particularly happy anyway. Although I'm not sure that is a great reason to become worse. I'm not an idealist; I know the aim is only contentedness. That shouldn't be so hard. Yet I failed to achieve contentment even when having zero criticisms of someone. I can't imagine how anyone else could be better. What exactly defines a relationship? Does contentment come automatically or is it learned? I've previously blamed a propensity to not confront my feelings, which remains true, shown even now by (despite quoting music in my posts) not having listened to a...

There's something fundamental about myself which I need to sort out. I know what I want so how do I convince myself of it? My idiot brain could well be my downfall and I seemingly have little control over it. It is essentially the driving force of my being so maybe I just have to accept that it might slowly destroy me. Maybe it was the slow build up of pressure of having to make life changing and life long decisions. Well I've got a life changing decision now. Things are about to change and I'm not optimistic for which direction. I seem to be determined to seek out some sort of unhappiness. At least this blog provides some form of aim and distraction, although I expect my motivation levels will wane. Today's reprise of my first entry (from 20 days prior) suggests I am prone to feeling sorry for myself regardless. Is depression a fundamentally selfish act? Writing a daily blog is definitely some form of self importance. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. Me. I am my own worst enemy...

As a general natural inclination I tend to side with logic so when faced with a scenario of it being defied by emotion, despite numerous attempts at rationalising using the former, it is difficult to know what to do. I've known my mental wellbeing has deteriorated since around 2021. One logical approach to tackle this was to write this blog. In retrospect, maybe to some extent I was hoping to logic my brain back into gear and work out the answers which would sort everything out. Instead the catharsis tirade continues and logic has not gotten me anywhere. When logic doesn't apply there isn't really much left. What is there to discuss and analyse? Just some maddening vagueness. Although there is still one form of logic which I can apply somewhat. Avoidance. But I don't want to talk about it.  I've always hated eye contact. Possibly because it's too real and I lack the emotional maturity to face reality and address situations honestly. But I still have my excuses. ...

Why have I done this again? Why have I forced this daily task upon myself? Low expectations for this one - written on the train on my phone with half a brain. You could argue the case for the latter regardless so maybe nothing noticeable will really change. I'll do my best to not be too trite or cringe. Personality flaws creep up on you over time, even if you try to ignore them, which coincidentally I've become painfully aware is one of mine. Communication deficits paired with a lack of emotional intelligence and mental strength has inevitably backfired. Being incapable of addressing situations and so deferring serious conversation isn't a sustainable long term plan. But what is? Today I listened to an episode of the Wolf & Owl podcast which was so specifically relevant whilst not being at all helpful. It was Episode 21 of Season 2, so not even a new one. Pure chance that this particular episode would cruelly fall my way at this moment in time. Some would call it fate, ...

Today is not the day to be writing. These words will suffice to sustain momentum but this is essentially the first break day. I need to refresh.

What is the cut off point for decorating? My bedroom has been in a sort of 70% done stasis for 2 years. I know I would enjoy it more if it was complete. Gaping blank spaces staring at me every day is slightly depressing. The problem is it isn't quite depressing enough to kick me into action.  I used to print miniature posters on card but I don't have access to a printer which can do this anymore. The cost adds up when you actually buy posters, plus the options become more limited. What's the incentive? What are your overheads?! That's why I'm saying what, what is wrong with the world today? But action has kicked me into it. Georgia is moving out and taking some of her posters with her, increasing the square inchage of gapid void (could be the name of a pornographic film aimed at nerds). Sometimes you need a kick up the arse and this is a positive kick, updating my room to reflect my current self, not me six years ago. Hopefully I can avoid a financial kick (kicks ar...

You wake up earlier than your partner on a weekend morning and after an hour scrolling on your phone you realise you ran out of things to look at half an hour ago. You must go downstairs. They're still not awake so every effort is put into being as quiet as possible, despite knowing that your movement alone most likely makes noise an irrelevance. Making effort to be quiet always seems to produce extra noise so you escape louder then you normally do, extending the unavoidable creak on the door as you leave. You get downstairs and realise you've left something you need in the bedroom. Bastard. For me this morning it was a tablet that I am required to take 30 minutes before food because otherwise a valve at the bottom of my oesophagus loosens and my head becomes under attack from my insides, antagonised by food being launched at them. My first tactic to offset my hunger is to take a break from writing this and have a coffee.  Coffee made. Hopefully I'll hear some movement upst...

Could I use some of this writing as internal narrative for a short story of some kind? Maybe I could note personal observations on here for a character profile. A slight mumbler who becomes incrementally more irritable as throughout the day he is consistently asked to repeat himself. I have some short story I semi-wrote a few years ago saved somewhere. I also have some script I wrote for a depressing dark sitcom based on ferry light entertainment. It's all coming together! I'll title this entry as a reminder to myself so it doesn't get lost in the sea of stupid titles, like trying to remember which episode of the Blindboy podcast you want to recommend. At the end of this post will be an open ended list which, for the first time, will break the current routine of "done and move onto the next day". This can be my space for noting ideas. Or it can serve as some form of self-torture, a visual reminder mocking my lack of ideas. Right, so... what traits could build a ch...

" Will Smith don't gotta cuss in his raps to sell records, well I do. So fuck him and fuck you too " - Eminem That line always gets me. So concisely managing to bluntly make his point, be confrontational to both one specific person plus everybody else, whilst also being funny. Nails it. As a conflict avoidant worrier, I particularly enjoy those public icons who unapologetically voice honest cutting opinions. Eminem, Frankie Boyle, Mark E Smith, Bill Burr, Morrissey, Doug Stanhope, Larry David, Trey Parker etc. An added bonus is it usually comes hand in hand with strong comedic qualities. “I said, ‘Shut them cunts up!’ And they were still warming up, so I threw a bottle at them"  - Mark E Smith on Mumford & Sons Unlike me, these people are unafraid and I envy this quality. However I am also aware of the associated difficulties of behaving in this way. Constantly offending people isn't a stress-free ride, not if you care what people think. If you don't care...

Although many of my favourite musical artists are from outside of the UK, there is an intangible innate understanding when listening to those who grew up in similar surroundings. Implicit evidence that you share a base-level of experience, even if vague and existing only as a background part of your cerebral development, it is there in some form of unspoken understanding. Which is cool when "rock stars", so to put it, are usually elevated to a status superior to mere normal humans. (In some of this I'm conscious I might border on annoying hippie territory, but I'll try to keep my suit on and live in the real world where magic and romance are STUPID!!! There are other probably obvious things I'm conscious of too but I'll qualify those later.) The realisation became most apparent during the last World Cup when I decided I would only listen to English music until we got knocked out. The Fall, Pulp, The Smiths, The Streets, The Kinks, The Libertines, Massive Attac...

Rain falls over all too familiar surroundings, generously casting more achievable expectations with its grey murk. Sometimes I wonder if it is me becoming more miserable, or if the things I used to like are worse now. The former seems more likely but I'm not entirely sure. He used to be one of my favourite comedians but in the last few years I have found James Acaster to be incredibly irritating. Is it him or me? A sense of relief and justification came when I listened to a 2019 episode of Adam Buxton's podcast featuring James Acaster as a guest and I genuinely enjoyed it. You've changed James Acaster. Thanks for making me question my mental wellbeing. It's all James Acaster's fault! After that realisation I can finally get back on track. There are others. I'm a bit done with Stewart Lee's whole schtick. Blindboy gives me a weird and depressing uneasy feeling now. Charlie Brooker is shit. Danny McBride is fading. Seth Rogen seems to have stopped. Labour. I...

I'd hoped to some extent that daily writing would provide a catharsis, a minute sense of purpose and some sort of mental clarity. Mild expectations. To an extent it does achieve this but a predominant lesson it's taught me is that at any given moment, I'm not really sure how I feel. With longer, sunnier days returning, in my active conscious mind I feel happier. I've also, at long last, had progress towards an actual physical diagnosis for an ongoing long lasting issue, after years of the classic medical "anxiety" cop out. Health Services are really exploiting mental health awareness with that one. But despite all this, combined with the fact that I am the very person preaching silliness in yesterday's entry, this is generally a pretty depressing blog. Feeling in good spirits after a pleasant morning with a nice breakfast, a coffee and happily chatting to friends, I proceed to sit behind a keyboard and my thoughts are immediately overwrought with negativit...

"Round here, nothing seems to change. Same old thing every day. Just gets played and replayed in different ways" - The Streets Lying in tedium somewhere between a sinking feeling in my stomach and a disparaging eye roll, whilst being less impactful than either, sits my emotional response to almost every conversation. I used to hate small talk but now I get it. Big talk doesn't go anywhere other than raising cortisol and causing fall-outs, only for nothing to change anyway. But as much as I understand small-talk, that isn't to say I'm not also sick of it. It's equally repetitive.  "Tax the rich". "Are jaffa cakes a cake or a biscuit?" "Can you separate the artist from the art?" "Football vs Rugby". "Veganism vs vegetarianism vs pescatarianism vs eating meat". "It's not actually lead in pencils". "Israel v Palestine". "That period between Christmas and New Year is weird". "...

Not hungover this time but still I come equipped with excuses. Waking up at 6am isn't the ideal start to a Sunday morning but I was willing to accept it and focus on the positives of having more time to consider the possibility of, but ultimately not, making the most of this extra time. I did actually start relatively productively, arranging an Argos collection for a range of bedding items. Wow! An Earth-shattering start! Who knows what I could be capable of. Perhaps it was Karma for giving the Earth such an aggressive pummelling so early on in the day, but my capabilities of further Earth-pummelling took a serious pummel themselves. An immediate deterioration, self-inflicted by the consumption of a personal experiment - A cup of Biscoffee. Confidence in my invention was fuelled and severely misplaced, almost solely by the strength of its portmanteau. I mixed a teaspoon of Biscoff spread with a small amount of boiling water to create a paste, before adding coffee and further boilin...

To quote George Harrison - "Shorter blog entries of a lower quality must pass". Otherwise this daily task becomes too daunting an obligation and I don't want to resent it. I could do without losing interest in yet another hobby. I'll be scraping the barrel, tormentedly doing crosswords and Rubik's Cubes with a crazed false grin, scaring children at the local games cafe. Doing a bad job of something is good for both peace of mind and for the local community. A hangover seems like a good excuse for the first poor showing. I'm proud of myself for squeezing anything at all out of my brain. Are there any more dregs I can wring out of it? I'm struggling. It must be bone dry. A bone dry brain. A bone dry brain bounded by bone dry bone. Bone. Bone. Bone. Bone. Bone. Bone. Bone. Bloggers sometimes say that in the moments when you really can't think of anything to write and really have to force it, that is often where the best material comes from. Well it isn...