Elstro

Chronophobia is the fear of time, or more specifically, time passing. Apparently it is most prevalent in prison inamtes with long sentences. Basically, it generates feelings of fear, anxiety and short breathing at the prospect of time passing. Otherwise known as going ‘stir-crazy’. I think I developed a slight case of this in the summer of 2008, after a seedy event in my life cause me to have a Getrude from Hamlet moment – it forced me to look totally into myself and I saw the “black and grained spots”  i.e was absolutely horrified by what I saw.  Even an episode of Jonathan Creek delved into this curious phobia – a chronophobic character played by Dermot Crowley in a 1998 episode (“Time Waits For Norman”) actually removes hands off clocks and concocted an elaborate scheme in order to give himself “more time.” Even David Renwick’s brilliant dialogue perfectly encapsulated the concept of the phobia:

“Time? It’s slipping through out fingers…faster than ever….time can never be reclaimed. What is the past..where does it go?” (paraphrased-ish)

Which is obvious – time can indeed be never reclaimed.

“No point raking over the past.”

“Stop living in the past”

“You can’t change the past!”

“Get over it.”

All of the above may be true, so these all being the case, why are we all guilty of doing them? You can’t go back in time. Yet people always look to the past almost out of desperation when their world comes crashing down around them. Like inEastenders or any soap, say some character has an affair, one of the first lines they are guaranteed to utter is “If I could turn the clock back, I would.” Wouldn’t it be the answer to so many of our problems if we could? We’d all love to have a time turner like in Harry Potter. I know I would.

I myself spend, and have spent a great many years with my head buried in a sandpit of “What If”s. What if I’d got off my backside sooner and realised that at 16, most other gays go out and fuck everything in trousers for example? What if I’d realised that not everyone at school was out to get me? What if I had done this? Then this would have happened…the list just goes on and on. For me, hindsight is a curse and frankly I’d be better off forgetting everything. One thing I’ve always been guilty of is judging people on their own pasts and usually flying into a jealous rage because they have a more interesting past than me. All I have to show for my 21 years on this earth is a string of missed oppertunities, failed auditions and jobs, and a sexual past even the most repressed gay would sneer at. But does this really matter in the here and now?

I know damn well I can’t turn the clock back. I can’t go back five years, bleach my hair and start advertising myself as the newest boi/chicken on the gay scene. Nor could I go back fifteen years and realise that kids make friends when they start school, not running around the playground in their own little world. Not just that far back  - I even fume at recent events such as “what if I’d put my camera in my pocket, least it wouldn’t be sitting on my table with a buggered screen”. But the sad fact is, yes, the past does matter. Because the past has shaped me into who I am today. And I don’t like what I am today. So I almost explode with frustration at my past self because it could have been a whole new kettle of fish had I stopped and realised what was happening in the REAL world, not just my own.

But yet, I don’t get people firing 20 questions at me for what I did six months ago, nor do they tell me they can’t have anything to do with me because of what I did on 22 October 2004. (Nothing noteworthy probably – knowing me probablpy another wasted day in front of a screen. YAWN.)

So to conclude another day’s innate ramblings. Yes, the past does have a meaning. You only have one shot at life. Therefore you should get the most out of it. Otherwise you will end up a sad and bitter old grouch. Just like me.

Shocking title isn”t it? Well, whatever.

I don’t know why I get so excited about Christmas every fucking year. I guess it’s because my wasted youth resulted in my turning 21 before I felt ready, and as a result, am trying to cling on to my younger childhood memories with a wire hanger by throwing fairy lights all over my bedroom and blasting Phil Spector Christmas songs on repeat (used to love them as a kid) as though doing so will transport me back to being 5 again. Not gonna happen.

Being 5 at Christmas is so easy. Don’t have to worry about what house you’re spending it at, (though in actuality it does, I suppose, with so many single slapper mums about these days), never have to worry about buying presents or cards for anyone, and on Christmas morning the only thing you’ve got to worry about, is that Santa has brought you more presents than your younger or older sibling. All I wanted for Christmas was whatever liveried Escorts, Cavaliers and Sierras that Matchbox and Corgi had released that year.

As you approach your teens and realise Santa is in fact your mum and dad dumping presents under a moulting Norwegian Pygmy Spruce before they went to bed, a lot of the magic is sucked out instantly. Now you’ve left the innocent days behind you, you realise you’ve got to actually dip into your pockets and buy cards and presents off your own back. Christmas becomes more of a chore. Okay yeah, opening presents is still good fun, but under no circumstances do you want to be near your desperately uncool and annoying family. So the moment the last parcel is unwrapped, you vanish upstairs, with a grunted ‘fanks’, dying for a Christmas wank and texting your ‘bezzie m8s’ (opening presents whilst hiding morning wood is needlessly embarrassing), and dont return from your room until 3pm when its time for dinner, which you sulkily join in the irritating cracker pulling and wishing you were back on your PC/laptop/PS3/Xbox 360 and having your own space. Once your plate is cleared, yes! |Time to return to your sanctuary! Until the aunts and uncles all gather in your home/you have to travel far to visit some godawful gathering up in Harborne, which you know you’ll be forced into answering insincere questions (How’s School? Got a paper round? How’s your girlfriend?) that they only ask you cos your parents will just accuse them of ignoring you when all you wanna do is text mindless drivel to your m8s, play some more PS3, check your Bebo for the 3489th time that day, or simply run to a quiet corner and have yet another good hard wank.

By the ages of 16-18, Christmas is marginally more bearable and towards your twilight teen years, even the prospect of spending time with your realitves isn’t so horrifying. Probably because you don’t have to worry so much about wanting to get laid. Admittedly, your present buyingh skills still aren’t up to scratch and you’d rather get up at 1pm on Christmas Day because of the alcopop-induced hangover from the night before, but hey, your family aren’t all bad, I suppose.

Come university, the time away from home means you lo0k back upon family Christmasses as this beautiful magical warm time, so you can’t wait to go home and taste your mum’s turkey dinner. Much like I’ve been. It’s been the same for me for 3 years running….5 days into being home for Christmas, and youv’e already argued with your parents 3 times about little things, realised that leaving plates in your room for a few hours and laundry on the floor just ain’t acceptable, and pined for your independence back in your university town. But being adult age means that at least, getting drunk with the fam and their friends is not that uncool, but actually rather amusing because you can see different sides to everyone and being drunk with people, regardless of their age, is not actually that different to being with uni friends…?

So to conclude, although you’ve now come of age and can’t live in the magical times of your youth, don’t say ‘fuck Christmas’ becasuse of a few rows and having to do a touch of light Christmas shopping. At least when you are at University, you don’t have to worry abotut the impending office Christmas Party (where you just know you’ll suck off your boss in a filing cabinet), the needless panic buying of food for one day when Tesco shuts, having to send Christmas cards to people you’ve not seen since 1972. Just wait until you’re a fully fledged adult with family of your own…then you can say it!