The Man Who Murdered God

Inspiration can strike at the most unexpected times. Today I woke up with a most peculiar thought. I’m not sure if it was a residual echo from a forgotten dream or simply the result of my atheist brain. Whatever the case, here’s the thought I couldn’t seem to shake:

God no longer exists. I know this because I murdered Him.

You may disagree, but I think that sounds like a really juicy opening line to a novel. And given that the thought keeps pestering me, prodding and poking my brain like an attention starved child, I’ve decided to nurture it. Yes, I’m going to attempt to write a novel about murdering God. This may very well be a total waste of time; a self indulgent exercise by yet another aspiring novelist. However, there’s a chance – an infinitesimally slim chance, yes, but don’t stop me ‘cos I’m on a roll! - that it could be the best opener to a book since Tolkien scribbled the words “In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit”.

Tolkien, of course, had no idea what the sentence meant. He had never heard of “hobbits” and hadn’t the foggiest idea what a hobbit was. And yet it spawned the greatest mythology of all time. Mighty oaks from little acorns grow, right?

So, here’s my opening paragraph. Let me know what you think:

God no longer exists. I know this because I murdered Him. And before you accuse me of plagiarising Friedrich ‘God is dead’ Nietzsche, let me make myself crystal clear: I stabbed God in the chest with a kitchen knife. I heard the last breath come wheezing from His punctured lung.

The Beauty Of Bordeom

I’m bored. So very bored. A profound existential boredom that’s corroding my very soul. The monotony, the routine, the grey calendar of existence, the blah blah blah more boring words, BORED!

I’d like to share a quote - taken from The Dice Man - that captures exactly how I feel:

Life is islands of ecstasy in an ocean of ennui, and after the age of thirty land is seldom seen. At best we wander from one much-worn sandbar to the next, soon familiar with each grain of sand we see.

I’m drowning in an ocean of ennui. And the closest I’ve come to a cure is HBO. Yes, Home Box Office, the American cable network. HBO offers some of the highest quality escapism there is. The Sopranos, Curb Your Enthusiasm, Boardwalk Empire, Band Of Brothers – in other words some of the best TV ever made. All wonderful, all offering momentary respite from the grinding reality of life. But once you’re done watching The Pacific DVD boxset, what then?

What other brightly coloured baubles are there to distract us from our slow inevitable slide into the grave? Books, movies, sex, food, videogames, holidays, porn, booze, music, clubs, work, facebook, youtube, twitter, blogs, stupid pointless blogs that no fucker wants to read, especially when that blog pisses and moans about what is possibly the most boring subject known to man: BOREDOM.

Maddening circularity. Familiarity that breeds contempt. Knowing too, that others have articulated this age old battle with boredom better than I ever could - Nietzsche, Camus, Dostoyevsky, Kafka, to name a few. The helpless realisation that the more you learn, the more aware you are of your own ignorance, and the equally sickening epiphany that life is simply too short to do much about it, to even scratch the surface.

Knowing that there’ll always be someone better than you, no matter how hard you try, no matter how much you sweat and toil and fret over a personal undertaking, there’ll always be someone who’ll undermine your effort.

And secretly, perversely, enjoying the fucked-up pointlessness of it all. The helpless frustration, the ridiculous unbearable boredom. Somehow there’s a freedom in it.

And that is why I am lost.

Mid Morning Matters with Alan Partridge

Can someone please tell me why Alan Partridge's Mid Morning Matters is sponsered by Fosters? Everyone knows it should have been Tonic Water...with some ice...and a segment of lemon...and topped up with some Gordon's Gin. Followed by a pint of lager and a shot of Baileys. Ah, Ladyboys.