It’s been an odd few months. I quit my job, woke up into a new world after a four-week drinking session, swapped red wine for stout, spent a lot of time on my own thinking about stuff and now, two significant people in my life have found significant others in a post-apocalypse landscape of hope and uncertainty.
Significant person 1: Can’t go for a walk, having breakfast with the dude from next door.
Significant person 2: I had a date last night, he works in tiger conservation!
I got both messages within the same half-hour. The first one while I was having a Poogle and the second as I had my first sip of coffee today on my terrace in the sun.
So, for the first time in years, I’m on my own and I’m kind of sad and excited at the same time. These seismic shifts in life offer us the opportunity to move on and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. The old me would have bought three bottles of cheap wine, got self-indulgently drunk, and listened to Joy Division on the terrace until I passed out on my cacti. Cacti, you are safe.
I have self-indulgent tendencies. Bad ones. Ugly ones. Ones that become crazy monsters in the dark. I can drink an entire bottle of whisky and stare at the floor for hours and hours. Like when my ex left me in 2005 and I came home to an empty house and a note. I went straight out, bought a bottle of whisky, put OK Computer on and stared at the floor until the sun rose into an empty house on Rose Street. I showered, didn’t shave, didn’t pray for my sins, and went to work, where I lost my temper and threatened a co-worker with a hammer. I got sacked, went home via a whisky purchase and put OK Computer back on. Repeat, repeat, repeat, fucking repeat ad infinitum.
But I’m getting self-indulgent again. I need to avoid that state of mind or I’ll wind up back at the Sisyphean drawing board with an Albatross around my neck. I talk to my therapist about the Albatross a lot, it’s a strong theme in our sessions. She’s become the wedding guest that I’ve stopped in the street to tell my story. She has the face of an angel and this uncanny ability to deconstruct my bullshit and throw it back at me like a chimp in a zoo. Sometimes during our sessions, I stop breathing and she tells me to breathe. I like that. I’m not in love with her. She’s a lifeline, end of story. Let’s move on …
But what’s next for this tarnished jester who “struts and frets his hour upon the stage?” Now, this could be an opportunity to be a sad self-indulgent twat. No. Never. I’m taking the bull by the horns and driving that beast into the land of milk and honey. I’m going to build a beach bar in Samoa with my bare hands and “give up the booze and the one-night stands, then I’ll settle down in some quiet little town and forget about everything. Full of sound and fury, signifying” something.
And to my significant people who have moved onto significant others. Dance on. Be happy. Please call me sometimes. I’d like that.
NB. Anything with quotation marks is by Shakespeare and Gerry Rafferty. I can’t work out how to do footnotes in WordPress.
IKEA is a depraved consumerist nightmare and everything Karl Marx warned us about. I recently moved into a new flat with a rooftop balcony and needed to deck the place out with new furniture for my new life, closer to the sky. Somebody suggested I go to IKEA for their low prices and range of unassembled furniture. I enjoyed the meatballs but the rest of the experience was fucking awful.
On Friday, I borrowed my old man’s trusty Ute for the pilgrimage to the temple of Scandinavian minimalism, which if you’ve ever been there – and I bet you probably have – is a clear contradiction in terms. I knew in advance they were serving meatballs, so on Saturday morning I skipped breakfast and knocked back a quick belt of whisky to open my eyes to the stark reality of normality. By noon, me and lil’g, The GF, were on the road to Victoria Gardens in Richmond.
I’m not a religious man but I am a superstitious man, and there’s a difference. Religious people fuck things up and superstitious people just touch wood. On the way to IKEA, I had one of those premonitions, accompanied by a slight stomach cramp from the previous night’s shenanigans.
We were listening to Gold 104 FM, great classic hits, and half way through Mr. Tambourine Man, I remembered a story about a friend of mine who went to IKEA and, two hours into the experience, thought he’d never make it out. I turned to lil’g and asked her if this was true, but she just smiled and held my hand.
When we arrived at the bustling Victoria Gardens shopping centre, we parked up top to avoid the usual colonic fight for parking space. I spend much of my time dreaming about the zombie apocalypse and walking into IKEA I felt a rush of apocalyptic adrenalin that almost wiped out my frontal lobe. If it was going to happen, it would start here and I’d be fucking up zombies with sharpened Swedish pine, while lil’g nodded her head in time to the carnage. There’s a compelling beauty to bloodshed.
Anyway, the meatballs and mash were actually quite good, washed down with peach tea and an insight into the lives of those who’ve chosen the Australian dream in the same way I might choose laundry detergent in Safeway. So, with a stomach full of Nordic staples we threw ourselves into the wonderful world of IKEA.
It started with easy chairs and quickly progressed to a butcher’s bench called BEKVAM. By the time we got to the kitchen section, I was bored shitless and wishing the zombie apocalypse would kick in so I could at least justify the hip flask in my back pocket and the venom crawling up my spine. There’s a moment in everyone’s life when you stop, take a look around and say, ‘What the fuck am I doing here?’
With that in mind, I told lil’g that I was satisfied with what I’d chosen and could we please get the furniture I selected and go home for a beer on my balcony. I love watching the sun set on Brunswick West; I find it reassuring because I live in the better half of Brunswick. It was at this point that lil’g told me that we had to go down to the warehouse and find the shit. But nothing prepared me for what was about to happen.
After two hours of confusing herding we eventually found ourselves in the warehouse from the final scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Pallet racks extending to the heavens loaded with animistic furniture. I stopped in my tracks and actually marveled at the dagger that had appeared before me. ‘How would the Macbeth’s have reacted to this?’ I thought, as my scrotum contracted. Buying furniture for their empty nest, hoping that they could adopt an African baby, and spend the rest of their lives blissfully unaware of awkward Christmas gatherings with fertile loved ones…
…but I digress, because that is my want and writing about The Macbeth’s in the same paragraph as Raiders of the Lost Ark mixes allegories, and we shouldn’t be afraid of doing that.
For those of you who’ve never been to IKEA, it’s a good idea to take photos of the tags attached to the furniture because they correspond to their location in the warehouse. We hadn’t taken photos of the tags upstairs, and so began the agonising job of using the touch screen information tablets to locate the position of our flat packed furniture. Most touch screens in public spaces are pretty shite at the best of times but IKEA have come up with a new way to torture us with technology. You have to press the icons at least a dozen times before they activate. A test of patience for a man like me is always going to be like staring down the barrel of my inherent flaws, and likely to end in a hail of blood pressure and expletives. And it did.
I stood there swearing at modernity and so-called Swedish ingenuity. It was man versus warehouse and I was going to win the day. I thought if Bear Grills can drink piss from a dead camel’s bladder, I could at least learn how to operate and overcome rows of concrete, steel and cardboard. And we did.
With lil’g’s patience at the helm of this voyage into the dark maw of commodity fetishism, all we had to worry about was me swearing in front of minors, which was inevitable and character building for them. As Stephen Fry said, ‘The sort of twee person who thinks that swearing is in any way a sign of a lack of education or a lack of verbal interest, is just a fucking lunatic.’ And he goes onto say, ‘It’s not necessary to have coloured socks; it’s not necessary for this cushion not to be here but is anyone going to write in and say, ‘I was shocked to see that cushion there, it really wasn’t necessary’. No. And things not being necessary is what makes life interesting, the little extras in life’. So toughen the fuck up, you weeshites, and let the red-faced Scotsman exercise his cultural right.
And with this in mind, I swore my little heart out until we got to the other side and finally paid hard currency for our purchases because as consumers that’s what our ‘little extras in life’ are.
Back in the Ute, with my purchases safely stowed away on the tray, I thought about all this. We require things to sit on. We require consumerist herding in this fucked up world we call Victoria Gardens. We are live stock in our own particular way and, by the corporate sector, we are treated accordingly. However, I’m no fool and I know when somebody is taking the fucking piss.
IKEA has positioned itself within the market as affordable designer furniture for younger middle class consumers looking for a prescribed sense of style. As Palahniuk’s unnamed protagonist says of IKEA in Fight Club, ‘I had it all, even the glass dishes with tiny bubbles and imperfections, proof that they were crafted by the honest, simple, hardworking indigenous peoples of… wherever’. It’s the ultimate consumer illusion that the items we buy have a solid history based on righteous fair trade, supporting the underdogs of life, the artisans. That somehow we’re buying into the ‘bigger picture’ of Swedish socialism and neutrality. But when I look at a piece of IKEA furniture I feel like I’m looking at something that can’t make up its mind.
And IKEA wants us to update our furniture based on pivotal lifestyle changes, getting married or starting a family etc. IKEA wants to be right there ushering us into adulthood, doing all the thinking for us – aligning us with like-minded people who are ready for the next stage of their life to begin in earnest. IKEA is earnest, earnestly making consumerism look like an experience rather than a transaction. And they succeed in doing so with the IKEA nesting instinct.
But I will say this, readers: In IKEA the world stops spinning and, just for a moment, you gaze into the muddy gorge of spiritual damnation and feel the need to resurrect Karl Marx, even though his ideas have been shafted by the worst kind of cunts.
In the meantime, I have whisky and an Allen key, and I will build this thing.
“I took her to a supermarket. I don’t know why, but I had to start it somewhere.”
Pulp, Common People