Blah-di-blah...

I seem to have spent most of my life listening to a whole lot of blah-di-blah-di-blah. In fact you could say I’m from the blah-di-blah generation: ‘You’ve never had it so blah-di-blah’, ‘A blah-di-blah is a long time in politics’, ‘Things can only get blah-di-blah’.

Of course it wasn’t all politics. Even at the dinner table I was fed blah-di-blah along with the sausage and mash: ‘Eat your carrots, they’ll help you see in the dark’, ‘Eat your crusts, they’ll make your hair curl’, ‘Eat your beans…’ Well, we all know what beans do blah-di-blah.

School was crammed bitch full of blah-di-blah; religious blah-di-blah, Latin blah-di-blah, army cadet corps blah-di-blah, old boy blah-di-blah, tradition blah-di-blah, and a whole bunch of teachers who believed that repeating blah-di-blah, over and over, was the best and only way to educate boys who, given the chance, just might start thinking for themselves and raid the ammunition room…rat-a-tat-tat.

Home, with its big lights and important council meetings, was almost exclusively blah-di-blah. This particular blah-di-blah, fed to me by inflexible, uninformed, parents who lived in a past that was never as rosy as they blah-di-blahed it to be, told me exactly how to live my life. The right blah-di-blahs, the wrong blah-di-blahs, the what you could blah-di-blahs, the what you couldn’t do blah-di-blahs.

Religion, death, taxes, politics, my career, all became an endless stream of blah-di-blah; a stream I was caught up in with a current I couldn’t seem swim against. It was almost as though I was expected to become an extra on Coronation Street where the conversation was blah-di-blah-di-blah, week after blah-di-blah week, month after blah-di-blah month, year after blah-di-blah year.

And then one day I made shore, found a few words, and started blogging.

blah-di-blah-di-blah-di-blah-di-blah-di-blah...