“I say I work in Media, I’m really on the dole.
I’m the coolest guy you’ll ever know, woh-oh-oh!
I love my life as a dickhead, all my friends are dickheads too.”
- Being a Dickhead’s Cool, TheGrandSpectacular
It’s the song that all my friends and I are laughing at, humming the tune and reciting the words like kids in a playground the day after the latest crappy sketch show. But we are all laughing because we are self aware. We see ourselves in these dickheads. I know people who have worn glasses with no lenses, people with silly hats (I was wearing silly hats before it was cool), people who write blogs, people who say they were doing things before they were cool, people obsessed with their own balls. Basically doing things that our dads sneer at, and perhaps that should be the ultimate arbiter of whether or not you are a dickhead. If your dad thinks you are a dickhead, it must be true. I’ll need to find out what he thinks; you know, to get closure, or whatever.
As a result of forcing myself to write this daily blog I fear I may appear to the outside world to be developing dangerous levels of self-satisfaction. I may not be writing a magazine about my balls, but if this discussion carries on in this vein any further I may slip into ball-themed blogging. I’m not talking about my balls because I think everyone should pay attention to them, it is merely an inherent function of this discussion. Having to commit some form of idea to the written word every day could soon exhaust all interesting subjects. After that it’s only a matter of time before I start proclaiming to the world about the flavour of my farts, the circumference of my hairy orbs, and the adhesive strength of my nasal mucus. If that happens bring on the apocalypse, it’s time to call the whole thing off. Not just the blog, but the whole failed project of reality.
It’s probably only the accident of not having lived in London that kept me from being a full blown dickhead of the type in the youtube clip. I have in the past repeatedly fallen in that direction. There’s been the time when I tried to look good with dreadlocks. It seemed like such a good idea; Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry is cool, I think I saw a cool guy with dreads in Kerrang, I saw an old guy with a dreaded beard. The reality of it is spending a day getting my mum to put knots and wax in my hair, followed by a couple of months of looking like a dickhead and stinking of old sweat as my weedy little dreads unravelled. Is that cool?
Then there was the time when I wore army trousers and a blue fleece pork-pie hat. Or the time when I thought carrying a pocket-watch on a chain was the way to go. Or when I got my eyebrow pierced. Or when I... no wait, that’s about my balls, I can’t say that. There’s been a long string of silly hats, and the pull they have on me has not gone away. If I went to Texas I’d probably come back with a ten gallon Stetson, and insist on wearing it at any opportunity. No scratch that. I’d definitely come back with a Stetson.
And here's that thing about the dickheads, in case you haven't seen it yet.
(I was watching it before it was cool.)
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