#oneaday Day 172: Things you’re not allowed to pretend you were the first to think of any more

Christmas is coming, and that means yet another year of people who think they are absolutely hilarious for informing you of their sudden revelation that Die Hard is a Christmas movie. Societal norms dictate that you are supposed to laugh at this, pretend you’ve never heard it before and explain, incredulously, that “it really is, isn’t it?” or something along those lines.

As an autistic person, I have the regrettable tendency to spot patterns in everyfuckingthing, particularly human interactions. And, doubly regrettably, I find predictable patterns in human interaction oddly infuriating. One would think these patterns would make communicating with one another easier, particularly for one with the social anxiety that so often goes along with autism.

But no; somehow, I have transcended these “easy wins” of polite conversation and crossed over into the territory where I can see these mindless, predictable exchanges as being utterly meaningless, devoid of any real connection between the participants, instead just relying on quoting something other people have said a million bajillion katillion times over already.

I think my distaste from this at least partly stems from someone I knew at university who, in retrospect, was probably also autistic, as his sole contribution to conversations on numerous occasions was to repeatedly and relentlessly quote Blackadder, devoid of any context whatsoever. It wore me down so much over the course of four years that I was not able to even contemplate watching Blackadder for a good long while afterwards.

It’s not just that, though, as I’m sure even a non-autistic person can understand how that would become exceedingly annoying over the course of four years. I think the thing that frustrates me more than anything is how I’m sure everyone involved in the conversation about how Lisa from Accounts “can’t deal with the word ‘moist'” knows that, in fact, Lisa from Accounts really has no strong feelings about the word “moist” and is instead simply parroting something she heard someone else say that she found quite amusing, perhaps in the hope that someone she likes might flirtatiously start using the word “moist” around her more, giving her ample opportunity to do that thing where people go “oh, no, stop, you big silly” and push someone away while laughing, when they actually just want to shag them.

Or something. I don’t know. The very prospect of behaving like that has always annoyed me sufficiently that I never attempted to carry it through to potential shag territory.

It’s the insincerity of it that bugs me, I think. It’s the very worst kind of small talk; supposed “communication” that is doing nothing but fill silences, but nothing of any real substance is being discussed. People aren’t actually getting to know one another or improving their relationships with one another when they have the “pineapple on pizza is weird, isn’t it?” discussion; they’re simply reading from the hymn sheet in a vain attempt to make themselves look Funny and Cool, because as everyone really tries to drum into you while you’re growing up, Having A Good Sense of Humour is the most important character trait anyone can develop, regardless of situation.

I do not, at this point, wish to imply that I am devoid of a good sense of humour. In fact, I have a fucking excellent sense of humour, thank you very much. Well, okay, I still have pretty much the same sense of humour I did when I was 15 years old, which means I still find farts hilarious, but at least when you let out a particularly salty grunt in front of friends, family or colleagues, you’re taking a bit of a risk under most circumstances. You’re putting yourself out there (quite literally, in terms of gaseous emissions) and, effectively, saying “this is something I find funny” without resorting to material that Michael McIntyre might find “a bit tired”.

Of course, I appreciate that there are doubtless plenty of you out there who think a rancid bottom-burp is the absolute worst thing someone can do in polite company. And that’s fine, too. There are plenty of people I wouldn’t (voluntarily) let off a trouser-trumpet in front of because, despite the autism, I know that it’s not a good idea.

But even so. A fruity guff is something you’ve made yourself, rather than stolen from wherever these inane non-discussions came from in the first place. And thus, if you want to be pals with me, I’d much rather you let rip with a thunderous eggy woofter than even think about telling me how funny it is that Die Hard is “technically” a Christmas movie.

Parp.

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I let out a gigantic, unmistakable, uncontrollable fart at the self-checkout in Marks & Spencers.

This is the stock image I got for searching “fart”, so this is what you get. Photo by Julissa Helmuth on Pexels.com

It really wasn’t a subtle one, either. It was the kind of sphincter-rippling, slack-anused report where you know that every inch, every ounce of buttock fat was involved in producing that triumphant fanfare, and where the moment after it has occurred, you know that there is absolutely no way you’re going to be able to pass it off as you knocking something over or scraping something along a floor.

There are two practical ways you can really handle a situation like this: either take ownership of the situation and have a good giggle about it with everyone around you, or simply pretend that it didn’t happen, implying that anyone who did happen to hear your eruption was somehow hallucinating. I chose the latter option; I don’t have nearly enough social confidence, particularly around strangers, to pull off some sort of “Good LORD! Did you hear that?!” routine around strangers, though I’m more than happy to parp thunderously in front of close friends and family.

Both responses place anyone near you in something of an awkward position, of course. If you take the former approach, then there’s the unspoken expectation that those nearby will participate in your routine, congratulating you on your impersonation of a baritone brass instrument and generally agreeing that having a good old guff is the peak of humorous funtimes. This, of course, does not take into account those who find bodily functions objectionable, particularly in public, and is likely to make those people feel uncomfortable.

If you take the latter approach, meanwhile, you place the responsibility on the people around you to either comment on the situation or remain quiet. And if you heard the noise that I emitted while swinging my carrier bag full of groceries around from the self-checkout into the trolley, I suspect some people would find it quite difficult not to comment.

Thankfully, the situation resolved itself with probably the optimal outcome. The only person nearby when the incident occurred was someone else who was packing their shopping, and they either chose to remain quiet or simply didn’t notice. There certainly wasn’t any sort of reaction, so if it’s the former I applaud them for their self-control; by the time I was out in the car park I was already in fits of giggles. I hope that when they meet up with their friends later, they enjoy telling the story about the fat man next to them in Marks & Spencer who let rip with a humdinger of a bottom burp without shame while finishing their shopping trip.

I mean it when I say it was uncontrollable, though; it was the sort of guff that doesn’t so much sneak up on you as it is suddenly present, without warning. There was no noticeable brewing time, no bubbling in the gut, no time to prepare — it was simply a case of me apparently moving in the wrong direction and releasing the explosion that had clearly been biding its time in my arse, trapped in a sweaty, fleshy prison, for quite a while.

I am pleased to report, however, that I did not “follow through”, as the vernacular has it. It was simply an extremely loud, explosive trump that was gone almost as soon as it arrived. And now I am home I can have a good laugh about it without worrying about funny looks from strangers. Except for all the strangers I’ve told about it on the Internet with this post.

Oh well. I can’t see your faces.

1703: Beans, Beans, Beans

I’ve never really felt like all those pieces of conventional wisdom regarding certain foods and drinks actually have the intended effect on me — at least not until the last few years or so. I’m not sure if they’re actually having more of an effect on me as I get older, or if I’m simply more conscious of the effect they’re having on me. Either way, I’m starting to notice that some of the things regarding food and drink I’ve long had a certain degree of doubt over are perhaps a little more true than I thought.

Take coffee, for example. Now, my past resilience to caffeine — I’ve long been able to drink a cup of joe in the evening and not have it affect my sleep patterns, though this is perhaps due to the fact that my sleep patterns are already somewhat questionable — can perhaps be attributed to the sheer amount of the stuff I’ve put into my body on a regular basis ever since I was quite young. Coffee is seen by some as a “grown-up drink” — perhaps because of its bitterness, and the fact that, without milk, it’s an acquired taste — but I’ve been drinking it in various forms for as long as I can remember. Okay, for the first few years of my life it was milky Nescafé, but as soon as the world discovered fancy, expensive coffees I was right there with everyone — though I must confess I don’t go as far as some people, largely because I have no idea what a “wet latte” is.

Anyway. The fact is, I’ve always drunk a lot of coffee — and buying a nice coffee machine a while back certainly didn’t help me cut back, not that I particularly wanted to. As such, my body has apparently grown somewhat accustomed to caffeine, and thus a simple coffee never felt like it had a huge amount of effect on me. Sure, if I drank too many coffees and Red Bulls in a day, I’d get the shakes and feel a bit sick — as bad a feeling as any hangover, that, let me tell you — but for the most part, I never felt like caffeine made me any more “alert” or gave me a buzz as legend had it that it was supposed to.

Recently, however, I’ve cut back on coffee somewhat, largely due to the fact that it costs money to go and get a decent coffee at work (I could take instant, but, frankly, I’m a snob about coffee now and find that most instant — with the possible exception of Nescafé Azera, which is actually pretty good — tastes like crap) and thus I drink far less on any given day. And, as a result, I feel like caffeine is having more of an effect on me. I know a morning coffee certainly feels like it helps — and if I need to pep up a bit in the afternoon, another cup feels like it helps too. It’s possibly psychosomatic, of course — which is what I’ve long suspected when it comes to caffeine — but, well, it’s working for me.

An area where I have less doubt is in the matter of baked beans. Now, those of you with fond memories of the schoolyard will doubtless remember the short piece of juvenile poetry that taught everyone that while beans were indeed good for one’s heart, they had a habit of also afflicting one with a certain degree of flatulence.

I’ve never really actually considered this to be true, despite the popular perception of eating beans being akin to allowing a Northern mining town free rein to hold brass band rehearsals somewhere within the cavernous expanse of your rectum. However, once again, just recently I have discovered that there may, in fact, be a degree more truth in this piece of popular wisdom than I had initially anticipated.

I had a jacket potato for lunch the other day, you see. My workplace canteen boasts some of the largest baked potatoes I’ve ever seen, and they’re cooked nicely so that there’s a bit of crispiness to the skin while they remain fluffy and not dried out within. There are few fillings available for said baked potatoes, but one of them is the old staple baked beans, optionally with the addition of cheese. I indulged in this classic combination, then went back to work in the afternoon. Upon reaching the end of the day, I found myself feeling a little bloated, but thought little of it and walked the 15-minute walk back to my car.

Upon reaching my car and sitting down inside, it happened: an attack of flatulence that bore an uncanny resemblance to distant — but rapidly approaching — rolling thunder. Starting subtly but quickly building in a crescendo of gaseous overtones, the entire affair lasted a good ten seconds or so, after which the feeling of being somewhat bloated had magically passed. It took another ten minutes for me to stop laughing enough to be able to drive off safely.

Naturally, upon discovering that the canteen’s particular brand of baked beans had such a dramatic impact on me, I had to try again. And so it was that today I indulged in another gigantic jacket potato with beans and cheese — and a jelly for afters, because who can resist a jelly? — and so it was that once again, upon returning to my vehicle after a long day staring at my computer screen, I erupted in a cacophony of full-bodied guffs that I can hardly deny were extremely satisfying to release. I was even a bit sorry that no-one was around to hear them.

So yeah. Beans, beans, good for your heart; beans, beans really do… you know.

1056: More Things I Thought Were True, But Aren’t

[I have written twelve articles of between 500 and 1,000 words each today so I am too tired to do a comic strip. They’ll be back tomorrow.]

A long while back, while I was in my faintly delirious “holy shit my life has just fallen apart, I need to distract myself in any way possible” phase, I composed a series of fever-dream blog posts that I have a feeling might have actually been relatively amusing. (Or at least I found them amusing. Your mileage may, as always, vary.) One of these posts was Things I Thought Were True, But Aren’t, in which I explored a selection of things that I had ingrained into my brain for various reasons — either I’d overheard my family or friends say them and gullibly believed them, or I’d simply never seen anything to prove my opinion wrong.

So, in the spirit of that original post from way back when, here are some more Things I Thought Were True, But Aren’t.

1. Taking a drink into the bathroom is forbidden.

You just can’t do it. You shouldn’t do it. I never questioned why this was — I believe the somewhat vague explanation of it being “unhygienic” may have been bandied around at some point — but over time I just sort of gradually grew to make up reasons why people didn’t take drinks into the bathroom, unless they were attending a house party, in which case everyone must take their drinks into the bathroom.

My favourite explanation of why you shouldn’t take drinks into the bathroom is because of all the “poo particles” floating around in the air as a result of whoever last had a dump or did a really big fart. If you take a drink — particularly a hot one — into the bathroom, then all the poo particles are naturally attracted to the drink and infect it with poo. So when you start drinking your drink that you took into the bathroom, you’ll then be drinking poo. And no-one wants to drink poo. So don’t do it.

2. You can make yourself dream about a thing by thinking about it really hard before you go to sleep.

I’m actually in two minds as to whether or not this one is actually true. Because certainly when you do something intense (get those thoughts out of your mind, hentai) before going to sleep, you’ll often dream about it. See: playing too much Tetris/Klax/Dr. Mario before bed and consequent surreal dreams. (My favourite was the one where I met the lady who said “Klax Wave!” before every level and “Ooh!” every time you got a 4-tile Klax in Klax on the Atari Lynx, and she was like totally fit and into me and we… wait, what was I talking about again?)

For a long time, though, I was utterly convinced that lying there with your eyes shut trying to picture something really vividly would influence your dreams. Of course, it doesn’t; your brain occupies itself too much with trying to picture something really vividly rather than actually attempting to shut off and get to sleep, making the whole exercise a fruitless endeavour. I’ve also found that as I’ve got older, my concentration span for lying awake trying to think of things has lessened considerably than it was when I was a teenager. This is perhaps a side-effect of the build-up of depression and anxiety over the years.

3. The first time you see something is the first time it ever happened/existed.

I genuinely believed this as a kid. The first time I got a copy of Fast Forward magazine, I thought it was the first issue. The first time I saw things on television, I thought it was the first time they’d been broadcast. Kind of silly, now that I think back on it.

This attitude did sort of perpetuate itself even after I left home, though. When a friend referred to baseball cap and tracksuit-wearing white trash as “chavs”, it was the first time I’d heard that word and I thus assumed that it had originated in our social group. Of course, it transpires that the word “chav” is very much in common usage to mean exactly what we thought it meant. It must have spread around the country somehow. I wonder where it originated? I’m pretty sure it didn’t originate from my friend Cat on the No. 11 bus heading to Safeway in Portswood, Southampton.

4. If you fart when you’re not ready, you’ll shit yourself.

I have no doubt that in certain circumstances, this may be true, but for the most part, the act of farting and the act of shitting are two distinct motions — unless, of course, you’re attempting to force out the fart, which carries a significant risk of following through. Let it come naturally and you’ll be safe. Probably. Right? OH GOD NOW I NEVER WANT TO FART AGAIN.

5. If you sleep on your back, you’ll…

To date, I’m not entirely sure if this actually happened or if I dreamed it at some point, but I am absolutely convinced that for a sex education class at secondary school, all the boys were taken to the library while all the girls went off to talk about periods, and we watched a video of a 1950s-style very British man explaining how if you slept on your back, you’d probably spunk your pants in your sleep. He obviously didn’t use that exact terminology — I forget the exact words he used, probably “nocturnal emissions” or something — but I vividly remember it. At the same time, though, I also have the strongest feeling that I might have made it up. Because it just doesn’t seem very likely.

That said, I used to have a recurring dream where I was going to have sex with someone on the London Underground, but couldn’t go through with it because I didn’t have the sheet music for it, so… wait a minute, that doesn’t really help at all.

I’m off to bed now. To sleep on my side. I have a hellish week coming up. See you on the other side, and apologies in advance for any day’s entries that are just “AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH”.