You must have a lot of time on your hands

There is a certain phrase, which languishes next to old Justin Bieber ticket stubs and golf score cards in pleated chino pockets. It is the microwaved fish of social commentary and it is used by people who will tell you that Justin Bieber is somehow talented, or that he has any kind of cultural relevance, the kind of people who read motivational books and biographies, the kind of people for whom braaiing is an art and art may as well be thrown in the fire.

They come in from their M-Net Sunday Movie lives, chests jutting like Kim Kardashian’s self belief and say, after looking at something you’ve made: You must have a lot of time on your hands, with a smug look on their face. There are a number of responses to this, statement none of them particularly legal, but invariably the person being accused of having too much time is put on the back foot, forced to defend something they didn’t expect to. This is particularly difficult when the person being accused of having said time is in fact quite proud of their creation.

These are the kinds of people who will tell you with a straight face that Beyonce is talented, Kim Kardashian is a role model or that Carte Blanche is all you need to know about South African current affairs. The very same people who will spend hours upon hours on a golf course trying to hit a ball into a hole with fewer hits than last time, or who consider ‘drinking’ a legitimate hobby.

Unfortunately these are also the people who believe that you just need ‘one good idea’ to be successful, who somehow still believe all you need is to scream Eureka! in the bath and run down the street with your dick flapping all over the place. The people who comment on Yahoo buying Tumblr as if it has any relevance to any of our lives, yet probably wouldn’t get into Tumblr because, well, they have upside-down crosses on there you know! The people who think Sex And The City is somehow emotionally meaningful, that we should all aspire to Jimmy Choo Rabbit Vibrators, that life is a series of languid lunches with white friends and white wine. How long, exactly, did it take for the first person to figure out how to make an unwooded Chardonnay? Did they have too much time on their hands?

The real point here, dear reader, is: These people don’t understand. They just don’t fucking get it. What they really don’t understand is that to make something, you find the time. You don’t ‘do coffees’ and watch Grey’s Anatomy. You don’t play golf and you don’t do whatever the fuck else it is that men are meant to do. What you do, when you want to make something is: You stop sleeping. You figure out the least amount of sleep you need to be a functioning human (merely) being and then while everyone else is sleeping, you work. While they’re having wet dreams about fucking Mark Zuckerberg and wrapping his dick in hundred dollar bills, you are still hunched over your desk and you are still working. Your relationships suffer, your social life suffers, you turn into the shuffling, slack-jawed work zombie but you are still working. Because as far as I’m concerned the only way you can confirm your existence on this piece of shit planet is to make something.

Do I have too much time on my hands?

I don’t have enough.

The problem with old people in any era

Modern science is great. It has allowed us to live longer, become stronger, abort foetuses that don’t suit us too much, stave off cancer and whiten our teeth. Unfortunately, modern science and medical advancements have resulted in a rather frightening phenomenon: a plethora of old people. Everywhere I look, they are shuffling around; smelling of mothballs and wee, complaining under their breath about the good old days. I’m sure some of the more PC among you are wringing your rose-scented hands and I’m waiting until someone says, “Wait until you get old, Paul. You just wait. There’ll be some snotty fuckbitch like you complaining about yourself while you piss yourself quietly in the corner, gibbering about the war.”

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