Modern Life Is Rubbish.  So said Blur, but what do they know?  Lest we forget, this is the same gaggle of geeks that informed us it’s not easy to get your head “checked” by a jumbo jet, whatever the hell that means; the same lazy lyricists who introduced their fans to an obscure French novelist, Honore de Balzac, in a desperate attempt to rhyme something, anything, with Prozac (a trade name of the antidepressant Fluoxetine, whose popularity in the 1990s coincided with Blur’s rise in the charts).

Although I didn’t admit it at the time, or to many people since, I never really liked them.  They acted “all cool”, but were the sort of kids who would’ve been ignored at school, lacking the Oasian arrogance to rule the roost or the Radioheadic courage to say what they really felt even if they got a shoeing from the roost-rulers for their troubles.  And what becomes of the Great Ignored?  Well, they tend to do rather well: pass their exams, attend a good college or university to study something impractical and eventually become lawyers, befriend politicians, dabble in the arts (without ever really caring that much about them) and, once their swimmers have sauntered their way into the private members’ clubs of others in their clan, patiently tap the one-armed name-generator bandit until it spits out the sort of vomit-inducing middle-class combination that will really help their children fit in at playtime.

But while success may be drawn to them, the Great Ignored usually lack the streak of genius that sets apart the great from the good.  Or maybe it’s the hunger.  The roost-rulers have it: the only difference between childhood and adulthood being the size of the stadium they have to fill with the standing ovations starved of them as babies.  And the courageous kickees?  They’re just relieved to find a platform from which they can continue to deliver their brand of honesty, this time without retribution.  Like the roost-rulers, their hunger is easy to understand: you’ve always dreamed of this, so why would you ever want to wake up?

What about the Great Ignored?  Who?  Oh, them.  Those who show the ability to tap into the zeitgeist (a rung or two below genius) and a decent appetite for what’s on their plate don’t normally last when the music stops.  Gravity pulls them back to where they’re comfortable: they become lawyers (Dave Rowntree), befriend politicians (Alex James), dabble in the arts (Damon Albarn) and excel themselves on the name-generator (Graham Coxon, father of Dorelia Amaryllis Bee and Pepper Bäk Troy).  Take a bow, Graham: you’re the proud father of an insect and a Thai side dish.  I can’t bring myself to list the names of Alex James’ five children.  Do that in your own time, not mine.

Now, where’s that jumbo jet?

Anyway, I digress.  Blur were wrong.  Modern life isn’t rubbish.  It’s much worse than that.

Rubbish is the unwanted stuff we toss in the bin: something of no further value robotically transferred into increasingly larger containers until, two weeks later, some thick-necked oddballs in high-vis jackets feed it to their lorries and discard its last-known abode carelessly onto our lawns.  But while modern life includes all manner of things we’d like to throw binwards (used and abused teabags and their left-behind basin stains, moulding strawberry hulls entombed in ice at the back of the fridge, passels of pointless plastic packaging, a flashbacked hangover brought on by the sight of more glass bottles than there should be), the wanton mass of waste material won’t move.  Modern life sticks onto all surfaces it touches.  It can’t be shifted.  And it won’t let you ignore it.  It’s the classroom cretin constantly trying to catch your eye by flicking freshly-picked-and-rolled greeners at you until you give it the satisfaction of looking its way.

What can you do with it?  You’ve got two options: move away or learn to deal with this prick.  Unless you possess the insanity or spirituality to give up your worldly possessions and take off into the woods, the first choice isn’t terribly attractive.  So, how can you deal with modern life?  Get a taste for bogeys?  No, thank you.  This is what you do: you pick your own and you flick them back.

And that’s what I’m doing.  Dear readers (if any are out there), consider this blog to be a growing heap of my nasal detritus, projected not towards you – you understand – but right back at modern life when its attention-grabbing efforts become too much.  I can’t rule out the possibility of you getting caught in the crossfire.  If you don’t mind it, that’s great.  If you do, you can always move away.  Or flick some back, I suppose.  BUT IF YOU DO THAT, WHERE DOES IT END?

Instead, I urge you to sit back, relax, and pop on some music while I harvest some more greens.  But not Blur.  I never really liked them.