Misery is Happiness*


Piss off.

Yes. You, with your relentless positivity and self regard.

There is a happiness industry pumping out messages about loving oneself and the universe, as if the universe gives a shit about your petty, miserable, insignificant existence. The universe, in case you’ve forgotten is big. Bigger than your dreams, hopes and ambitions. Bigger than your accomplishments and bigger than all the effort you’ve put in to date, or ever will put in, to be happy and blessed and a joy to others. It is so big that you, in contrast to it, do not even register as a pimple on a spot on a molecule on a microbe on a subatomic particle of a nose hair in Kidderminster. It does not care one little bit, because it cannot care at all. It is beyond caring. You are nothing in an ocean of nothing, meaning nothing and nothing will ever come of you. It already has. There is more nothing than there is stuff in the universe, the universe thus is really nothing and you are not even in the centre of it, you could not be more peripheral, on the outer edge of fuck all living a small existence worrying about your hairstyle, penis size or fucking migrants.

The happiness industry claims a false sense of scientific respectability by the uncritical use of pseudo scientific psychobabbological theories that promise emotional stability and economic success if only you keep repeating inane mantras about self love and being beautiful, expunging negative thoughts, and focusing on a vision of some mythical heaven in the future, believing that all is well if only you will it and masks the reality that we live on a raft on in ocean of shit made only just tolerable by the odd injection of methadone and cake. You are beautiful? No you are not, have you looked in the mirror lately? There is a reason magazines use pictures of good looking people. That is because there is a category “beautiful people”. You are probably not one of them because you are reading this. If you were beautiful, you’d be eating rich sweet cherries balanced on the tanned breasts of beautiful women as the sun warms your skin, as you bask on a super yacht in a warm ocean far far away. You’d be sipping fizz so expensive that ordinary folk would have to win several lotteries even to have the right to buy a ticket to be in the queue to purchase it. You would not know what actual cash looks like because you don’t need to dirty your soft and manicured hands with it because all you need is brought to you on trays, on cushions, on furs, by well oiled and naked people of whatever sex you think is necessary. You would eat gold and shit diamonds and your snot would be collected and sold as art in fancy galleries in Monaco, Madrid and Middlesborough. Perhaps not Middlesborough.

Take mindfulness. We are told that this will cure cancer, solve the Syrian crisis and make nuclear weapons disappear. If only we stop, stop thinking, and then breathe. After 5 minutes we would find our tits would be more pert, the public debt would be the size of my tuck shop bill at school back in 1968 (about sixpence) and Donald Trump would turn out to be handsomely coiffured hippy dispensing peace, love and puppies to little orphan children from Mexico. Mindfulness devotees indeed ought to just stop. Just fucking stop. Yes, stop breathing also for about 20 minutes which should do it. They’ve stopped thinking already, which by the way is probably the best way to live your life if you don’t want anchovies with your pavlova, a homeopath doing your caesarean or Boris Johnson in charge of anything at all apart from his own foreskin.

Misery is where its at.

If you are not miserable you don’t know the truth. That girlfriend who says she will always love you? It is true, she will always love you. Of course ‘always’ can be measured in minutes and actually means until someone better comes along, and they inevitable will because they will be beautiful and you are not. Better also means in this particular also marginally better, they don’t have to be that much richer, politer or to have fewer questionable personal hygiene routines. Just better than the self absorbed, ugly, clumsy low achieving arsewit you really are. You may hide it well under a carapace of positivity, but you know deep down you are false and that unmasking your inadequacy only takes the slightest breeze of truth to waft in your direction exposing you to the hurricane of derision that greets a three inch penis at a porn festival. Stop thinking all you like, sit on a bean bag in an incense infused island retreat for a decade, wear dreadlocks or swing a crystal, wallow in self exploration on a beach in Goa. But you’ll find on a cold grey damp morning in Basingstoke that the universe still does not give a shit.

Ahh, that feels better.

That’s really cheered me up. I think a small glass of wine.

PS…you know this is tongue cheek? right?

*Thank you Frankie Boyle.


  1. John Clayton

    ‘Unmasking your inadequacy only takes the slightest breeze of truth to waft in your direction exposing you to the hurricane of derision that greets a three inch penis at a porn festival’. Herculian, my friend.

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