In an attempt to cheer myself up from the trials and tribulations of the past week, I'm going to tell you about a place that makes me happy. Bedford Cricket Club.
For many, this small pavilion next to a church and it's outfields are the scene of a boring recreational sport but to me, this place holds some of the best memories I have. For the past ten years, I have called this place a second home, spending the majority of my summer weekends with some of the best people, enjoying what can be the most glorious of sports.
There are a few strands to this. Strand number one is the act of playing the game itself. For someone who overthinks everything in his life and struggles to concentrate on one thing at a time, the art of batting is one that helps focus the mind. Time spent at the crease helps me forget everything else that may be going on in my life at that moment as I concentrate solely on footwork, on hand eye co-ordination and on scoring runs for the team. There are few things as infuriating yet similarly glorious about batting. The game can make you look like a hero or a fool in the space of five minutes. Mostly though, for that period of time, my mind is nowhere else. In some ways, it gives my mind a break. Even when things don't go my way personally, I absolutely love seeing my friends get to personal milestones as I soak up the sun by the pavilion. I celebrated my good friend Dan's first 100 last season more than I celebrated my own! Likewise with Dom. They are both great people, as is everyone at the club, which makes it a real highlight of the summer. I generally have a problem with the word "banter", but true banter takes place here, as all of us lightly mickey take the others, knowing each others boundaries as to not over step the mark.
When I'm not batting, I'm out in the field, more often than not the leader of the pack and directing proceedings. The art of captaincy is one of the toughest tasks in sport, especially when things are not going your way. But again, it serves to distract my mind from the intense world that lay outside the perimeter of this marvellous club. More often than not, I populate the slip cordon, two, three or even 4 of us waiting to pounce on any edges that come our way. Even the chatter in between balls and overs serves to cheer me up and feel relaxed and at one with the world.
When the action ends, it's time to chill out in the pavilion. Especially after a victory, we can sit for hours and just reminisce and talk about all things cricket and sport. About the time we squeezed home by 13 runs in the Bedfordshire Twenty20 final. About the 153 I scored whilst still being drunk. About the crazy scenes in Houghton Regis or someone's amazing bowling or batting performance. It's always great to recount great memories.
On non-match days, the action doesn't stop. Every Friday night sees hundreds of kids come down to the club for their training session, with the BBQ going, food on the table and the bar open, many a great night out has started at the cricket club at 6pm every Friday evening. Soaking up the sun, playing one-hand-one-bounce in the nets and generally having a laugh.
The social nights are great fun too. If it's just a general chit chat and a drink or a poker night or a FIFA night, there is always something going on within the four walls of the pavilion. Always full of laughs and always occasions I look forward to.
So as we come to the end of February, it's time to start counting down to the beginning of another sun-soaked season. With turbulent times ahead, it can't come quickly enough.
Monday 27 February 2017
Wednesday 22 February 2017
I'm Walking Away
It's Friday morning and the alarm is wailing again; the third time in a brief show of annoying sounds at ten-minute intervals and I have no choice but to get up. After silencing it, I lay there for a brief moment, feeling the dread of another day fill my lungs. I have to get up. I can hear the rain, I can envisage my office chair and the light blue computer screen ushering me to log in for another eight hours of emails, paperwork and pressure. My hair has two dents in it on either side, the signs of the to-ing and fro-ing from another restless night's sleep.
I have to get up.
I haul myself to the wardrobe. I ironed these shirts on Sunday night with tears in my eyes, and we've somehow managed to reach the fifth and final one. I lay it out on my bed, with my jet black trousers and look at them forlornly. They signal the start of something horrible. I find myself by the kettle, wondering if I have enough time to burn my mouth on a scalding black coffee with three sugars before I go, hoping that's the cure to the latest battle inside my head. I stayed in bed for too long. I don't.
I grab my ID badge and make for the door, but often I can't open it. My hand shakes and my eyes fill up with tears, knowing it won't be for the first time that day but I force myself through it. The shame of being this way physically pushing me out into the morning air. I start walking. Dragging my feet along the pavement, wiping my eyes as I do so. Maybe if I listen to some music, I'll feel okay. I don't.
I reach the main road, a short distance from my flat and real life hits. The walk towards town is a hub of activity. Dodging in and out of commuters from the train station, trying not to walk into excitable school children and even worse, their parents. Still dragging my feet. Still wiping away tears. "I must be stronger", I say to myself.
I'm not.
"That car is going quite fast, what if I walked in front of it?" A whole raft of reasons stop me from doing so. The kid walking towards me who's life I'd taint. Fear of physical pain. The thought of my Mum telling me why I just didn't tell her what was wrong. But at least I wouldn't have to go to work.
"But it's Friday", I tell myself. "This is as good as it gets."
It's 9am and I'm here now, with no escape route. I make myself that coffee, with the sole aim of using up some minutes. I look at the clock as I sit at my desk, sipping it. 9:03am. I haven't enjoyed a single moment sat at this desk. Or indeed any desk. All I want, with every single fibre of my being is to go home. There's no pressure at home, however self-made that may be. No mindless small talk from colleagues who don't seem to be as perturbed as I am. None of them have tears in their eyes like I do.
It was 5pm last Friday when I wished everyone a good weekend, my final act in a week full of acting. It's always the same. I had escaped to the toilet a few times on Friday to cry. This is no way to live. I've started a new job recently, but I know it's not that because I was like this at my old job too. Constantly running downstairs to the toilet by reception to cry. I walk out of the door, at 5pm on a Friday and my mind immediately switches to the level of dread and fear I will have on Monday morning.
There is no escape.
Monday morning came round. You can guess what happened. On Tuesday morning - yesterday - I was at a zebra crossing, seeing a car come speeding off the roundabout and I stood still. I stood still in the middle of the road on purpose, part of me wishing he wouldn't or couldn't stop. He did. So I carried on walking. Reaching my office chair, someone actually asked me if I was okay. I've become the master of covering up my true feelings over the years, so something really must be wrong if someone notices.
It's Wednesday now. I managed to get through Tuesday, with even more trips to the toilet to control my breathing and to cry some more in the midst of full blown panic attacks. But I got home and I crashed. A night of panic attacks and more tears ensued, not knowing who to turn to or what to do. We've had these conversations before, but it's always going around in circles. Always the same questions. Always the same answers. Constantly feeling as if I should just be able to get over it and move on as if there is no deeper problem.
Last night was dangerous. At one point I started writing a suicide note to Mum and Dad, but I just didn't know what to say. The notepad and pen is still lying where I left them, still damp from the tears. A couple of hours later, I found myself popping every single pill I had, a concoction of anti-depressants and run of the mill paracetamol, staring at them on the bed for what felt like a millennia before emptying them into the bin. I've not been that close since the night I was on top of that damned multi-storey.
All of this because I am deeply unhappy going to work.
For as long as I can remember, I've thought about what I can do to change this. Trying to rewire my brain into a mode of happiness that makes my life sustainable as well as bearable. I've tried changing jobs, changing offices, internal transfers, going to university, taking time off here and there, going to the other side of the world. Nothing has worked. I'm stuck in a non-stop world of stupor and chronic professional unhappiness, but this morning, while being signed off for two weeks by my new GP, it struck me.
It's on a daily basis now that I'm thinking about cars hitting me en route to work. This isn't a new thought. It's been happening for years. It's a daily basis that I have to steal a trip to the toilet or round the corner to cry. Again, years. It's a daily basis that waves of unhappiness hit me, totally ignored by myself because my brain has been wired to say, "do not quit because quitting is weak." It's all of this, and more, that has led me to FINALLY question why I do this to myself. Is being seen as someone who grafts hard and acceptable in the eyes of society more important than my sanity? My life at the moment consists of walking into a bear pit every morning, somehow making it out alive and then choosing to walk back into the same bear pit the following morning. Sooner or later I'm going to be eaten.
Why do I do it to myself?
Throughout this whole war, there has always been a common denominator and that is work. Some, (probably most) people see it as weakness. "No one likes going to work" my Mother would say, but how many want to be run over while walking there? How many cry every single day? How many have constant nightmares about going to work?
Could I quit? Wouldn't that make me weak? Giving up and becoming a scrounger? Surely that's not acceptable?
Society - and certainly some close to me - would dictate that I have a responsibility to go to work. "You keep on fighting and working for you have no choice". But I do have a choice. I really, really do and provided it's financially possible, I think that's what I'm going to do. Sitting in that doctor's office, (ironically an office that used to house an acute mental health bed) it just hit me so hard, like a slap to the face on a cold winter's morning, that this is something I have to do and screw everyone who thinks it's a sign of weakness. I can't keep sending myself into that bear pit every morning knowing what happens next.
Being broke and everyone thinking I'm a loser is a price worth paying if it keeps me alive. As dramatic and as OTT as that may sound, that is the reality. It's not something I'm rushing in to. I certainly have a couple of weeks at least to work out what happens next, if anything, but I realised something pretty big today. Happiness isn't born out of what other people think is right.
I don't want to be that person who wakes up at 2pm and watches Jeremy Kyle all day. As a lot of you know, I have a lot of volunteering things going on as well as my book. Things that I ENJOY doing and have CHOSEN to do; things I can do at my own pace with no pressure. I, along with many other people, have been conditioned, even guilt-tripped, into thinking that we MUST go to work for someone else because otherwise you're lazy. I am not endangering myself anymore to appease that view.
Ultimately, I hope beyond all hope that people, especially my family, understand that.
I have to get up.
I haul myself to the wardrobe. I ironed these shirts on Sunday night with tears in my eyes, and we've somehow managed to reach the fifth and final one. I lay it out on my bed, with my jet black trousers and look at them forlornly. They signal the start of something horrible. I find myself by the kettle, wondering if I have enough time to burn my mouth on a scalding black coffee with three sugars before I go, hoping that's the cure to the latest battle inside my head. I stayed in bed for too long. I don't.
I grab my ID badge and make for the door, but often I can't open it. My hand shakes and my eyes fill up with tears, knowing it won't be for the first time that day but I force myself through it. The shame of being this way physically pushing me out into the morning air. I start walking. Dragging my feet along the pavement, wiping my eyes as I do so. Maybe if I listen to some music, I'll feel okay. I don't.
I reach the main road, a short distance from my flat and real life hits. The walk towards town is a hub of activity. Dodging in and out of commuters from the train station, trying not to walk into excitable school children and even worse, their parents. Still dragging my feet. Still wiping away tears. "I must be stronger", I say to myself.
I'm not.
"That car is going quite fast, what if I walked in front of it?" A whole raft of reasons stop me from doing so. The kid walking towards me who's life I'd taint. Fear of physical pain. The thought of my Mum telling me why I just didn't tell her what was wrong. But at least I wouldn't have to go to work.
"But it's Friday", I tell myself. "This is as good as it gets."
It's 9am and I'm here now, with no escape route. I make myself that coffee, with the sole aim of using up some minutes. I look at the clock as I sit at my desk, sipping it. 9:03am. I haven't enjoyed a single moment sat at this desk. Or indeed any desk. All I want, with every single fibre of my being is to go home. There's no pressure at home, however self-made that may be. No mindless small talk from colleagues who don't seem to be as perturbed as I am. None of them have tears in their eyes like I do.
It was 5pm last Friday when I wished everyone a good weekend, my final act in a week full of acting. It's always the same. I had escaped to the toilet a few times on Friday to cry. This is no way to live. I've started a new job recently, but I know it's not that because I was like this at my old job too. Constantly running downstairs to the toilet by reception to cry. I walk out of the door, at 5pm on a Friday and my mind immediately switches to the level of dread and fear I will have on Monday morning.
There is no escape.
Monday morning came round. You can guess what happened. On Tuesday morning - yesterday - I was at a zebra crossing, seeing a car come speeding off the roundabout and I stood still. I stood still in the middle of the road on purpose, part of me wishing he wouldn't or couldn't stop. He did. So I carried on walking. Reaching my office chair, someone actually asked me if I was okay. I've become the master of covering up my true feelings over the years, so something really must be wrong if someone notices.
It's Wednesday now. I managed to get through Tuesday, with even more trips to the toilet to control my breathing and to cry some more in the midst of full blown panic attacks. But I got home and I crashed. A night of panic attacks and more tears ensued, not knowing who to turn to or what to do. We've had these conversations before, but it's always going around in circles. Always the same questions. Always the same answers. Constantly feeling as if I should just be able to get over it and move on as if there is no deeper problem.
Last night was dangerous. At one point I started writing a suicide note to Mum and Dad, but I just didn't know what to say. The notepad and pen is still lying where I left them, still damp from the tears. A couple of hours later, I found myself popping every single pill I had, a concoction of anti-depressants and run of the mill paracetamol, staring at them on the bed for what felt like a millennia before emptying them into the bin. I've not been that close since the night I was on top of that damned multi-storey.
All of this because I am deeply unhappy going to work.
For as long as I can remember, I've thought about what I can do to change this. Trying to rewire my brain into a mode of happiness that makes my life sustainable as well as bearable. I've tried changing jobs, changing offices, internal transfers, going to university, taking time off here and there, going to the other side of the world. Nothing has worked. I'm stuck in a non-stop world of stupor and chronic professional unhappiness, but this morning, while being signed off for two weeks by my new GP, it struck me.
It's on a daily basis now that I'm thinking about cars hitting me en route to work. This isn't a new thought. It's been happening for years. It's a daily basis that I have to steal a trip to the toilet or round the corner to cry. Again, years. It's a daily basis that waves of unhappiness hit me, totally ignored by myself because my brain has been wired to say, "do not quit because quitting is weak." It's all of this, and more, that has led me to FINALLY question why I do this to myself. Is being seen as someone who grafts hard and acceptable in the eyes of society more important than my sanity? My life at the moment consists of walking into a bear pit every morning, somehow making it out alive and then choosing to walk back into the same bear pit the following morning. Sooner or later I'm going to be eaten.
Why do I do it to myself?
Throughout this whole war, there has always been a common denominator and that is work. Some, (probably most) people see it as weakness. "No one likes going to work" my Mother would say, but how many want to be run over while walking there? How many cry every single day? How many have constant nightmares about going to work?
Could I quit? Wouldn't that make me weak? Giving up and becoming a scrounger? Surely that's not acceptable?
Society - and certainly some close to me - would dictate that I have a responsibility to go to work. "You keep on fighting and working for you have no choice". But I do have a choice. I really, really do and provided it's financially possible, I think that's what I'm going to do. Sitting in that doctor's office, (ironically an office that used to house an acute mental health bed) it just hit me so hard, like a slap to the face on a cold winter's morning, that this is something I have to do and screw everyone who thinks it's a sign of weakness. I can't keep sending myself into that bear pit every morning knowing what happens next.
Being broke and everyone thinking I'm a loser is a price worth paying if it keeps me alive. As dramatic and as OTT as that may sound, that is the reality. It's not something I'm rushing in to. I certainly have a couple of weeks at least to work out what happens next, if anything, but I realised something pretty big today. Happiness isn't born out of what other people think is right.
I don't want to be that person who wakes up at 2pm and watches Jeremy Kyle all day. As a lot of you know, I have a lot of volunteering things going on as well as my book. Things that I ENJOY doing and have CHOSEN to do; things I can do at my own pace with no pressure. I, along with many other people, have been conditioned, even guilt-tripped, into thinking that we MUST go to work for someone else because otherwise you're lazy. I am not endangering myself anymore to appease that view.
Ultimately, I hope beyond all hope that people, especially my family, understand that.
Tuesday 14 February 2017
"You're Doing Too Much, Tom"
Someone asked me the other day, "How on Earth do you find the time to do all that you do? One day I'm reading on Facebook that you're doing this, and then the next day it's that!" My answer is always the same. Many people presume I work long into the night, doing this, that and t'other, sleeping 4 hours a night 'a la Thatcher' and going to work in the morning, but it's far from it.
I think it's true, that I do regularly work for a couple more hours per day than I'm supposed to, but it isn't excessive. I also have very few distractions. I live alone, I don't really find TV all that interesting and more recently I'm finding myself going to sleep at night wondering if I could always be doing more. My ultimate dream is to become a published novelist, but the book won't write itself. This past month or so, I've been lying in bed for hours wondering what it would be like to have your own book on the bookshelves of bookshops and libraries. Before I knew it, it was 2am and the alarm clock began wailing not long after. Another night wasted. I've made a bit of progress recently, finishing chapter 8 with aplomb on the train to London this afternoon.
One mantle I've used recently; probably the very first and most prominent thing my Dad taught me, was the phrase, "If you want something doing, do it yourself."
It makes complete sense. Also something else I remember from living at home, not long after my face was the main story in the local paper after I outed the Bedfordshire FA Chief Executive as racist was my sister telling me I'm the kind of person who will always stand up for what they believe in. I've never really been comfortable with that label as it makes me sound a bit militant, but I suppose it's true as well. I've consistently had to bite my tongue recently on social media, not to get into hopeless arguments with randomers about Brexit and Trump et al, but in general I will mix those two family opinions into one.
Stand up for what you believe in, and do it by your own accord.
It also provides a bit of variety to life. I met with Stonewall today along with a friend of mine, to discuss initiatives to fight for LGBT equality in football, and I had no idea what I was talking about. Sure, I have experiences, not all of them good, but when it comes to this sort of thing, I am highly impatient. I want this to happen, and I want it to happen now. Luckily I had Ryan there to provide a professional approach in regards to research done and surveys etc. but I made no bones about the fact I still feel sour at being forced out of the game because I'm gay, (see roughly ten blogs back). I think that probably came across a bit too much, but it was a useful hour and we have a few avenues we can go down. Plus, of course, the network of contacts has increased by two, which is always extremely useful.
The wonderful lady I was meeting with seemed surprised that I had met on my day off, but I don't think I'd have it any other way. I tend to use my weekends to let loose, then let it all out while hungover but the working week is the working week. I feel like I need to justify my weekend jaunts by doing all I can in the week, which isn't the worst life plan in the world. I'm finding that the writing of said novel is the most difficult thing I've ever done in my life. Making sure the story is interesting, while simultaneously maintaining character traits, plot structure and historical context instead of just vomiting words on to a screen is a big challenge. So much so that I'm gearing towards forgetting historical context and trying to justify using artistic licence to let myself be a bit more creative with the storyline. My impatient nature doesn't fit very well with the careful and pinpoint process of fictional writing, but I'm getting there.
We plough on. I know none of this is going to come easy, for nothing ever does, but for those of you who are worried that I am doing too much, please don't. I sleep much more than the average person does yet still has the time to do all of this. It probably helps that I don't use my Netflix account and my recent Football Manager game corrupted. No distractions, apart from the large bar of chocolate in the fridge and the addiction to Australian soaps that I just cannot shift. Thankfully, Home & Away finishes at 6:30pm. My mind is free from then on...
I think it's true, that I do regularly work for a couple more hours per day than I'm supposed to, but it isn't excessive. I also have very few distractions. I live alone, I don't really find TV all that interesting and more recently I'm finding myself going to sleep at night wondering if I could always be doing more. My ultimate dream is to become a published novelist, but the book won't write itself. This past month or so, I've been lying in bed for hours wondering what it would be like to have your own book on the bookshelves of bookshops and libraries. Before I knew it, it was 2am and the alarm clock began wailing not long after. Another night wasted. I've made a bit of progress recently, finishing chapter 8 with aplomb on the train to London this afternoon.
One mantle I've used recently; probably the very first and most prominent thing my Dad taught me, was the phrase, "If you want something doing, do it yourself."
It makes complete sense. Also something else I remember from living at home, not long after my face was the main story in the local paper after I outed the Bedfordshire FA Chief Executive as racist was my sister telling me I'm the kind of person who will always stand up for what they believe in. I've never really been comfortable with that label as it makes me sound a bit militant, but I suppose it's true as well. I've consistently had to bite my tongue recently on social media, not to get into hopeless arguments with randomers about Brexit and Trump et al, but in general I will mix those two family opinions into one.
Stand up for what you believe in, and do it by your own accord.
It also provides a bit of variety to life. I met with Stonewall today along with a friend of mine, to discuss initiatives to fight for LGBT equality in football, and I had no idea what I was talking about. Sure, I have experiences, not all of them good, but when it comes to this sort of thing, I am highly impatient. I want this to happen, and I want it to happen now. Luckily I had Ryan there to provide a professional approach in regards to research done and surveys etc. but I made no bones about the fact I still feel sour at being forced out of the game because I'm gay, (see roughly ten blogs back). I think that probably came across a bit too much, but it was a useful hour and we have a few avenues we can go down. Plus, of course, the network of contacts has increased by two, which is always extremely useful.
The wonderful lady I was meeting with seemed surprised that I had met on my day off, but I don't think I'd have it any other way. I tend to use my weekends to let loose, then let it all out while hungover but the working week is the working week. I feel like I need to justify my weekend jaunts by doing all I can in the week, which isn't the worst life plan in the world. I'm finding that the writing of said novel is the most difficult thing I've ever done in my life. Making sure the story is interesting, while simultaneously maintaining character traits, plot structure and historical context instead of just vomiting words on to a screen is a big challenge. So much so that I'm gearing towards forgetting historical context and trying to justify using artistic licence to let myself be a bit more creative with the storyline. My impatient nature doesn't fit very well with the careful and pinpoint process of fictional writing, but I'm getting there.
We plough on. I know none of this is going to come easy, for nothing ever does, but for those of you who are worried that I am doing too much, please don't. I sleep much more than the average person does yet still has the time to do all of this. It probably helps that I don't use my Netflix account and my recent Football Manager game corrupted. No distractions, apart from the large bar of chocolate in the fridge and the addiction to Australian soaps that I just cannot shift. Thankfully, Home & Away finishes at 6:30pm. My mind is free from then on...
Thursday 9 February 2017
I'm Not Being Political on Social Media Anymore
We have reached an alarming stage guys.
I have a habit of opening my massive gob. If I see an injustice, most of which are visible on social media these days, I cannot help but to respond. I think it's the case for a lot of people but instead of discussing these issues 'mano e mano', we find ourselves in the technological age of Facebook and Twitter. People are far more confident behind their computer screens, resulting in more arguments with more ferocity and as we all know - words read off a screen can be misinterpreted.
Politically, we also find ourselves in a rocky place. The divisive nature of Brexit plus the even more divisive nature of Trump equal earthquakes. Find yourself agreeing with leaving the EU labels you immediately as a racist (which is wrong). Find yourself disagreeing with Brexit labels you as an airhead lefty fascist (which is wrong). There is no longer any middle ground.
I've found myself contributing to political conversations on social media recently, including on the same day I type this. Brexit. Our NHS. Trump. I can't help myself and people, perfectly within their rights, respond disagreeing. Cue discussion. Both of us, probably perfectly politely, put across our argument but something I have realised in recent times is that it is IMPOSSIBLE to win.
Picture the scene. I link a BBC article about longer waiting times in A&E, linking it to the Conservative government cutting spending in a bid to appease their austerity programme, (No - I'm not going to go into that). A fellow tweeter responds, wanting privatisation. Clash. Now, I can put across the most perfect argument, linking it with official figures and stats from the Department for Health, but the climate is now such that the other person can just respond with the line:
"Well the experts and the stats are wrong."
When did we get to a stage where we cannot respond to that? Three incorrect opinion polls around three of the most important political events of the last year (British General Election, US General Election & the EU Referendum) have somehow meant that people can cite that to reject ANY official figures regarding ANY topic whatsoever. And it's impossible to change their opinion.
Think about it. How many people, upon getting into a discussion on social media have accepted defeat and had their opinion changed? I'm willing to bet it's zero.
So what's the point? What's the point in engaging in discussion on any subject over a computer screen without being labelled as a right wing or left wing extremist and rejecting any evidence you may provide as "fake news". I've realised it only serves to increase your blood pressure and wind you up. So I'm going to TRY* and just not get involved any more. It's not worth it.
I suppose you could say I've been silenced. Beaten by people who hold a different opinion to me, but I would say that was harsh. If you want to debate these things in person, be my guest. I will participate, but not over social media. All it does is fester hate and lead to insult, and who wants to spend crucial thoughts wondering why you've been called a "Corbyn loving moron"?
* I say "try" as, like trying to resist playing just one more game on Football Manager, I may slip up!
I have a habit of opening my massive gob. If I see an injustice, most of which are visible on social media these days, I cannot help but to respond. I think it's the case for a lot of people but instead of discussing these issues 'mano e mano', we find ourselves in the technological age of Facebook and Twitter. People are far more confident behind their computer screens, resulting in more arguments with more ferocity and as we all know - words read off a screen can be misinterpreted.
Politically, we also find ourselves in a rocky place. The divisive nature of Brexit plus the even more divisive nature of Trump equal earthquakes. Find yourself agreeing with leaving the EU labels you immediately as a racist (which is wrong). Find yourself disagreeing with Brexit labels you as an airhead lefty fascist (which is wrong). There is no longer any middle ground.
I've found myself contributing to political conversations on social media recently, including on the same day I type this. Brexit. Our NHS. Trump. I can't help myself and people, perfectly within their rights, respond disagreeing. Cue discussion. Both of us, probably perfectly politely, put across our argument but something I have realised in recent times is that it is IMPOSSIBLE to win.
Picture the scene. I link a BBC article about longer waiting times in A&E, linking it to the Conservative government cutting spending in a bid to appease their austerity programme, (No - I'm not going to go into that). A fellow tweeter responds, wanting privatisation. Clash. Now, I can put across the most perfect argument, linking it with official figures and stats from the Department for Health, but the climate is now such that the other person can just respond with the line:
"Well the experts and the stats are wrong."
When did we get to a stage where we cannot respond to that? Three incorrect opinion polls around three of the most important political events of the last year (British General Election, US General Election & the EU Referendum) have somehow meant that people can cite that to reject ANY official figures regarding ANY topic whatsoever. And it's impossible to change their opinion.
Think about it. How many people, upon getting into a discussion on social media have accepted defeat and had their opinion changed? I'm willing to bet it's zero.
So what's the point? What's the point in engaging in discussion on any subject over a computer screen without being labelled as a right wing or left wing extremist and rejecting any evidence you may provide as "fake news". I've realised it only serves to increase your blood pressure and wind you up. So I'm going to TRY* and just not get involved any more. It's not worth it.
I suppose you could say I've been silenced. Beaten by people who hold a different opinion to me, but I would say that was harsh. If you want to debate these things in person, be my guest. I will participate, but not over social media. All it does is fester hate and lead to insult, and who wants to spend crucial thoughts wondering why you've been called a "Corbyn loving moron"?
* I say "try" as, like trying to resist playing just one more game on Football Manager, I may slip up!
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