SCABs

Being my own Osman – By @gringojoe96

By Joe Ribton

 

Being my own Osman

Several speedy weeks in, and I can feel my terminator-esque analytical muscles begin to flex whenever I’m on the tube, bus or highstreet and spot an ad that doesn’t appease my new-found SCA standards. As we all know, there’s a lot more “off with its head” than “I’d take that to bed”, but at least now I can understand why. One thing I’m transfixed on analysing, after this weeks’ reading, is the positioning of brands. That book was a car crash of a read, I honestly felt locked out of it whenever I attempted more than a few pages, the outdated analogies, irrelevant examples and unapproachable language was as big of a turn off as they come. That said, I have convinced myself I know what positioning means, and utilise my half knowledge with the brash boldness of someone who read the whole bloody book.

This is a symptom of my wider lack of self-examination. I’ve been very bad at telling myself I’m wrong, I’m a proud person who won’t admit he never really worked out the right context to use ‘poignant’ in. I need a little Richard Osman sat on my shoulder, styled just like he is in Pointless, fact checking my every move. One thing I’ve rediscovered about myself is how I rush to try and impose what I read and learn, and often just scramble myself. Tiny Richard (lol) could also give me facts, remind me to not write my scabs last minute and help decode the quantum science that is strategy Fridays. He could also keep harassing me to do all those projects I set myself, like giving away all the female sanitary products in waitrose and turning Brixton station into a zoetrope.

Now I’d like to interrupt your local broadcasting schedule to try something else. As an addendum to each of my scabs for the rest of the year I am going to write a part of an ongoing story, these will be influenced by weird dreams or thoughts, and will border on the nonsensical.

Part 1: (In which I construct a narrative out of a dream that made me re-download Spotify premium at 3 in the morning, a dream I had when I was very young that I thought was a real life injury for the next 15 years or so, and a dream I had a couple of years ago that actually did end up with a real life injury).

The night was sticky, how did I end up here? Where on earth even is here? Is it Earth? The light green walls vibrate and massage my soul, pulsating as a figure saunters towards me. I should be confused or lost, but I’m right where I should be – I’m floating. I ask “what is your name?” to the figure, who I can now make out is a woman with tendril-like medusa hair. She bends and whispers into my ear as her thick electric cable hair softly crackles as it probes my scalp. She replies “I’m Spotify premium…”

I exhale dramatically

Suddenly, I’m tipped backwards and am somersaulting my way down roughly carpeted stairs. I can feel the burns and scratches of the straw and the wood underneath. I hurtle down, knowing that the tiled floor at the end meant a meaty smack followed by darkness. I fly off the bottom step, embracing that this was the end.

But I miss the floor.

I’m in free fall. The air around me is cloud whistling in my wake. I can see the ground rushing up, flat with a dull grassy hue – no escape. No soft landing. I’ve been teased long enough, so I shut my eyes and await impact. My ears rumble and pop, when will I hit? When’s it coming? I can’t stand the anticipation. I open my eyes, just a slither, and BAM

Joe jolts up, everything is dark, it’s the middle of the night, his shoulder is dislocated again.

“For fuck’s sake”. 

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