Confession: I used to be an avid user of the dating website. To call it a confession is seemingly to insinuate a pervasive sense of guilt embedded in such an act, which is to me the very essence of online dating. As we heap high hopes in the Internet to facilitate our perhaps stagnant and stale romantic life, we must simultaneously deny this very mortifying fact of our loneliness and singlehood, and therefore online dating suddenly becomes a sabbath sort of unholy, sinful ritual that cannot be committed under the broad daylight. Rather, it remains at the dark corner in your browser's history, along with other sordid truths.
My memory does not serve on the total number of dating sites I have signed up to, but I am rather confident that none of my mates have seen my profiles. To the fortunate some who happen to be in a relationship, my diligent attempts to seek love unimpressively exudes the stench of desperation and pitifulness. To all the "smug couples", to employ Bridget Jones' jargon, don't you ever use a career website when you are unemployed. Why should you? Isn't it all quite equally desperate and pathetic? What kind of lunacy is this?
Yet the ultimate reason that drove me off the dating site habit is that it increasingly reminds me of job application. Well indeed, to create a profile would mean to fill out your own detailed CV outlining your strengths, career romantic aspiration, expected salary matches, and availability, coupled by sometimes a cover letter where you demonstrate your eloquence and creativity to impress the HR manager potential date. When you approach you must as well deploy the correct tone and vocabulary just in order to construct the desired image. Nevertheless, the depressing part, as well as what I have most experience in, is when your application is ruthlessly rejected. Perhaps not entirely ruthless as in receiving caustic, savage comments, but somehow just disregarded, as "only shortlisted applicants will be notified". Confident as I usually am, these premature debacles did bring me moments of feeling awfully unwanted, unloved and unwelcomed, especially when you have the identical picture in your actual job hunting. In short, unnecessarily unbearable.
Perhaps it's just me, for I have seen quite a good number of successful cases of virtual dating turning into a verisimilar, healthy relationship in reality. Good for them. Perhaps I am simply typing this lengthy rant out of unknowing jealousy.
If you are an observant mate of mine, you should have realised my noticeably frequent use of the washroom. While the reason is purely biological, this inconvenient fact has invited numerous suspicions since I was a kid.
For example, my teachers raised their disapproving brows to my request to be excused every time. They mostly believed that I was rather testing the possibility to sneak out from the classroom, hence the refusal. Completely comprehensible, yet the result was unbearably inhumane. Many a time I suffered through the class trying all my might not to spill and experience a premature social downfall, while the effort was unfortunately frustrated by those dastardly mates who suddenly bursted into a train of best jokes with all keenness, lest you shouldn't erupt.
Learnt it in the hard way, I have become diligently self-conscious about my own fluid intake, especially when I am uncertain about the W/C availability in the surroundings. Nobody could be more thoroughly clear that even the tiniest form of incautious liquid indulgence could lead to the the worst social and physical nightmare....
Now, with all these background-setting information, let me tell you my experience the other day in London. They story begins in the afternoon of the penultimate day of my trip. I was by then pretty much a relaxed and nonchalant tourist who had been thoroughly desensitised by the holiday ambiance. Having planned nothing for the day, I decided to ramble in Central London, where I would walk from Regent's Park to as far as the Thames.
Even though the sun wasn't as scorching as it was when I first arrived, the walking slowly dehydrated me, and I thought it would be a lovely idea to explore a tiny snack shop. So there I went, expectant and craving, in front of the drinks section, and was delightfully confused by the wide spectrum of choices from the thickest milkshake to the purest mineral water. While I thought plain water would be rather unexciting, I chose the 1.5L (*grim*)Volvo Orange and Peach Flavoured Water, which I had tried and was very content with the refreshingly authentic hint of fruitiness. With all eagerness I went to the cashier, tossed a pound, twisted the cap open, and avidly downed the tasty substance. Content and literally, ful(l)-filled.
Traumatising
Stepping out of the shop in Charing Cross, I resumed my wandering toward the Thames. As I arrived at Westminster, the old familiar feeling kicked in - I wanted to pee!
"Good Lord. How much did I drink?" I finally woke up to the most unwanted nature's call and questioned myself.
Then I checked the bottle in my hand, almost collapsed to see only 1/3 of the amount left. This wasn't any challenging math for even a math-idiot like myself, for I was very positive that 1000ml of water was in my very body, furiously tiding towards the most expected destination. Not Thames, but you know where. The sensation intensified exponentially by seconds, while all I could do on the spot was to weakly utter: "Oh crap."
It was state emergency. My animal instinct was therefore once again all eagle-eyed for any male signs around. As you may know that Westminster is a hardcore tourist spot, meaning it's constantly packed with people way taller than me. Seeking a sign suddenly became a mission impossible...
Though, my frantic search seemed suddenly hopeful with a male sign ahead radiating the holy light of blue. I rushed forward in a gesture seeming somewhat inevitably awkward. 'It wasn't so bad. And I must learn from this and never drink in my life again ever.' Logic obviously failed to apply when the body was in paramount need.
Oh no. It was a PAID loo. Worse, my pockets remained empty despite my hysterically desperate search. No magical moment. World is cruel. Life is a failure. Existence is futile.
In fact I had a £20 pound note with me, which however became altogether irrelevant. What should/could I do in a neighbourhood where there are only posh restaurants and the only loo I found is so mercilessly demanding? Disappointed, I decided to turn around and trace the steps back to Charing Cross, hoping I could possibly use the National Portrait Gallery's W/C. 'Could', I must emphasise, for there was absolutely no guarantee when my might would fail.
Torn between the actual acuity of biological frustration and the feigned, self-fooling determination, I passed by St. James Park, knowing that my saving grace wasn't too far away. 'If there's a park there must be a loo.' My brain feebly struggled to squeeze out the last drop of logic. Not bothered to waste a second, I even audaciously approached a respectable-looking businessman and begged: 'I'm terribly sorry. Do you know where the nearest loo is?' (British apologeticsm in check) 'Oh yes! I think it's over there.' He pointed into a distance, as my eyes obediently followed to an appalling revelation. I apparently forgot about the spatial definition of an English 'park' - The loo was almost a kilometer away. My face contorted into a grimace, and my body was telling me the bomb would go off in 1 minute. If Exodus ever needed a modern adaptation, this would be it.
The very 1 minute felt like forever, in which all kinds of emotions were ground up - anger, helplessness, determination, anticipation, frustration, fear, desperation, etc, etc. I was almost in happy tears when I eventually saw the loo sign, entered, unzipped, and regained myself. My eyes were shut, but I was happily envisaging the Niagara Falls:
Sweet Jesus
As I stepped out of the loo, pretty much a broken man, I suddenly remembered a short video in which my classmate played a character. Poor thing... I have complete em/sympathy for her:
For those who might be rather impatient with my sluggish update schedule, you are very much welcome to have a sneak peek at the photos first. That said, you will have an even better experience with my further little stories accompanying the photos! So please stay tuned!
If your memory still serves, I request you to recall the opening ceremony of Beijing Olympics 2008, which shouldn't be too difficult a task given its impressive brilliance. I still remember that night four years ago, when I watched it at home with my family, utterly speechless and in awe. Just in the unlikely case of premature dementia, here it is:
The flawlessly sychronised mass choreography, the billions-invested fantastic digital effects, the little girl in red serenading with her tender voice, etc, etc. Everything could be concluded by one word - spectacular. Despite the subsequent embarrassing discovery that the voice didn't belong to the little pretty singer , which is quite comprehensible and if not expected under the context of China, the ceremony did not seem to have failed to amaze and astonish.
Cultural critics loathed it though, accusing the whole extravaganza a mere spectacle that empties the lived experience into a hollow, two-dimensional, commodified representation that represents inaccurately. In other words, it's all fake, it's after all yet another show to be consumed globally.
BUT - and thats a big but - the fact is that even rewatching the ceremony on Youtube still sends chills down my spine. I might be nationally biased, but I honestly couldn't name any subsequent events that are comparable to such opulent grandeur -
Until I watched the Diamond Jubilee Concert live when I was in England. It didn't come under the package of high-technology or awe-inspiring spatial vastness. Well in fact the stage was rather tiny, and some performer choices questionable (e.g. JLS). However, as I watched the Brits sing God Saves the Queen and Land of Hope and Glory, the same old chill seized me. It was at that moment when I began to anticipate the opening ceremony of London Olympics.
That said, I am not expecting yet another ceremony surpassing China's in terms of magnificence, which in my opinion is only an ill-advised attempt in terms of feasibility and budget. I was therefore quite certain that the committee would perhaps opt for a more British (i.e. humble and subtle) alternative to avoid direct comparisons.
Well indeed, when the ceremony details were revealed, I wasn't surprised at all that they will be showcasing livestock, meadow, cricket, and most importantly, rain:
If you still remember, one of the biggest bewilderments in Beijing Olymipics was the attempt to artificially clear out the sky. The british way here is ironically reverse in that they will chemically manufacture cloud and rain, making sure that the spectator will have a taste of the ultimate British experience. But honestly, wouldn't that only be redundant?
It might be called a spectacle, but the study of which will tell us numerous things about a culture's imaginaries. And I must say that I am utterly thrilled to watch how they will cleverly maneuver sheep and clouds to redefine British-ness.
Etiquette is known to be a time-honoured virture proudly shared by the Brits, who, as I have been told since childhood, cannot hold a conversation without saying "Thanks (or cheers)" and "please", and cannot blame people without being apologetic. Despite this understanding that I was heading to "the United Kingdom of Courtesy", I couldn't help feeling delightfully surprised at the decorum I observed in everyday details.
The pigeons there, however, didn't seem to have the slightest share of such refinement. Numerically speaking, pigeons possibly surpass quite a lot of "raical minorities" in London as a humongous community. The horrid fact is that they are completely unabided by any cultural codes, which is, if you personify them, comparable to a mob which blatantly rules the streets.
One morning I was walking down to Green Park from Picadilly Circus, taking in the pleasant warmth from the rare sunlight, humming songs and imagining myself as some sort of male romantic lead in an artsy film. Suddenly, a giant flying object approached me at a velocity faster than I could decipher. Its flight aimed precisely at my head, as I expected an unfortunate collision with that intruder. There, before I could react more wittingly than freezing still, the object, which turned out to be a bird upon a 0.5m close-up, tore past me and slabbed my face with its wing. Oh yes - that pigeon SLABBED me. My knee-jerk reaction was to turn back at lightning speed, hoping to destroy the diabolical creature with my disapproving glare. It was, however and of course, futile.
Blatantly evil
Standing in the street and still recollecting my composure, I was a tad disoriented - should I be embarrassed or furious because of that abusive pegion? I know how ludicrous it sounds to you, but very seriously, failing to retaliate, even just with a glare or any forms of visual disgruntlements, was beyond frustrating. I do not remember those tiny sparrows in HK ever misbehaving in equal obnoxiousness!
In the rest of my days in London, I remained constantly vigilant against any suspicious avian terrorist attacks. Curious to know if I was the only unfortunate case, I told my friends this story. We then reached the agreement that pigeons in London are unabashedly aggressive, and should be sent to correctional camps.
