Although it is obviously a terrible inditement of our so-called society that the mentally ill wander our streets with no-one to care for them, as a writer and comedian I find them fascinating. Perhaps they hold up a mirror to the fragility of our own sanity, often times by acting in ways that we, the sane (which isn't a very satisfactory definition of the majority of the populace), would be tempted to emulate if our brains didn't censor us and prevent us from looking as crazy as we all potentially are.
There seem to be a lot of people who spend most of their days standing in the street, shouting and swearing at passersby. I would love to be able to do that. There was one in Brighton last week, as I walked back to the train station, who yelled "you fucking whores" at a couple of perfectly respectable looking women who had done nothing more than walk past him. But who knows, he might have been right about them. It's not as if just being sensibly dressed means that you can't be a whore. If I had shouted that at a couple of strangers (and there's a part of me that would like to in a way) then I would have probably been arrested. But because the bloke was a nutcase (as the Sun might call him) he got away with it scot free. Never mind all those legions of beggars who are supposed to have a Mercedes round the corner and big mansions in the country (I don't believe that that ever happens), I wonder how many of these mentallists are actually respectable, married gentlemen or ladies from the City, who are fed up of their lives of obedience and politeness and so get a bit dirty, dress up in rags and pop down the local high street to vent some of their frustration on an unsuspecting populace.
Fuck going to a therapist. Most people's problems would be sorted out if they could just spend an hour a day questioning the sexual morality of perfect strangers or unleashing a string of expletives at innocent pensioners.
Not because any of what you were saying would be true. But just sometimes it is good to let yourself go, say the unsayable and clear your mind of all the murderous and violent and spiteful thoughts that pop into it during the week, which we suppress through a sense of decency and cooperation.
I suppose that interests me because in a way it's my job. To say stuff that wouldn't usually be said in public and act as a bit of a release valve for everyone involved. To acknowledge the darkness and madness in us all, and deflate its power by laughing at it.
Today as I and several other passengers walked down the steps out of the tube station, an old raggedy man was climbing up the stairs. He too was randomly swearing at us all, as if we were annoyances sent to haunt him. "Fuck you, you bitch" he screamed. Then mumbled something else to himself, his wild eyes filled with pain and fear and hatred.
But everyone just smirked to themselves at the crazy old man.
As he got to the top of the stairs he screeched "Shut up! Shut up, why don't you?"
As he was the only person making any noise this seemed particularly amusing to us, his unwilling audience (who were now at the bottom of the stairs and far away enough to laugh openly, and actually catch each others eyes to share the joke).
Though I don't think anyone was really laughing at the man's tragic situation and when you think about it you can't help concluding that the whole situation is nothing more than tragic, a tiny part of me envied his ability to tell the world to fuck off. Right to its stupid whorish face.
I'll try it now.
You're all cock sucking wankers.
Yep, feel a lot better.
It didn't seem to help the old man at the tube station though. He was just as cross at the top of the stairs as he was at the bottom.
Maybe this entry is not going to advance the cause of therapy or mental health very much.
