45 minutes spent standing up. Pulse rate reaching levels that would be regarded as unhealthy considering no exercise is being undertaken. And then, with barely seconds to go...
"YYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!"
60,000 people - minus a small black and white striped contingent and not including god knows how many others watching around the world - erupt in a single, united, delirious cheer. Hands that have been hovering nervously between the back of your head, in front of your mouth, and covering your eyes for the past 95 minutes are now waving madly and mindlessly in the air. You're jumping up and down, screaming like a person possessed, making noises that wouldn't be misunderstood by a caveman contemplating the most efficient way of ambushing a mammoth. Once the initial delirium has passed, the whole stadium finds itself singing at the tops of their voices. And, even after the final whistle blows and the players have left the field, red and white scarves are still being held in the air and everyone is beaming breathlessly.
And all because a defender that's spent most of the season injured has just managed to get a ball over a painted white line into the back of a net, meaning the boys have yet again managed to come from behind to win and are now just a single point behind their arch rivals.
If you read my last post, and stuck with it to the bitter end, you'll know that I am of course talking about the Arsenal boys.
I'm not going to take up the next four minutes of your life raving about how much I love them, swooning over the way they take their fans through the whole heartbreaking spectrum of emotions each game, each season, each transfer window. And I'm not going to go anywhere near the fact we've not won any silverware for the past seven years (...although the Emirates Cup counts, right?) If you really want to know how it feels to be an Arsenal fan, may I point you in the direction of Nick Hornby's Fever Pitch. He captures it far more eloquently than I ever could. The book actually served as therapy after a particularly harrowing 8-2 mauling earlier in the season... "Ah yes, that's why we put up with this shit year after year."
But after the euphoria of our (yes, that's right - "our") 2-1 win against Newcastle at home, I felt that this blog wouldn't be complete without a post that expanded just a smidgen on this joy of mine.
For the record, and for those that don't know me, let me just share with you that I am of the female persuasion (ie I'm a woman) and I am in my mid-20s. I know what the offside rule is, including the vagaries of the 'inactive' position. And, whilst I can't artfully dissect the tactics of a game like Andy Gray and his fancy-pants technology (at least, before that incident), I know enough to feel relieved when I see the boys remembering to press in midfield, or to feel nervous when the defence is holding their line a little too high up the field for comfort. In fact, by way of illusrating my commitment to Arsenal, watching a game at Craven Cottage for the first time - whilst surprisingly enjoyable - felt a little too close to adultery for my liking. Although it's not stopped me from taking it up as an infrequent guilty pleasure. Much like a mistress that you keep in a flat in the city for the odd sordid night away from the missus, before skulking back as you remember just how much you actually love your spouse, and should probably stop taking them for granted.
I passionately disagree with the sentiment that just because I enjoy football I'm a boy (if you're reading this, you know who you are) and hopefully I'm living proof that not all football fans are mindless hooligans. Oh yes, it may seem impossible, but a love of football can indeed originate from the same heart and mind that loves reading books and going to museums. The lady in question that calls me a boy whenever I get a little too vocal about Arsenal is a very bright (if somewhat gullible) young person. By the end of the game I took her to, she was chanting "Robin van Persie!" at the top of her voice and telling the referee precisely why he was doing such a poor job, completely swept away in the joy of the experience.
I'm not going to attempt to unpick the pyschology of the person who willingly spends their hard-earned money on tacky-looking memorabilia, questionable stadium food, and would willingly risk valued relationships rather than miss a game. And I'm not going to touch on the dangerous nature of mob mentality. Nor do I condone the disgraceful violence (physical and verbal) that some seem to think is acceptable when faced with opposing fans, or indeed a dodgy referring decision.
Nonetheless, there is something very pure about the moment your team creates those little moments of beauty; that cheeky little back heel, that stunning volley, an intricate weaving around countless defenders, or short and sweet tic tac toe (or 'Ole!') football. And it's the same whether you're an Arsenal fan, a Sunday League fan, or in fact any type of sports fan. Rationally, you know it's silly, meaningless and that you shouldn't be expending so much emotional energy on something you have absolutely no control over. But my god. It feels good, doesn't it?
Monday, 26 March 2012
Sunday, 11 March 2012
A pause to reflect and wax lyrical
A little navel-gazing never hurt anyone (unless done whilst driving at high speeds), so I figure it's about time I actually wrote a little bit on what this blog is all about. Mentally prepare yourself for some seriously philosophical musing.
My first post aside — I still twitch everytime the toddler reaches for the music player — I've thus far waxed lyrical on: the serendipity that can ensue when you take your headphones out; those of us that have a fetish for stationery; and, of course, advocated abusing your books.
The name of this blog, L'art de Vivre, wasn't chosen because I enjoy throwing around the odd French phrase to try and make myself sound cultured and worldly, a la Del Boy or various others (see what I did there, surreptitiously throwing in a sweet little "a la" in the hope no-one would notice?). And if the occasion does call for use of a non-English phrase, I hope and I pray that I resist the temptation to attempt to say it in its proper accent, thus trying to be respectful of the language yet somehow unintentionally achieving a mild form of racism ('l'esprit de l'escalier' is a particularly beautiful phrase, although I've not yet had the guts to try to use it).
Instead I chose L'art de Vivre because the concept of the 'the art of living' is one that truly struck a chord with me. All joking aside, surely there's enough that's serious and depressing in this world and in our daily lives without not stopping to truly enjoy and recognise the things that make us happy every now and again. And then giving ourselves the permission to actually enjoy them. So this is what I'm trying to get at with my monologues on fountain pens, paperbacks and talking to strangers in coffee shops. These are things that I, and others that I know, get enjoyment out of but don't necessarily always acknowledge that we do so.
I first stumbled across the phrase l'art de vivre in a post about detaching yourself from your work last year:
I've always enjoyed the 'small things' and joked about the fact that I'm easily pleased by simple pleasures. It's when you suddenly find yourself smiling at something in the moment: an experience, an emotion, something you've heard or something you've seen. It comes out of the blue, and it's the recognition that you unexpectedly feel a little lighter on your feet, have taken a deep breath at the pleasure of it, are smiling to yourself, and for a few seconds that you were completely immersed in the experience, all other thoughts let go of. I never thought much of it but, actually, aren't these the little moments that keep us sane, keep us from getting completely caught up in the various stresses of daily life? That — dare I suggest it — make us happy?
I'm not necessarily advocating living the sort of hedonistic life that Oscar Wilde's Dorian Gray himself would have blushed at; we all have our own moral compasses, and they guide what we choose to do and the way we are with the people around us. As long as you're not harming others, I reckon live and let live. And I'm not naiive enough to think that all the world's ills would be cured if only we all allowed ourselves a two-hour bath on the odd occasion. I'm also painfully aware that this comes across as a particularly privileged way of looking at the world. But one of the things that struck me when reading Gregory David Roberts' Shantaram was the unshakeable happiness of Prabu, Roberts' happy-go-lucky guide to life in Mumbai, despite living in one of India's notorious slums. Again, I'm not romantacising the harsh realities of life. I'm simply saying that whatever our circumstances, whatever our bank balances, whether we live in a remote village or a bustling city, surely there can be no harm in pausing to recognise the happiness a piece of bread dipped in oil can bring us, or when the sun shines closing our eyes and turning our faces to the sky, or if it's raining then fleetingly enjoying the feel of that before we run for cover?
One of my all-time favourite books, The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery, was given to me as a present by my cousin and is an all-time favourite precisely because it reminds us what it is to see the world through the eyes of a child. As one of my brother's observed on Twitter when the snow hit London earlier this year:
As I was mulling over what I wanted to write in this post last week, I stumbled across an article by Robert Crampton entitled Beta male: a few of my favourite things (I may as well be honest seeing as we're talking about small joys - I was flipping through The Times Magazine on the loo, as I'd left my iPhone elsewhere. Admit it. We all do it). This is basically a list of things that make Crampton happy. At first I was a little peeved, as he's basically done what I'm doing in this blog and most likely gotten paid for it, albeit my ramblings are a lot less succinct and I'm not a recognised journalist, or a journalist at all for that matter. Even more blasphemously he finishes off the article with what will hopefully be a familiar sentiment by now, saying that these are all unimportant things that he enjoys but that it's the small things that matter, particularly as you get older. The heathen! The thief! Then to make matters even worse, my very own 'beta male' friend said yesterday, totally unprompted and without influence from me or Crompton, his next post is going to be on the things that make him happy. Is there no end to the intellectual thievery!
Seriously though, both those encounters actually made me feel that warmness when you've suddenly recognised a kindred spirit. That someone else looks at the world, at least partly, in a similar way to you and isn't afraid to go out and say what it is that makes them happy.
So that's my tome for this week over, normal service shall now resume with what will most likely be a post on photography once I sit down to write it.
In the meantime, here's my own quick list of a small number of things that bring me uncomplicated joy, just off the top of my head:
The mini daffodils that pop up in the most unlikely of places this time of year. The smell and feel of clean sheets on a bed. A clever turn of phrase, linking old ideas together in new ways to make new ideas, surreal banter between friends that goes off on tangents. Seeing strangers talk to each other or help each other in a way that respects that we're all human as opposed to asking them to "please move down the carriage", or simply brushing past each other. The way that the girlfriend of one of my brothers enters some weird and wonderful place of childlike joy when she's overtired, coming up with all sorts of fantastic ideas and phrases. The heart-breaking comfort of holding a baby or a toddler, or seeing the look of mischievous joy on the faces of children let loose on the wary public. The joy of handing back said baby or toddler or knowing that those children high on sugar running around the cafe aren't mine. The witty phrases and observations my mother comes out with, watching my grandmother knit cardigans and hats for her two great granddaughters, the crude jokes my grandfather makes, the crude jokes my father makes. Overhearing my brother practice the guitar in another room, catching my other brother's eye in recognition of an unspoken shared thought. Crossing over Tower Bridge after work with the right song playing in my ears. The feeling of doing precisely whatever it is that I want to be doing and the knowledge that no-one I know is actually aware of where I am and that at that moment I have no-one to answer to. Spending time away from the world totally immersed in a book. Summer evenings on the porch with my best friend and a bottle (or two) of wine and Haribo Tangfastics. The suddenness of realising we've both just cackled together in exactly the same way at a funny joke or idea. Arsenal playing their beautiful football. Thierry Henry.
... I'd better stop as this is becoming more than a little self-indulgent. If I were to say to you, "Tell me something that brings you pure joy, tell me right now. Go!" what's the first thing that comes to you? What are the many things that come to you? (Steady now). There's an unassuming comment box below if the mood grabs you to write them down.
My first post aside — I still twitch everytime the toddler reaches for the music player — I've thus far waxed lyrical on: the serendipity that can ensue when you take your headphones out; those of us that have a fetish for stationery; and, of course, advocated abusing your books.
The name of this blog, L'art de Vivre, wasn't chosen because I enjoy throwing around the odd French phrase to try and make myself sound cultured and worldly, a la Del Boy or various others (see what I did there, surreptitiously throwing in a sweet little "a la" in the hope no-one would notice?). And if the occasion does call for use of a non-English phrase, I hope and I pray that I resist the temptation to attempt to say it in its proper accent, thus trying to be respectful of the language yet somehow unintentionally achieving a mild form of racism ('l'esprit de l'escalier' is a particularly beautiful phrase, although I've not yet had the guts to try to use it).
Instead I chose L'art de Vivre because the concept of the 'the art of living' is one that truly struck a chord with me. All joking aside, surely there's enough that's serious and depressing in this world and in our daily lives without not stopping to truly enjoy and recognise the things that make us happy every now and again. And then giving ourselves the permission to actually enjoy them. So this is what I'm trying to get at with my monologues on fountain pens, paperbacks and talking to strangers in coffee shops. These are things that I, and others that I know, get enjoyment out of but don't necessarily always acknowledge that we do so.
I first stumbled across the phrase l'art de vivre in a post about detaching yourself from your work last year:
A French colleague once explained l'art de vivre (the art of living) to me. Enjoying small things on a daily basis — such as good bread, a favourite café, lovely flowers, using a nice pen, a brisk walk home, reading a book to your child, dinner with your partner, an hour to yourself with a glass of wine...And just reading that little snippet, something inside me sparked in the way it does when you suddenly hear a new idea that subtly changes the way you look at the world, that shifts something fundamental within you. The other two phrases I referred to in my first post were: la dolce vita, which I came across in the book Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert (which, for the record, I didn't particularly enjoy) and means the good life, a life full of pleasure and indulgence; and a flâneur, which rather beautifully refers to the activity of walking the streets of a city in order to experience it, and is a notion I learned of in my undergraduate History degree. This triumvirate of concepts — enjoying the small things in life; living a life of pleasure; and truly experiencing a city by wandering aimlessly through its streets — have stayed with me. Funnily enough, on hearing them they gave me a feeling of joy that I'm trying to get across here. And so when it came to thinking through what I resolved to do in 2012, living my life more by these three little philosophies seemed as good a way to go as any.
I've always enjoyed the 'small things' and joked about the fact that I'm easily pleased by simple pleasures. It's when you suddenly find yourself smiling at something in the moment: an experience, an emotion, something you've heard or something you've seen. It comes out of the blue, and it's the recognition that you unexpectedly feel a little lighter on your feet, have taken a deep breath at the pleasure of it, are smiling to yourself, and for a few seconds that you were completely immersed in the experience, all other thoughts let go of. I never thought much of it but, actually, aren't these the little moments that keep us sane, keep us from getting completely caught up in the various stresses of daily life? That — dare I suggest it — make us happy?
I'm not necessarily advocating living the sort of hedonistic life that Oscar Wilde's Dorian Gray himself would have blushed at; we all have our own moral compasses, and they guide what we choose to do and the way we are with the people around us. As long as you're not harming others, I reckon live and let live. And I'm not naiive enough to think that all the world's ills would be cured if only we all allowed ourselves a two-hour bath on the odd occasion. I'm also painfully aware that this comes across as a particularly privileged way of looking at the world. But one of the things that struck me when reading Gregory David Roberts' Shantaram was the unshakeable happiness of Prabu, Roberts' happy-go-lucky guide to life in Mumbai, despite living in one of India's notorious slums. Again, I'm not romantacising the harsh realities of life. I'm simply saying that whatever our circumstances, whatever our bank balances, whether we live in a remote village or a bustling city, surely there can be no harm in pausing to recognise the happiness a piece of bread dipped in oil can bring us, or when the sun shines closing our eyes and turning our faces to the sky, or if it's raining then fleetingly enjoying the feel of that before we run for cover?
One of my all-time favourite books, The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery, was given to me as a present by my cousin and is an all-time favourite precisely because it reminds us what it is to see the world through the eyes of a child. As one of my brother's observed on Twitter when the snow hit London earlier this year:
The momentHe's 23 years old. I think we run the risk of losing this sense of wonder as soon as we refuse to recognise what the small things are that bring us a few seconds of joy before we resume our daily grind, whatever form that may take — both the few seconds of joy and the daily grind.#snow no longer instils a sense of giddy joy in you is the moment you become a legitimate adult#whoopforfrozenwaterintheair
As I was mulling over what I wanted to write in this post last week, I stumbled across an article by Robert Crampton entitled Beta male: a few of my favourite things (I may as well be honest seeing as we're talking about small joys - I was flipping through The Times Magazine on the loo, as I'd left my iPhone elsewhere. Admit it. We all do it). This is basically a list of things that make Crampton happy. At first I was a little peeved, as he's basically done what I'm doing in this blog and most likely gotten paid for it, albeit my ramblings are a lot less succinct and I'm not a recognised journalist, or a journalist at all for that matter. Even more blasphemously he finishes off the article with what will hopefully be a familiar sentiment by now, saying that these are all unimportant things that he enjoys but that it's the small things that matter, particularly as you get older. The heathen! The thief! Then to make matters even worse, my very own 'beta male' friend said yesterday, totally unprompted and without influence from me or Crompton, his next post is going to be on the things that make him happy. Is there no end to the intellectual thievery!
Seriously though, both those encounters actually made me feel that warmness when you've suddenly recognised a kindred spirit. That someone else looks at the world, at least partly, in a similar way to you and isn't afraid to go out and say what it is that makes them happy.
So that's my tome for this week over, normal service shall now resume with what will most likely be a post on photography once I sit down to write it.
In the meantime, here's my own quick list of a small number of things that bring me uncomplicated joy, just off the top of my head:
The mini daffodils that pop up in the most unlikely of places this time of year. The smell and feel of clean sheets on a bed. A clever turn of phrase, linking old ideas together in new ways to make new ideas, surreal banter between friends that goes off on tangents. Seeing strangers talk to each other or help each other in a way that respects that we're all human as opposed to asking them to "please move down the carriage", or simply brushing past each other. The way that the girlfriend of one of my brothers enters some weird and wonderful place of childlike joy when she's overtired, coming up with all sorts of fantastic ideas and phrases. The heart-breaking comfort of holding a baby or a toddler, or seeing the look of mischievous joy on the faces of children let loose on the wary public. The joy of handing back said baby or toddler or knowing that those children high on sugar running around the cafe aren't mine. The witty phrases and observations my mother comes out with, watching my grandmother knit cardigans and hats for her two great granddaughters, the crude jokes my grandfather makes, the crude jokes my father makes. Overhearing my brother practice the guitar in another room, catching my other brother's eye in recognition of an unspoken shared thought. Crossing over Tower Bridge after work with the right song playing in my ears. The feeling of doing precisely whatever it is that I want to be doing and the knowledge that no-one I know is actually aware of where I am and that at that moment I have no-one to answer to. Spending time away from the world totally immersed in a book. Summer evenings on the porch with my best friend and a bottle (or two) of wine and Haribo Tangfastics. The suddenness of realising we've both just cackled together in exactly the same way at a funny joke or idea. Arsenal playing their beautiful football. Thierry Henry.
... I'd better stop as this is becoming more than a little self-indulgent. If I were to say to you, "Tell me something that brings you pure joy, tell me right now. Go!" what's the first thing that comes to you? What are the many things that come to you? (Steady now). There's an unassuming comment box below if the mood grabs you to write them down.
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