Cracking Open a Big Can of Worms with the Lads

Via @noironyintended on Twitter


With the 2017 General Election but weeks away, the prospective leaders of our country are hard at work answering the big questions or making so many u-turns that they are akin to a malfunctioning bumper car. But whilst many questions must be asked about economic proposals and whether “strong and stable” is just a meaningless soundbite used by idiots to feel smart, nobody is asking the big question: Do you crack open a cold one with the boys, or do you have a fuckin’ big bag of cans with the lads.

This question, I think you’ll all agree is possibly the biggest dilemma that has ever faced our nation, and it’s one that needs answering, pronto! So for this blog, and this blog only, call me David Dimblebutler, because it’s Question Time, y’all!

First we must consider the key concepts of both statements; cracking open a cold one with the boys always sounds delightful, the feel of cold aluminium as you pull the ring back and krk-shhh as your cold one is cracked open, and the chilled, soothing amber liquid slowly runs down your throat. It’s undoubtable as well that a cold one with the boys is always a welcome sentiment. “Boys” is a general term and means anybody of any gender, inclusive drinking for everyone. 

However, a few faults are to be found within this very sentiment. Yes, you are with the boys, which is equivalent to a modern day Valhalla, but you are having a cold one. One. Singular. Do you mean to say that after an incredibly long day with your nose at the grindstone that you’re merely going to have a cold one with your boys? Have a few cold ones, get a crate in, get them in the fridge and tell some stories. Don’t have a singular cold one, awkwardly look at your watch and make your excuses as you hastily exit the premises, sit down and take a load off your feet. They are your boys, after all. It also implies that you have brought your own personal beer and will not be sharing the wealth of your amber delights with your comrades. Any good sesh fiend, gremlin and attendee knows the value of bringing communal beer. Nothing says “friendship” more than “beer in the fridge mate, help yourself”. Whilst we live in scant, austere times, finding a reasonable offer on an 18 pack should always be at the forefront of our minds. Some may not have access to cold ones, which is where you step in to provide. 

Whilst the sheer pleasure of cracking open a cold one crosses generations, genders and gene pools, even those who make the confusing choice not to drink beer can even enjoy cracking open a cold, non-alcoholic, one on a hot summers day and enjoy it with their boys, the statement that you are simply having one is problematic. The way around this? Try to say that you are cracking open a few cold ones with your boys. That implies that you’re in this for the long run! Crack open a pack of playing cards, get a Spotify queue on the go and slip into your drinkin’ trousers, you’re with the boys!

Now we move on to a big fuckin’ bag of cans for/with the lads. This is not only the original concept of sharing beer with the boys, but it implies that the big bag of cans is for all the lads. The big bag of cans is mobile as well. Cracking open a cold one requires some form of refrigeration, and can be considered incredibly static, where as a big bag of cans doesn’t require refrigeration, just the lads to enjoy them. The enjoyment of said cans can vary when in an unrefrigerated environment, which makes can choice paramount, whereas chilled cans of any variety remain enjoyable. However, it is not the temperature of the cans that is important, but the pleasure of the company of the lads. 

A big huge fuckin’ bag of cans can be enjoyed anywhere, from your local park to a wide scale music festival, a big bag of cans will always be a welcome experience, meaning that all the lads can share in its alcoholic bounty. Referring back to an earlier point, some lads may not be able to afford cans, which is where you, a responsible and caring lad can make sure this lad does not go without adequate refreshment. Your lad may be anyone from your pal Smithy to your local priest to Mrs Goggins who lives down the road and hasn’t been the same since her husband passed on: it is your duty to provide cans for the lads. 

However, as pointed out by notable internet shitposter, Clara Lilley, founder of Sex and the Cityposting on Facebook, the boys focuses on the social element of the sesh, where as a big bag of cans focuses on the property, the goods, the capital. But, with that in consideration and taking the two statements at face value, a big bag of cans with/for the lads implies that the property is being equally distributed and the refreshing wealth is being shared, where as a cold one with, not for the boys implies that that is your personal property and you shan’t be sharing any of your cans with your lads, denying them an equal refreshment opportunity. You are not duty bound to share your cans, but there’s something not quite right about denying someone a can. 

That being said, as mentioned earlier, if you are cracking open a few cold ones with your boys, there is a likelihood that you have either a) combined your shared wealth to buy an ample supply of cans or b) bought enough cans for the boys, either is acceptable. 

Some are quick to denounce cracking open a cold one with the boys as blasphemy compared to a big huge fuckin’ bag of cans with the lads, but both carry the same message of coming together with the lads, or boys to enjoy a few cans in any location, which carries the messsage of a united society that bonds over the good times that can be he when sharing a few cans. In an age where hate and evil seeks to divide us, reach through the firewall of hate to offer your fellow lad a can.

VERDICT

Whilst both statements imply comradeship, a big fuckin’ huge bag of cans with the lads is the original concept, and can be enjoyed by anyone in any location. Round up your lads, round up your cans and get sharing. If you do decide that cracking open a cold one with the boys is your preferred method of beverage consumption, I shan’t stand in your way. You have chosen a different path and while I struggle to understand, I respect you, and shall raise a huge fuckin’ big bag of cans to you. 

Advertisements

Owning Your Unokayness

Piers Morgan, being the chuntering waste of cum that he is, decreed last week that when faced with a mental health issue, the men of Britain should just get a stiff upper lip and “man up”. Which, I think you’ll agree, is probably one of the fucking stupidest and most toxic things possible to ever pass the brain filter and fall into the festering bucket of screaming twats that is Twitter (apologies to all my Twitter followers).

So I’m here to tell you that being told to “man up” is the worst possible advice to give someone struggling with a mental health issue, whether they’re a man, woman, non-binary, trans or whatever, “manning up” just simply isn’t an issue, Your body and your mind is a finite space, and when there’s no more room left to store your problems, there’s every chance you’ll start to malfunction.

Probably for a good chunk of the last few years, I’ve struggled with depression and anxiety, to the point that roughly two years ago exactly, it got to the point where I was about to call it a day and find out if heaven was more than a DJ Sammy song. I’d gotten to the point that the only option I had was to end my own life, because the way things were, being honest and upfront about the fact I was teetering on the edge just wasn’t an option.

The main peak of my mental shitehousery stems from being in a somewhat abusive relationship for around a year and a half. I don’t know what your definition of “abusive” may be, but I’d certainly argue that having your nose bent out of shape by your pissed up girlfriend, with smatterings of being told that you’re hated, plus being screamed at, might be a bit abusive. At the end of that, the reality of the last 18 or so months began to sink in, the fact that I’d essentially started to waste away mentally, whilst looking like a bloated corpse phyiscally. My weight had ballooned and I was a pale, pasty shell of the Butler that had largely been enjoying life up until that point.

To this day, I’m pretty sure nobody believes me that this actually happened, because it’s just simply impossible that a 6″3 man moutain could get beaten up and pushed about by his girlfriend, but that’s what happens. But this also serves as an important part of a different conversation that domestic abuse doesn’t have a gender, a sexuality, a race. It can happen to anyone, and if I can offer you one piece of advice if you are in one; get yourself to the safest fucking place imaginable before it’s too late.

Sometimes, I think about the night I was ready to take my final bows and wander off the stage, and think about how close I was to not being here. If it wasn’t for my two best friends leaping into action, allowing me to hysterically cry down the phone, letting out a year of pent up sadness, you can bet that I wouldn’t be here today. Whilst I don’t really like dragging them into the bubbling tar pit that is my mind, I can’t thank my bois Danny & Reece for guiding me through probably the darkest period of my life. Thanks to them, I’m still here, still living it up to the best of my ability. Things are still shit in my brain, but I’m still here to try and fix it.

The months after that were a total struggle, but being able to frequently talk about how I felt, being checked up on & guided helped a lot. Which is why Piss Moron’s comments about “manning up” are so toxic. Because that’s what’s killed so many men before, that’s what’s going to kill so many men this year, and that’s what’s going to kill so many more men unless we can do more to break the stigma surrounding male mental health. I haven’t written this blog as a “woe is me” piece, I’ve written it so that the walls surrounding mental health can be torn down, to let people know that it’s okay not to be okay, because it can happen to anyone, and being able to have someone there to help you through it and talk it out is paramount.

I’d also like to offer this up to anyone who doesn’t feel they’ve got anybody they can talk to. You can follow me on Twitter as @notoliverbutler and DM me, and I’ll gladly chat to you.

To this day, I still suffer from depression, anxiety and slight paranoia. Whilst people sometimes see me as a confident young man, I am frightened to death about meeting new people, and can convince myself that an entire room of people fucking hate me. I’m convinced my friends hate me, I’m convinced their friends hate me, and I’m convinced that you, yes you, reading this, hate me as well. The only time I handle myself well through social situations is when I’m drinking, and even then it usually goes the opposite way.

Last year I went through a particularly shitey breakup which pushed me down to the bottom again, to the point where I harmed myself. Don’t ask me why I did it, but at that moment in time, the feeling of driving something sharp into my skin seemed to relieve me of a lot of the mental anguish I was feeling, probably because I’d driven a fucking sharp piece of metal into my skin. Again, I’ve spoke about this and nobody believed me, because who’d expect me to do that? But the thing is, anybody can feel like that is a viable option, instead of talking about it and working your way through it, it’s best to bottle it up and deal with it in more harmful ways, because that’s how society has conditioned us to think.

The thing about mental illness is that it’s unpredictable. It’s an illness, much like the common cold, which you can’t help suffering from. So why should depression be any different? Any life event could trigger your brain to start running at a different tempo, and it doesn’t discriminate. Prince William and Harry have spoke about struggling with mental health issues following on from the death of their mother, so if it can happen to the heirs of the British throne, it can happen to you.

Instead of listening to a man who has an entire fucking television show dedicated to getting celebrities to FUCKING OPEN UP TO HIM, it’s time for all of us to talk. It’s time for all of us to be honest with ourselves and ask: how are we today? Stigmas and stereotypes around mental illnesses need to end to allow us to get better. The NHS is crumbling and mental health provisions are getting few and far between under this current government, so it’s time for us to care for each other, it’s time for us to talk about how we’re feeling and begin to tear down the mental borders that stop us from getting better, because without it, more and more people are going to die each year, when they shouldn’t be.

It’s incredibly hard to open up, especially when you feel like your problems and issues aren’t valid, but know that you can’t help feeling the way you do. If you feel so low to the point you have to admit you’re not okay, then your illness is valid, and together, we can help each other get better.