For centuries those in positions of power have commisioned representations of their image in order to promote themselves throughout their respective empires; sending a message to the masses.

The motives behind artistic representation of an individual were mainly political, but also extend into the realms of propoganda, egotism, and idealisation.

If we go back to antiquity, a time where all things stem from, Roman portraiture emphasised realistic and idealised characteristics which were to be utilised in projecting specific ideologies to the public. The first main pioneer of this artistic weaponry was Emperor Augustus and his wife, Livia. Throughout their reign they promoted strong family values, virtue, and morality. Livia was famously represented as Ops (Sabine deity of fertility and earth); modestly dressed and holding a cornucopia, a warm and welcoming image which makes her appear to be a kind and motherly protector of love (the complete opposite to her real nature). Augustus was shown as a conqueror and commander, but maintaining modesty and steering well away from hubris (Augustus famously refused the proposal for him to be deified and only became a god posthumously). The public image of the royal family was a huge political tool and a vital key to their long success. The portraits of the Augustan family had a timeless and youthful quality, promoting beauty and benevolence. Years of flawless representation set the stylistic precedent which not only directly impacted Roman portrait sculpture, but had a ripple effect which still resonates today.

In an effort to legitimise their authority and align themselves with revered predecessors, later emperors would style their public image in the same way as Augustus; whilst at the same time advancing the medium forward. Some would even fictionalise their links to heroic predecessors and figures of power in order to substanciate their authority. During the Republic, the most highly valued traits included a devotion to public service and military prowess, and so Republican figures sought to project these ideals through their representation in portraiture.

Skip forward a few centuries to the turn of the 19th Century and one of my recent blog subjects, Napoleon Bonepart.

In the famous painting of Napoleon crossing the Alps we have another example of character portrayal and emulation. Even though he didn’t feel the need to directly represent himself as anyone else, because he most likely thought of himself as being at least on par, if not an echelon above, previous members of the historic and heroic military eilite, there is still strong representation of previous military legends.

In Napoleon’s own words he is shown, ‘calmly mounted on his fiery steed’ and gesturing with his right arm raised in a commanding point forwards, leaving no doubt as to his determination to arrive at his goal. It does not indicate the summit, but rather shows the observer the journey and inevitability of victory.

Coming back to the point at hand, this painting can be said to be directly evoking the relief carving of Alexander the Great mounted on Bucephalus as seen on his sarcophagus, his legs are even folded in the same way as Greek riders (further evidence to support this comparison can be seen on the Parthenon frieze).

The rocks upon which his horse stands have the names of Hannibal and Charlemagne carved into them, alongside his own name of Bonaparte. This, without a doubt, puts Napoleon on the same level as previous military generals who have achieved the same journey into Italy and thus names him as their direct successor.

Depicting yourself in the public eye as a god or historic icon such as Alexander is something which will give you a specific image and generate a desired opinion in those who view your likeness. Is it egotism, propoganda, idealisation, respect or aspiration? Call it what you will, but it is undeniable that this wish to embody the qualities and attributes of someone you admire by way of emulation and evocation is as close as you can get to actually being that person.

If you want to get modern and really meta we can mention the Iron Man poster which is without a doubt a copy of the iconic Shepard Fairey ‘Hope’ poster used in the 2008 Obama presidential campaign. So, in this instance we have a fictional hero using a piece of real world art depicting a political hero to reflect his own image, and thus stirring the same emotions of positivity for his own benefit as the original did at its time of use.

The modern-day version of this historic ego tool is something we now call Cosplay. Hundreds of people, myself included, will transform into a hero or character whom they admire, aspire to be, or relate to the most. If you love Captain America and everything he stands for, if you wish you could be him and recieve the love and awe that he does, you can cosplay as him. In that moment you are that character and it elevates you to this higher plane in the eyes of others and you receive the appropriate attention in accordance with the hero you portray yourself to be. 

The ancient emperors and great military leaders who took visual inspiration and modelled themselves on Alexander and Hercules in portraiture and sculpture are just the original cosplayers.

Today is Black Cat Appreciation Day and as the owner of a black cat I am obliged to tell you how amazing he and all other black cats are.

My cat is called, Gomez and he is a four-month old black Bengal. He is a typical kitten who loves climbing, jumping out at you from obscure hiding places, purring like a lawnmower, and meowing…..he’s VERY vocal!

I know I am biased, but Gomez really is the perfect little cat. He is insanely affectionate, loves being around people, (almost) well behaved, and he follows me everywhere which increases everyone’s suspicion that I am a witch. He will often climb onto my shoulders and hitch a ride around the house or meow critically as I make a cup of tea, and he even goes with me all the way to Liverpool (90miles) when I go to visit my mum and dad; he is slowly making friends with their cats, but is still unsure about the dog.

Black cats have a lot of superstition surrounding them. The origins of such supernatural association dates to Ancient Greece where it was believed Zeus’ wife Hera once turned her servant, Galinthias, into a black cat as a punishment and she went on to become an assistant to Hecate, goddess of witchcraft.

This myth has carried on and black cats are now inseparable from the idea of witches and the occult. It was believed that witches would either be able to transform into a black cat or that they used cats as their familiar, like a miniature spy or courier.

During the famous witch trials in America and Europe the accused would be instantly condemned if seen within a 5-mile radius of a black cat (sadly the cat would more often than not suffer the same fiery fate as those found guilty of witchcraft).

Other suspicions about black cats are that it’s unlucky if one crosses your path, they forecast death, and are a conduit between this life and the next. It is said that if a black cat walks towards you it is lucky, but if one walks away from you it takes the good luck with it. In China they are said to bring poverty, whilst in Scotland a black cat appearing on your doorstep is meant to bring good fortune.

In ancient Egypt cats were worshiped and the cat-headed goddess, Bastet, or Bast, was depicted (in the later Egyptian period) as a woman with the head of a black cat (previously a lioness). Amongst other things, Bastet was the goddess of cosmetics, love, the home, joy, protection, dance, fire, and warfare.

Despite their bad reputation, black cats have had quite an endearing representation in pop culture. Sylvester, Jess, Cat in the hat, Figaro, Felix, and Snowball 2 are all much loved characters. Sabrina the teenage witch has a black cat called Salem and, in the opinion of most people (myself included), his sassy attitude made him the star of the show! There is also the iconic poster ‘Le Chat Noir’ used to advertise a Parisian cabaret club of the same name.

Now, I live on my own and before I got Gomez the only company I had was my house rabbit, Frankie. Sadly, Frankie suddenly became ill last month and passed away. She was a very quiet and gentle housemate, kept herself to herself, and I’d always said she was very cat-like with regards to her affections; she’d come for a cuddle when it suited her. She was incredible, a true character, and a beautiful friend.

Frankie and Gomez got along very well during their short time together. Since Frankie passed away it has just been me and Gomez and his constant love and cuddles has made life easier.

Having Gomez is making living on my own more bearable; I feel less lonely and I finally have someone who talks back to me! He is stupidly chatty and I can’t describe how cuddly he is; he always has to be near me whether it be just his head and paws resting on my arm or entirely wrapping himself around my neck to go to sleep. I am so grateful for the fact he has such a sociable and loving nature, it’s exactly what I hoped for and also what I need.

Sadly, black cats have some of the lowest adoption rates and highest euthanasia rates in shelters. It’s also harder to attract adopters—rescues and shelters often feature photos of their adoptable cats online, and black cats are more difficult to photograph than lighter-coated cats. It’s been reported that potential adopters perceive black pets as less friendly than lighter-coated pets solely based on a photograph. Some shelters even stop adopting out black cats in October altogether in fear that they’ll be used as Halloween props, sadly there have been cases of black cats being tormented or even killed around Halloween. Superstition still surrounds these miniature black panthers and unfortunately it puts people off them, but that makes no sense. They’re beautiful and everyone needs a black cat in their life.

To mark the two-hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the birth of Napoleon Bonaparte, I have decided to return to my historic writing; seeing as I haven’t written anything educational for a significant length of time.

I could have waited another two years to write this historical account, by which time it will be the two-hundredth anniversary of his death, but fuck it, I have time to spare now!

Napoleon was born on the 15th August 1769 in Corsica to a family of minor nobility. Just prior to his birth the island had switched sovereignty from Genoise to the French. So, his life could have been very different had he not have been a French citizen.
At the age of nine he moved to France and attended a religious school in Autun where he was regularly bullied by his peers for his accent, mannerisms, his inability to speak French quickly, and for his short stature.

At the age of fifteen he was admitted to the Ecole Militaire in Paris, but due to the passing of his father he was forced to pull several all-nighters and cram two years-worth of study into one as he was now the head of the family and their only source of income.

Despite the rushed start to his military career, he wasn’t hindered. In 1796 after helping to suppress a royalist insurrection against the revolutionary government in Paris, he was appointed as Commander of the French army in Italy. It was during his Italian campaign he authorised the looting of the Horses of St Mark, a set of Roman bronze statues mounted on the façade of St Mark’s Basilica in Venice (thankfully they have since been returned).

Three years later, having recently received the title of First Consul (by way of a coup) he became France’s leading political figure. In 1800 he drove the Austrians out of Italy and this further cemented his power and influence. Later came the Treaty of Amiens in 1802 when the weary Brits, tired from too much war mongering and colonising, agreed to peace with the French (spoiler alert; it didn’t last long).

Back in gay Paree, under his military dictatorship, Napoleon worked hard on restoring stability to the post-revolutionary and tattered country. He invested heavily in education; promoting the arts and science, also shaking up the education system by creating non-religious schools which allowed people from all backgrounds to attend. Le petit Général also created the Napoleonic Code, this streamlined the legal system and continues to act as a foundation for French civil law to this day, trés bon!

As previously mentioned, peace between France and the British (oh, and also the rest of Europe) was quite short-lived. Between 1803 and 1815 France was engaged in what are termed, unsurprisingly, as the Napoleonic Wars.

In 1803, as a means to generate more cash to funds for wars yet to come, Napoleon sold France’s Louisiana territory on eBay for a cool $15million.

In 1804, he modestly crowned himself as the first Emperor France and in a defining act of petulance, at the coronation, he forbade the Pope from placing the crown on his head and instead crowned himself.

In 1805 Britain had had enough of his shit and resumed their 800year bum fight with France. It wasn’t long afterwards that Austria joined in, still pissed off from their altercation five-years previously, and Russia (because they must stick their nose into everything).

After Britain’s mighty and triumphant victory at Trafalgar in 1805, Napoleon was forced to slyly and sheepishly slide his plans to invade England into the bottom drawer of his desk and reconsider. Following a considerable amount of sulking and comfort eating enough brioche to give a cow diabetes, he decided to turn his attention to the Austrian and Russian forces. Later during that same year, he defeated the Austro-Russian armies at Austerlitz, considered to be one of his greatest victories. From there he expanded the French empire until it reached its peak in 1811.

After a few wines and reading The Secret, our mighty midget continued his campaign and gained more territory in Europe. The Holy Roman Empire fell and crumbled to bits like a Gregg’s sausage roll and Napoleon appointed relatives and loyalists to high positions in Italy, Naples, Spain, and Sweden.

Then came the autumn and winter of 1812 when it all turned to worms. Still seething and full of spite from 1805 when the Russians dared to stick their nose into his business of trying to conquer the shit out of everything, Napoleon had the bright idea of invading Russia. In winter. If there is one thing that is known universally about Russia that is that its fucking cold!! So, on the scale of bad ideas, the decision to go marching into Russia (wearing nothing more than ear muffs and woolly jumper his nan had knitted him) rapidly knocked from the number one spot that one time Copernicus suggested to the Catholics that the Earth went around the Sun.

His military faux pas of declaring war in the winter came at a catastrophic cost. Out of the 600,000 men, less than 40,000 returned.

His major plan was to engage the Russians in battle and conclude his invasion within twenty days, but just in case things took longer than expected he had made sure they had thirty days-worth of supplies. Things didn’t go as he had imagined. The French found out very quickly that they had to navigate their way across the country using what barely qualified as roads. With low supplies his soldiers were required to forage for food, but this became more difficult as the Russians began scorching the earth behind them as they retreated. Both men and horses starved to death. Those who didn’t die of starvation suffered from glamorous ills such as typhus, diarrhoea, lice infestations, and dysentery. 

The weather made an unexpected U-turn and became overly warm; causing snow and ice to suddenly thaw. The roads became difficult to march on and rivers which would previously have been easy to cross became treacherous and required bridges; taking up precious time and energy. As quickly as it had arrived the warm weather swiftly departed and temperatures which were well below zero moved in. Most 

soldiers died in their sleep from exposure, others from sheer anger at the stupidity of their situation.

Finally, after a long trek and a considerable amount of moaning, Napoleon and his small cohort of men made it to Poland. 

In 1814 Napoleon abdicated the throne, probably for the best considering his dismal attempt at invading the coldest and harshest territory in Europe. With his tail between his legs he toddled off to live out his exile on the island of Elba. Full of spite, he planned his return….

Less than a year later he escaped and with about one thousand supporters, he marched on Paris. His arrival was met with joyous ovation and the king, Louis XVIII ran off never to be seen again. Thus started Napoleon’s one-hundred days reign. However, after successfully regaining his power, he lost it again by the battle of Waterloo in June 1815. The coalition of British, Austrians, Prussians, and Russians all rolled their eyes at the re-emerging of this tiny tyrant, picked up their weapons, and went to kick ass (again).

On June 22 1815, Napoleon was forced to abdicate…..again. Kicking and screaming, clutching desperately onto the crown, he refused to give it back. This debacle continued for a good forty minutes, it was awkward for all involved, and only through exhaustion did he let go.

Napoleon packed his bags and went into exile (again), but this time he was off to Saint Helena and he remained there until his death in 1821

An additional fact about Napoleon, which just happens to be my favourite because it’s just so pure and cute, is that he was once moved to tears of grief by the sight of a dog who he had found sitting with the body of its owner.

I also love how he seems to like severely constipated and grumpy in all of his portraits.

Here’s a little game to play, feel free to have a go yourself. Pick four characters from either film, television, or literature who reflect your personality or who you identify with and explain why. Here are my four;

 

Nick Miller – New Girl

Nick Miller is my spirit animal. He’s awkward, cynical, hates confrontation, hates people, gets frustrated by little things (like doors), he’s funny, slightly unhinged, but saying all that he’s a big softie.

I think when Nick says, “People are the worst” he perfectly sums up how so many of us feel.

Nick and I are on the same level of weird and insanity; our beyond childish behaviour makes people wonder how we’ve managed to reach adulthood, whilst at the same time leaving them firmly believing we’ll die from doing something stupid at any given moment (and it won’t come as a surprise). I too have written only half a novel, but mine isn’t about zombies, it’s about a teddy bear. I also have a grumpy face and think that trying to grow tomatoes will make me a better and more fulfilled person. (I did grow tomatoes once; had a small harvest before managing to kill my tomato plant. Go me).

Nick lets his weirdness show and I love him for it. Who cares if he wants to rock out to Cotton Eyed Joe in the car or have an existential crisis and ask, “when does a hill become a mountain. It just happens!”. I wish I was as loved as Nick Miller and had the confidence to be more like him.

 

Castiel – Supernatural

Awkward, anxious, always tries hard to fit in, aware of the fact his “people skills” are “rusty”, has a wealth of knowledge (yet is heavily underestimated), he comes across as being stupid, and is often confused.

We both just want to fit in and be like our much cooler, better looking, and more popular friends. Despite knowing a lot this often leads to us coming across as overly nerdy and ‘not cool’. We try hard to fit in and be just like everyone else, but we’re trying so hard that it shows, and we trip over ourselves in the process, perpetuating our inability to feel accepted. I too have commanded troops, although not anything like the biblical and angelic battles Castiel fought in, mine were mere skirmishes across the damp and grim Cumbria countryside.   

Despite all this, we are aware of how we come across and endeavour to improve.

 

Jennifer Barkley – Parks and Recreation

This character perfectly personifies my feelings and attitude toward children. I hate them.

They make noise, they make mess, they cause me anxiety and sensory overload, they stop you from doing what you want when you want, they are just gross, and they make everything around them equally as icky. Before you get on your high horse and decide to have a go at me just think and don’t take it personally; I do not hate you or your child, not specifically. I am not saying that YOUR child makes me uncomfortable or hurts my brain, because sometimes your child is charming, but no child is 100% tolerable (admit it, they’re not. Everyone has given a baby/toddler/child a dirty look). So, no, I’m not attacking you or your offspring personally; I just have a universal dislike for anyone who can’t legally buy alcohol. Jennifer Berkley puts across my feelings perfectly and I think that there are many other people who share this view; we don’t all want to live in Bedlam, be woken up in the mornings by someone kneeing you in the face, nor do we want to have anyone else (other than ourselves) to blame for our lack of sleep.

 

Lilo – Lilo and Stitch

Kind, caring, considerate, usually found on her own, often bullied, loves animals, and thinks weird, wonderful, and unusual things are beautiful.

Lilo struggles to get along with the other girls and finds that because she is different she is bullied. I was bullied throughout my entire childhood and continue to still find the odd instance of bullying creeping into my life even now I’m (apparently) an adult. However, despite all this, Lilo still tries her hardest to remain happy, she gives people more chances than they deserve, finds everything fascinating, and loves things that are different and unique just like her.

Also prone to a good sulk and telling people a pet rabbit would be better than they are (true by the way).

 

 

Honourable mentions ;

Louise Belcher – Bob’s Burgers; Small, psychotic, scary, and manic.

Uni-Kitty – The Lego Movie; “business, business, business, numbers….*whispers* is this working??…” Me. In work. Every day.

Crowley – Supernatural; Sick of idiots, very English, sassy, bit of a bitch, and I sit firmly on the darker side of things.

 

Deep in the Welsh countryside where the lofty hillsides are made of black slate, the sky is grey, and it always seems to be raining, there sits an old castle. Despite it mainly lying in ruin the structure was still imposing and strong-looking, with bold towers and a heavy drawbridge.

There weren’t many who would approach and those who did would do so whilst still keeping their distance, but this is the story of one who was brave enough to venture that little bit closer.

The main reason this particular fortification was so off-putting to everyone wasn’t the fact that it seemed to sit in an area of permanent inclement weather, or that the dilapidated structure posed an enormous health and safety risk, but more to do with the fact that there was a dragon holding permanent residence atop one of the towers.

If you are stealthy enough you can get the castle in your sights without attracting the attention of this incredible beast, but the second he knows you’re there he starts to roar, rearing up, beating his powerful wings, and breathing out jets of hellfire.

One day (a day when the rain was coming in sideways for a change), a young man who had heard of the antisocial reptile that gave out a “get off my lawn” vibe decided he was going to brave an encounter with it. He was open-minded, always tried to see the good in people, and was filled with positivity.

People who are filled with such blind optimism usually tend to find themselves claiming to be able to turn any negative into a positive; and in the process get killed. Many a Darwin award has been won by individuals who thought they could cuddle oncoming traffic, prove that molten lava wasn’t as hot as it looked, or that a “if you can dream it, you can do it” attitude will enable you to climb Kilimanjaro with no prior physical training. However, this was one man who would not win such an award.

He saddled his horse and made way for the castle and its irritable inhabitant.

Sure enough, and as foretold, once our hero had been spotted the dragon began to exhibit behaviour that an experienced and learned zoologist might interpret as meaning “fuck off”.

Despite the roaring which echoed so turbulently throughout the valley that it made the slate loosen from the hillside and the fire which scorched the earth before him the man urged his horse forward and they carefully inched their way closer.

Eventually, horse and rider found themselves at the foot of the dragon’s tower, looking up at him, as he looked down upon them.

“Hi…….” chirped the man

The dragon snorted, but not aggressively, it was more like a snort of intrigue.

“I just wondered, are you ok? Or do you need a hand getting down?”

“Yes please” whimpered the dragon

It turns out that our draconian beast hadn’t been ferociously deterring people all along, but desperately trying to gain their attention in order to seek their aid. It’s just unfortunate that when a dragon is excited and frantically trying to communicate it looks exactly like they want to kill you.

The moral of the story is that things aren’t always what they initially seem. Animals and people will usually act with hostility and defensiveness through desperation, fear, or as a cry for help. Even with the ability (or wings) to assist you in achieving what you need to do, sometimes we just need the help or encouragement of others to show us that we are capable.

Be more like our optimistic hero and approach things with love and kindness, be gentle, and love each other.

There are probably four people (at most) who I not only feel comfortable being 100% open with about my mental health, but who I also know will completely understand and respond appropriately to whatever I throw at them. Some of them empathise because they have their own demons and others because they are able to listen properly (even to the things you don’t say).

Too often, and sadly more often than it should be, when you try to explain what goes on inside your head to people you’re met with the most useless fucking shit. It’s hard to try and put into words all of the feelings and thoughts that are swarming inside your head. It’s not always about semantics either, it’s trying to explain something that you yourself don’t fully understand, and there are also times when you struggle to say something because when you say it out loud it sounds like the stupidest problem, despite how much it’s dragging you down.

When you’ve been brave enough to open up and tell someone what’s going on there isn’t anything else that makes you feel worse, more stupid, and more pathetic than the person you’re talking to acting like it isn’t a big deal. They might respond in a condescending tone, they might say something like, “well, why don’t you just….” or “I remember when I felt sad once…”, or they might simply ignore you and change the subject.

It is these types of response that make you feel like your issues aren’t valid, that you deserve to feel dumb for making a mountain out of a molehill, they make you feel worse and even more pathetic because nobody seems to realise that this is killing you.

The problem with mental health, and this is the main root cause of people’s dismissive attitude, is that you can’t see the effect it has on people in a visible way. If our mental torture manifested itself through physical symptoms such as bleeding from the eyes or full-body necrosis I’m certain our plight would be taken a lot more seriously. Mental health is also something which is hidden away; we tend to suffer silently in the privacy of our homes, we throw on a mask before leaving the house every day, and we tend to also be ashamed of our worries, not wanting to burden anyone so we fail to admit something is wrong. When we do finally come clean and desperately open up to someone it’s taken as “just a bad day like anyone else” and not something which has been kept hidden for so long and now it’s only revealed because it has reached crisis point.

Do remember that is was only up until a few decades ago that those afflicted with depression, anxiety, etc were thrown into asylums and never seen again; tortured by the use of electric shock therapy, trepanning, and lobotomised until pronounced “cured”. It’s no wonder that we still hide in the dark when we’ve been vilified and treated as lab rats for so long.

So, forgive me as I offer these insolent and sarcastic “silver lining” solutions to just a few problems I may have.

*Can’t afford to eat? – It’s not so bad; a long history of eating disorder has just been preparing you for this situation. You could do with losing a few pounds anyway you fat mess.

*You haven’t had a single and genuine feeling of happiness for two years? You’re scared you may never feel happy again. – Just think of how all that not-smiling has saved you from getting wrinkles.

*You don’t sleep? – More time to watch tv and films.

*Your self-loathing and suicidal thoughts swing from being their normal level of ‘fucking bad’ to ‘anything can and will be weaponised against me’ – At least you’re not an insufferably positive twat.

*You’re lonely and nobody comes to see you. – Nobody can judge your choices in interior decor if they don’t come to your house.

*There isn’t a single positive thing in your life. – As the great philosopher Yaz once said, “the only way is up”.

Another thing that I have been told will instantly solve all my problems, change my life, and bestow nothing less than all my hopes and dreams is a book called, The Secret.

This is a book which is usually recommended by those who have ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ plastered across the walls of their house, and much like vegans and militant feminists they like to get all preachy. I’m not saying those who recommend this book are terrible people, the complete opposite actually, but the next person to tell me it will change my life is getting punched in the tits.

Everyone who has exhausted themselves by frantically talking at me about this book have all said the same thing and that is that it’s so damn simple to get what you want, you just need to ask the universe to deliver it to you. You might want to write down what you want, write yourself a fake cheque with the figure of your desired salary on it, or you can just think really hard about it and the universe will hear you. I’ve heard reports of people’s wishes coming true within days of making them known, the longest I’ve heard someone say they had to wait was a few weeks.

Now, this is where I call bullshit because I have tried vision boards, and I have wished upon every star and stray eyelash with zero success rate. Don’t say I’ve failed because I don’t want or wish for it hard enough because fucking believe me, I do! I’m not wishing for a billion pounds, as awesome as that would be, I often just wish for one week without mental torture.

Bullshit!

So, on that note, I am going to crawl back into a dark corner where I belong and hope to not wake up in the morning.

Shrove Tuesday is a day spent ardently consuming an inordinate amount of pancakes. Whether they be savoury or sweet, devouring enough flat cake to sink a ship is only acceptable on this day and not an ounce of shame is to be found in doing so.

After the flour has settled and in the wake of this gluttonous feat we are often posed with the question of, “What are you giving up for lent?”.

Sat there after having just eaten an entire jar of Nutella in one sitting it’s not hard to conjure up the options of what to give up seeing as the containers of numerous options are lying empty on the kitchen side, covered in batter.

We may even continue to eat, frantically trying to consume everything in the house, removing temptation, before embarking upon forty days and forty nights of abstaining from a carefully chosen vice. It’s an opportunity to challenge oneself, perhaps even improve either physically or spiritually, but more often than not it’s a time spent where people just give up eating crisps for a few weeks. Lent can even act as a second chance at re-starting those New Year resolutions you failed so miserably at, you know, the ones that didn’t last longer than lunchtime on january 3rd?

So, what is Lent all about? It can’t just be about doing a half-arsed attempt at a diet by denying yourself a single food or drink. It isn’t just a period of time bookended by two days of gluttony.

Commencing on Ash Wednesday, Lent is a period of observance in the Christian calendar. Lasting for forty days and forty nights to reflect on Jesus’ trip to the desert undertaking a miniature version of a gap year before beginning his public ministry. During his time spent in the wilderness Jesus was tormented by Lucifer; his path strewn with all manner of tasty treats, wine, and cigarettes.

 

Christians feel that by partaking in this penitential fasting and withdrawal from their vices they are brought closer to Christ and can focus more on prayer and almsgiving.

During this period many Roman Catholic and Protestant churches will veil religious symbols such as crucifixes, statues, and other elaborate decorative items as a sign of solemn observance, quiet dignity and meekness found in the shrouding of extravagance.

The Stations of the Cross are also observed as a story perfectly timed to lead us straight to Easter; nothing says bunnies and chocolate like the story of a man being tortured and mocked on the road to his own execution. I’m sure I don’t need to re-tell the story of Zombie Jesus to any of you, we were all taught the true meaning of Easter at school.

Throughout Christendom, some adherents mark the season with the traditional abstention from the consumption of meat, most notably among Lutherans, Roman Catholics and Anglicans. Across the ages and variations in faith other foods often found under omission are fowl, eggs, milk, and fish; vegans seem to get an easy deal.

St Thomas Aquinas argued that the forbidden foods, more particularly red meat, “afford greater pleasure as food, and greater nourishment to the human body, so that from their consumption there results a greater surplus available for seminal matter, which when abundant becomes a great incentive to lust”.

Unsurprisingly, there were loopholes to be found. Giraldus Cambrensis wrote in his ‘Itinerary of Archbishop Baldwin through Wales‘, that in Germany and “the arctic regions”, “great and religious persons” would eat the tail of beavers as fish substitute due to its resemblance in both taste and colour. Apparently at the time of writing this beavers were plentiful in Wales, but not any more due to hungry Christians gnawing on them for centuries in search of sustenance during their six weeks without a proper source of protein.

These extreme and old rules surrounding the Lenten fast do not typically apply in this modern era and some Christians as well as secular groups take this time as an opportunity to contribute, rather than restrict. We may choose to improve our health, become more conscious of our impact on the environment, aim to live more ethically, or perhaps use the time of Lent to try something new.

Lent is, and always will be, a religious time for observation, but this doesn’t mean that a lifelong atheist like myself can’t also use it for reflection, as a test to see how I can try to improve in some way, or set a goal which is to be achieved before eating myself into a roast lamb and chocolate fuelled coma on Easter Sunday.

“I’m getting cabin fever; I need to get outside of these four walls before I lose my mind….!”

“But what are you going to do?? You know you’re too scared to do anything on your own. You can’t go shopping because you don’t have any money. Stay here.”

“…I….I could ask someone if they wanted to do anything? You know something that doesn’t cost anything like go for a walk?”

“A walk? It’s the middle of February and it’s freezing outside! Anyway, who would you ask? You barely know anyone around here and there are even fewer people who are familiar enough to see outside of where you know them from. You don’t really want to spend time with anyone, do you?”

“I do! I’m just afraid to ask…….everyone else always has plans anyway…..you’re right, it was a stupid idea.”

“I’m always right. Besides, you can’t ask someone if they want to do something if you can’t at least buy them a drink, some food, or offer them something more exciting to do other than a walk! Your company alone isn’t enough to entice someone to spend their time with a miserable creature like you; they need at least some compensation.”

“Going for a walk can be fun, it’s like an adventure. I want to be out in nature. I suppose you’re right though, I have nothing to offer.”

“People only spend time with you because they feel sorry for you! And even then it’s hardly ever. You’re pathetic!! You’re miserable and everyone simply puts up with you. Why would they want to see you?”

“I could just ask one person, see what they’re doing?”

“They’ll be busy with their life! If they wanted to spend time with you they’d ask! But they don’t so, there’s your answer!”

“…..I might ask…..if I say I’ll go to them or….”

“You’re pathetic”

“……….”

“Just don’t bother”

“……….you’re right….”

I’m sick!! I never get sick, what is this shit?!

I was saying only a week or so ago how I have an ironclad immune system, but it seems my act of hubris has backfired and now it’s causing me pain!

I’m not sick in a way that’s making me set up camp in the bathroom and give me a head-first experience of my indoor plumbing, but I’m certainly feeling like shit.

Since Saturday my eyeballs have been burning and my teeth have been aching. Then, Sunday came along with the gift of a blocked/runny nose and the inability to breathe after 10pm.

I threw my makeup on and went to work this morning, thinking I looked ok and might get away with it. I still felt gross, but I will always prefer to be seen to be ill and sent home than call in sick because my anxiety tells me that everyone will think I’m faking it (especially when it’s a Monday morning).

As soon as my boss saw me she exclaimed, “you don’t look fucking ok!”. She told me to finish what I was doing and get my ass home. Even though I felt guilty for leaving I was secretly glad she did that.

So, I’ve come home and binged season 8 of Drag Race all day; I love it and my brain can’t think of anything else to watch.

My eyes are burning, that’s the most frustrating part, but I’ve got a pile of decongestants and plan on being back in work tomorrow (because guilt won’t let me stay off any longer).

I’ve been hiding within the safe confines of my blanket for just over twenty-four hours (nothing new there), spending the majority of yesterday re-watching an old season of RuPaul’s Drag Race, but in the evening I decided to start watching The Joy of Painting with Bob Ross.

I’d never seen more than just a few clips of Bob before now, but I can honestly say I am now obsessed with him.

As well as being mesmerised by his ability to turn a blank canvas into a beautiful landscape that appears to have more life in it than I do, I realised that Bob is what I’ve been looking for all along.

Now, I have been in and out of therapy for almost ten years and have failed to find any of it to be of any help; I’m not saying that every therapist I saw was useless, not at all, I’m just a lost cause.

My brain has been in an increasingly strange state for almost a year now, it’s gone numb. I’ve moved from two years of being sat at the extreme end of the anxiety and depression scale to complete emotional inertia. The only emotion I seem to feel is despairing sadness and I’ll have a spell of a few days where I just cry and live on the edge of tears before going back to cold and unesponsive.

This past week has been a slow burning state of sadness and existential misery which found the keys to the floodgates yesterday.

I started crying during one of the episodes of Drag Race because RuPaul looked so beautiful on the runway. Most people cry at the sight of the Northern Lights or the Taj Mahal at sunrise, but I cry at the sight of a seven-foot Glamazon.

When I started watching Bob Ross I felt a strange emotional response. I felt relaxed and comforted.

His voice is warm and gentle, he gives constant encouragement, and tells you to be brave. Now, I know he’s saying all of this in relation to painting, but I felt like he was counselling me. Bob’s soothing voice was enough to reduce me to a crying mess.

Whilst he is creating these stunning scenescapes before your eyes he has moments when he’ll give you a little anecdote about an animal he once saw or the people who have written to him and he truly is the kindest soul I’ve ever come across. I can feel a genuine sense of calm and I know why people ask, ‘what did we do to deserve Bob Ross?’

As he paints he breathes life into his art and tells you a little story. He might paint a cabin and tell you about the man who owns it or as he creates a stormy sky he says he hopes all the little animals make it home in time; I’m sat here sobbing because I hope they get home too, it’s that real.

The majority of what I’ve seen Bob paint are cold and snowy mountains accompanied by towering evergreens. For me, this is perfect. I feel settled, happy, and at home by the sight of snow; and even more so by a snowy mountain. Most people would say that a frosty environment might not be the most uplifting vista, the majority of people would want warm and sunny scene, with plenty of colour, to lift their mood, but for me it’s the opposite. I want a winter full of snow and ice, there is nothing more beautiful than that. Bob Ross makes the perfect haven that I can see on demand.

I love how when he paints a tree he always makes sure to do more than one because, “everybody needs a friend”. He’s right. I have wonderful friends all over the country and I love them all beyond words, but for a few reasons I find myself alone the majority of the time. I know Bob believes I need a friend right now, and he’ll have to be it for now.

There are so many times where he tells you it doesn’t matter if your hands shake a little when you paint, you have an advantage for painting tree branches. He can turn any negative into a positive and that’s what I need. I’ve mentioned in previous blogs about my inability to feel proud of anything or rarely finding something positive to say, but maybe I need to think more like Bob?

I’m not saying Bob Ross has cured my mental health, nobody can, but what he has done is made me feel someting. He’s made me cry considerably, but I’m crying at the sight of something beautiful and because I can hear someone talking to me with love and tenderness; a change from crying over how miserable I am. He is one of the most encouraging and gorgeous people we’ve been lucky enough to share our existence with.