We’re all told when we’re kids that one day there will be something we’re really good at. Our talent. Our special thing. All we have to do is find out what it is…. What a load of shit.
But we’re kids. And kids are idiots aren’t they? They’re so gullible they believe anything. They believe a fat guy, with a white beard, in a red suit flies around the world in one night, goes into children’s bedrooms and doesn’t even touch them inappropriately. They believe that when their tooth falls out, it’s actually worth money! And that a fairy comes around in the middle of the night, and collects it! Like some kind of underground, nocturnal, slightly paedophilic ivory trade.
What do they think this so-called fairy does with the teeth? Peddle them on the black market? Who to? Baby piano makers? Fine purveyors of disgusting charm bracelets for midgets?
No, it’s much more believable that we have a special talent, and we just have to find out what it is! Then we’ll win gold medals, or play in World Cup finals. Then we’ll be an international pop star, be on Cribs, date movie stars, have a well publicised affair with the nanny, or flash our pants to paparazzi getting out of limousines.
You know… The dream.
That’s why so many idiots try out for X Factor, isn’t it? The bloody “dream”.
“I just want to make a better life for my kids.”
Umm, then go home and look after them!
And they’re always crying aren’t they?
“I just can’t go back to my normal life after this, I just don’t want this dream to be over.”
Jesus! Put a lid on it! In no time you’ll be back in Werribee, getting drunk to numb the pain of your broken dreams like the rest of us.
Because frankly, the closest most of us will get to being the next Mariah Carey is borrowing an outfit from a 14 year old slag, and warbling Dreamlover at your local karaoke night.
And guys, the closest you’ll get to being David Beckham is being forced to wear the metrosexual shirt your wife got you, while you acknowledge to yourself that your best years are clearly behind you, and try to remember where you left your testicles.
But why do we have to feel like failures for being normal? Why can’t we just be happy to be average? Why can’t we just accept that we’re mediocre and that’s OK? I mean gone are the days when you were happy to take an apprenticeship with the local cobbler, or candlestick maker, and married buck-toothed Jenny, the vicar’s daughter. Partly because we don’t live in a Dickens novel. And partly because we all aspire to be more than we are. And if you can’t be bothered striving for this elusive dream, people are always calling it settling, don’t they?
She’s settling for that job at Mcdonalds, despite the fact he left school at 15, and is semi-illiterate.
He’s settling for Gina Reinhardt’s disinherited, ugly cousin, despite the fact she closely resembles a bulldog in appearance, body odour, and drool control.
Well, maybe it’s not settling, it’s just not being a greedy fucker. Not overreaching beyond our humble capabilities. Accepting our own crapness. Fishing in our own, slightly contaminated pool.
Think about it. Not everyone can come first, or win the prize. And yet we always celebrate winners – like it’s not enough that they have all the talent. They have to get all the prizes too?
I think there should be prizes for mediocrity. Inspiring people to the greatest heights, nay eschelons of mediocrity.
Just imagine it, the Mediocre Awards, or the Crappys, hosted by Richard Wilkins and Sara Marie from Big Brother One. The hosts will be dressed exclusively by Target, with all the guests sipping on Aldi brand Spumante. Mmm, tangy.
The Crappy’s would be the height of mediocre entertainment. Everyone who is no longer anyone, would be there. There’d be a live performance by Holly Valance, and special appearances by, Scandal’us, Kasey Donovan and the one from Savage Garden that isn’t Darren Hayes. They’d be lipsyncing of course, but at least they’d be giving it a go.
“The first award for the night would go to Michelle, for working in a call centre for an entire year, without swearing at any customers or management, or gunning down all her colleagues in a Falling Down style rampage.”
“Our next award goes to Josie, for getting into Textile Management at Cranbourne Tech because she achieved the prerequisite D in English and Basic Maths, and remembered to submit her application form.”
“The award for best actor goes to Ted, who in one evening told his girlfriend that her bum looked great in her jeans, she was a great cook, and that he quite liked watching Sex and the City, even though they were all blatant lies so he’d get his end away. And he did. What an inspiration.”
“And our final award goes to Kevin, for managing to successfully call in sick to work 3 days in a month without raising suspicion that he was actually hung over on every occasion, and spent all 3 days playing play station and smoking bongs.”
“Oh, unfortunately Kevin isn’t here to accept his award, he is apparently ill tonight.”