#failed intellectual

Oh, imagine being

a working-class nobody

in some distant age,

when poverty

and lung disease

could still be viewed

with romanticism.

A Charles Dickens

sort of wretched life,

yet somehow

to be lived with pride.

Soot in the lungs,

filth in the fingernails,

and just enough misery

to make future generations

call it character.

The rich would pity you,

the novelists would adore you,

and everyone would agree

you had a certain grimy charm

right up until

you coughed yourself

into an early grave.

Still,

there’s something to be said

for a life so appalling

it eventually becomes

picturesque.

No, I should be protesting injustice. But not the injustices of today. People complaining about TV and TikTok influencers.

No, real stuff. Paris, 1968, in some arrondissement where the air smelled of rain, tear gas, Gauloises, and history trying to kick a door open.

I should be standing shoulder to shoulder with exhausted philosophers, angry students, dockworkers with trembling hands, and a communist puppet named Gérard who hasn’t slept since De Gaulle spoke on the radio.

The sort of protest where everyone believes the world might actually change by morning.

Not because they are optimistic. Because they are desperate enough to try anyway.

And somewhere in the crowd, between the red flags and existential collapse, there I am: a middle-aged felt revolutionary with a damp tweed suit and the vague suspicion that I missed my historical moment by about fifty years.

And as far as hobbies go, I know one thing: vegetarians shouldn't hunt.

But there must be something I could do.

Birdwatching, perhaps.

Though every time I identify one, it turns out to be a plastic bag caught in a tree.

Woodworking seems dangerous. Gardening requires optimism.

Stamp collecting is really just paperwork with better publicity.

No, if I were a Muppet, I'd probably become a trophy hunter.

Not of animals.

Of awkward moments.

Which would explain why my own head is already on the wall.

I want to be comfortable in my own felt.

So maybe a challenge, as well as an opportunity to make a bit of cash.

Life drawing, they call it.

Which sounds dignified until you realise you’re lying naked under a lamp while seven strangers try to capture your existential slump in charcoal.

No photos. No giggling.

A noble rule, and yet somehow the giggling feels built into the furniture.

Still, there is courage in being observed.

Especially when the vase has more natural confidence than you do.

O, let the Gods of Time allow me to go back in order to become a Greek philosopher.

Not one of the famous ones.

Not the fellow with a statue, a school, and a bust in every university library.

No, I'd be the man standing slightly off to the side, asking inconvenient questions until somebody handed me poison just to get some peace and quiet.

I'd spend my days arguing in the marketplace, pointing at clouds, and explaining why nobody actually knows anything.

Which, to be fair, would make me indistinguishable from a modern man on the internet.

I've always dreamt of the seven seas, and there's nothing more soothing than watching the waves.

Imagine joining the crew of a ship sailing towards unknown shores.

With my luck, I'd find myself part of a crew on some awful colonial mission, enjoying the view on my way to a genocidal misunderstanding.

History books would later describe it as "a complex encounter between cultures."

Meanwhile I'd be standing at the rail, thinking:

"Are we the villains?"

And nobody would answer, because the captain would be too busy naming a bay after himself.

It would be nice

to work with people

sans the dreadful

everyday conversations.

No small talk.

No weekend plans.

No one asking

whether I’ve seen

the latest prestige drama.

Just a quiet room,

a clipboard,

and clients

who have finally learned

the value of stillness.

I’d be respectful,

of course.

But perhaps

slightly too pleased

about the working conditions.

There's always a life of crime.

Of course, it's probably not like in the movies.

An emotional Scorsese-directed voice-over accompanied by an early Rolling Stones song.

No slow-motion walk through Little Italy. No dramatic meeting in the back room of a social club.

Mostly paperwork, I'd imagine.

Tax forms. Parking tickets. Trying to remember which cousin isn't speaking to which cousin.

And every time somebody says,

"Forget about it."

they actually mean:

"Please remember this forever."

No, if I were a Muppet gangster,

I'd probably spend less time running the family business

and more time worrying whether the family business was disappointed in me.

Which is not exactly the stuff of legend.

But then again,

neither is witness protection.