View From The Side: The Bearable Pointlessness Of Being Inevitable



It turns out, perhaps, that you are not only pointless, but also inevitable. But who gives a shit?

An article I skimmed recently about the work of Jeremy England, author of A New Physics Theory of Life, proposed that the formation of biological life is an inevitable effect of simpler molecules teaming up to become increasingly more complex and efficient structures for releasing the radiation they have absorbed from the big yellow bastard in the sky that most non­-ginger folk refer to as the sun.

Essentially, tiny bits of matter on earth, and elsewhere, are constantly being bombarded by nugget/waves of energy that emanate from the nuclear fusion that occurs in the hearts of stars. And what all these little bits of stuff then have to do is find ways of getting all this energy out of themselves so that they don't pop, a little like an unfortunate punter who's accidentally done a Nintendo pill at a Squarepusher gig, and finds themself having to continually throw frantic shapes in spite of the fact that the little bastard's just wanking about on his fucking bass guitar (again).

And it turns out, with matter rather than munters, that teamwork helps: the tiny bits of crap gravitate towards each other and bond to form configurations that make it easier to force the sky­bastard electricity to get tae fuck, with less risk of them making like a lost norseman in the sahara and just fucking sizzling out of existence. Mr. England also posits that these little castles of base­material gain efficiency as they gain complexity. So, the shit­castles join up to form shit­megacities, and at some point, inevitably, a centralised shit­government comes into being to regulate the overall working of the shitropolis. And BAM! What you end up with is biological life, which then follows the proscribed modus of bonding and co­operating with neighbouring dirt­constituencies, thus increasing in both complexity and efficency.

In Jeremy's words: “You start with a random clump of atoms, and if you shine light on it for long enough, it should not be so surprising that you get a plant,

So; what the fuck does all this mean?

Well, what it means to you – and I assume it was yourself you were thinking of – is that you're nothing more than a jazzy radiator. Very jazzy, extremely overdesigned, but still just a fucking radiator. And think of it as such: You're just a highly mutated, self­perpetuating structure whose sole reason for existing in the first place is to not explode. This, for me, ranks pretty much equally on the pointlessness scale as something such as a deluxe bin­bag whose only function is to dispose of the excessive packaging it came shrouded in. Different metaphor, but same amount of point, i.e. NONE.

Well done you, with your central nervous system, your complex optical capabilities, your trousers and your fucking new hat. What you've achieved, more importantly than your A­-level results, that slightly shit painting you did, or that attractive person you persuaded to have sex with you, is this:

You didn't pop.

Clap clap motherfuckers.

You could have just popped in the first place, rather than gaining sentience, turning up to work on a monday or agreeing to go to your new partner's ugly sister's wedding. But well done you, you ploughed through and now you've got a baby, or rather, a noisy, leaky mini­-radiator that's of a roughly similar design to you.

That's you that is. And your girlfriend; and your ugly children.

Now, so far, you could easily be forgiven for thinking that all of this is a bit wank. I, on the other hand, find myself remarkably amused and uplifted by it; but then, I am a little ginger nihilist. You can think of it in terms of existentialism: The central tenets of this often misunderstood philosophy are:

'Why should there be something rather than nothing?


'If god is dead and no­-one's in charge, then it's up to us to make it groovy' (I paraphrase, of course).

Basically, you're incomprehensibly lucky that you exist in the first place, even if you are just a high end thermal dissipation product, and you can use the results of this massive improbability to do #WTFYOUWANT. So Existentialism is, at heart, a philosophy of joy and responsibility. The only problem is that it was fucked up by the existentialist philosophers, who were mostly a moody bunch of French cunts who spent too much time drinking strong coffee by themselves in overpriced cafés.

Add to this the apocryphal tale of how Sartre only finally gave up caning mescaline after he spent an entire weekend being chased around Paris by a giant, imaginary lobster, and you can see how their various comedowns swayed their view of the void into being a ghastly, endless chamber where, on the way in, the bouncers frisk you and if they find you're packing any hope, they confiscate it, and probably guzzle it themselves in their testosterone drenched portacabin.


Sartre. Presumably post lobster.

Instead, though, you can see the glistening void as an infinite playground, in which you are truly free to either do, or not do, absolutely whatevs, be it creating astounding works of tremendousness, having it large in the most de­regulated club in the entirety of existence, or just kicking back and eating satisfyingly-­sized Monster Munch treats, while everyone else goes about their own particular choice of possibility usage. That sounds pretty cool to me.

Some years ago, I bought a ticket to the opening night of the club Fabric, boshed some medium quality gurners as soon as I joined the sweaty line of other enthusiastic bioforms, only to give up five hours later and go the fuck home without making it within 200 metres of the entrance, due to deliberate overselling of tickets. Cunts.

I got back to my mates' house still charged with undissipated chemical joy­rage, and they all immediately went up to their respective bedrooms, presumably to lie in the dark, alone, gurning out their disappointment to their glitchy, mouldering ceilings. I, however, sat in the basement kitchen and smoked a quite preposterously proportioned fatty, and started tripping balls, whilst badly attempting to assemble a cup of tea.

Much like in the famous episode of Spaced, the sounds exuding from the kettle, the patter of rain on the semiterranean windows, and the clicks and gurgles of the poorly maintained plumbing system soon started collaborating to from an epic psychedelic symphony in my chemically imbalanced little mind. Now that radiator, which was probably just in need of bleeding, or something else beyond the grasp of a wankered first year student's sphere of capability, was playing an integral part of the hallucinogenesised opera that was playing out in the fractal theatre of my mind. That was a fucking jazzy radiator. It didn't ask to be so, it sought no permission to generate the specific noises it was creaking out; for there was no-­one to ask. I sat in the depths of that shitty South London student dwelling for about a fucking hour, having the time of my addled life, before passing out content on a high­backed kitchen stool.

So, my incidental radiating compatriots: dry your eyes, stop whinging, and start gurgling, clicking whistling or whatever the fuck you please, and play your jazzy part, no holds barred, in the boundless cacophany of the only venue in the universe. Or just pop if you want. I don't give a fuck. Like I said, I'm a nihilist. Just do it quietly please, cos the kettle is fucking going OFF right now!