DO ME A FAVOUR LORD SHIVA AND GET THE F**K OUT OF MY OFFICE!

'Hope fuels the fool because the fool doesn't know what to hope for.' That is the legend that hangs over the entrance to the Fugger Life Coaching office.

There's a lot of discontent out there. There's a lot of people limping through their lives, hobbled by their discontent. A lot of these people come around to Fugger's life coaching office. I get them to sit down and tell me all about it and they do. It's always the same. They are unhappy. All of them. Some want to be understood. These people usually are understood, perfectly understood. The real problem for these people is not that they are misunderstood but, in fact, that they are not understood in a way that they would like to be understood. They would like everyone to understand them as fantastic individuals but others understand them as flawed individuals. Instead of acknowledging that they may actually be flawed, the people that come to my office take the easy option and decide that they are misunderstood. Do you understand that? No, neither do I. I tell these people that they are indeed misunderstood and the person that understands them least is themselves.

Other people often tell me that they wish they were, and I quote, 'fucking dead'. I am forced to point out to these people that their problem is not that they wish they were 'fucking dead' but really that they wish they were 'fucking alive' or maybe just 'fucking'. I'm not sure if that's what these people want to hear but it's what they need to hear. They usually ask me what they can do about it and I tell them to stop wanting things and maybe to try and just let things happen.

You see, the problem for many is that they won't let things happen unless things happen exactly as they want them to. Take the great many who come to me complaining that they are 'unloved'. I tell these people that, unless they are child eating cannibals or something, they are doubtlessly loved by someone but probably just not by the person they wished they were loved by. Then I tell them that the person they wished they were loved by is probably visiting some other life coach complaining about not being loved by some other person and that this other person might well love the person I am talking to and also be feeling similarly unloved. Do you follow me? You probably don't. You often get confused by those perplexing sentences I construct for that very purpose. Apologies. I'll make myself clearer. It's like this, Tom comes into my office complaining that no one loves him. By 'no one' he means Jane. Then I tell him that Ann loves him. Then Jane comes in complaining that 'no one' loves her and I ask if by 'no one' she means Ann and she admits she does and then Ann comes in complaining that 'no one' loves her and she means Tom. It's a Möbius strip of discontent. The Universe's little joke. Lord Shiva playing a game with himself. A strangely miserable game but perhaps entertaining in its misery, like Eastenders or something. I tell those that feel unloved that everyone feels unloved and this is the ultimate irony of the cosmos because everything in the cosmos is the one thing. 'It's as if the top of your head longs to touch the sole of your foot because it fails to realise that they are already connected', I say. It's in response to this that I'm often told by my clients that I'm being far too spiritual and not at all pragmatic. That's when I say that spiritual is pragmatic and that it seems to me what the client actually means by pragmatic is magic, as in a magic solution to all their problems that will bring them their desires on their specific terms. I then conclude by reminding the client that I am a life coach and not a fucking genie and, pointing to the words over the door, I say 'do me a favour Lord Shiva and get the fuck out of my office'.

Yes, my clients often complain that my coaching fails to make them happy and they usually ask for their money back. This is when I remind them of two things. The first is that money doesn't make you happy. The second is that life is not about being happy anyway but actually about feeling fulfilled and fulfillment often comes by a circuitous route that involves a great deal of unhappiness. Take a mountaineer who feels the need to conquer a daunting peak. Climbing to the peak will probably be a miserable and trying experience but the compulsion for fulfillment drives the mountaineer on. When my clients finally understand this they usually return to the topic of the money I've taken from them. (It's very hard to shift people away from the thought of money) 'If money doesn't make one happy Mister Fugger', they ask, 'then why don't you give me a refund?'. My clients often adopt a smug expression when they ask this question, thinking they have turned my own logic against me. This is when I tell my clients that they'll find not getting a refund more fulfilling than actually getting a refund because if they don't get a refund they'll enjoy moaning about it all the time and moaning is obviously what makes them feel fulfilled because actually addressing their fucking problems certainly doesn't seem to do it for them. If this seems unfair to you I'll remind you that the clients and me are one and the same anyway as we are both of the same cosmos so they don't need a refund as they never lost the money in the first place. Remember too, you are also us so if you still think it's wrong for me not give a refund you should remember that you are me so you are also not giving that refund and, like the clients, we are also being denied the refund just as the clients are denying themselves the refund. It sounds complicated but it's simple enough to grasp really, once you're enlightened. We are all one. We are all Lord Shiva's sock puppets, albeit unaware that we are mere avatars in his cosmic game of Eastenders.

****

Look, I hope I'm not coming across as esoteric and heartless. That's not my intention. I know that life can be rough and sometimes it can be very very rough. I also know that depression and sadness are terrible things but discontent, well, discontent is quite another thing. Discontent is caused by a sense of entitlement that is based on cultural norms and today's cultural norms come from the unsophisticated narratives found in popular large screen dramas, advertisements and other kinds of things where all problems are portrayed as solvable and everyone, ultimately, gets what they want. This is nonsense. Even if it were true, once you got what you wanted you'd probably start to want something else. 'Want' is the problem. 'Want' is an addiction. 'Want' is a state of mind. We are indoctrinated to 'want' and not just 'be'. Sure, 'want' makes money but money doesn't make you happy. Mine is the true War on Want! Quit wanting! That should be all you want.

Consider it this way, a thousand years ago my clients wouldn't have had the time to be discontentedly wanting all the shit they want, they'd just be happy enough to have made it to the end of the day without being mauled to death by some kind of gigantic bear.

Do you understand? Are you feeling illuminated? Good. Now, do me a favour Lord Shiva and get the fuck out of my office.

(Remember – although greatly enlightening (and a bit up its own arse these days), visiting fugtheworld.blogspot.com cannot replace a therapeutic relationship with a reliable mental health professional - you crazy fool.)

A BLOG POST FROM THE FUTURE

An observation drone followed me all the way home the other day. It was whirring away about eight feet above my head and making me nervy. I wasn't a happy man. When I got home I rang the security company that made the drone and asked what was up. They said they weren't sure and asked if I had been involved in any suspicious activity. I said I hadn't. Then they checked their database and asked about this blog.

'You seem to be quite off message Mr. Fugger', they said.

'So?' I said.

'Well, we're just keeping an eye out that's all', they said.

There hasn't been any terrorist activity since the 2012 Olympics atrocity but it still seems we all need watching out for. I have never written anything even remotely in support of violence but, as Sir Kevin Myers recently argued in the newspaper, scepticism is, in and of itself, a form of violence. No, the argument didn't make much sense to me either but most people seem to have embraced his logic.

'I like the drones', is a typical pronouncement of the man on the street, 'they make me feel safer and if you've nothing to hide why worry?'

I considered making my own drone to watch the drone that was watching me. It's a simple matter of making a remote control aircraft with a camera attached that sends the images to your laptop. Then I remembered that homemade drone manufacture is illegal. This is to prevent terrorists making drones and flying them into cars and so on. That has never happened but it probably would if it was allowed to. Besides that, as Sir Myers argued on a recent TV panel discussion, 'what's the point in being watched if you are watching back'. The audience applauded.

The drone followed me all the way as I visited the Mother in the old folks home. My drone met her drone (they've been following her since the first day the state outsourced law enforcement) and the two drones seemed to get along very well. The Mother said the world had come to a sorry pass. She said it was Orwellian but then she remembered that Orwell's analogy was about communist countries so 1984 couldn't possibly apply to us. Then she went off and joined the other oldies as they did that new form of extreme Tai Chi to the tune of White Riot by The Clash (the oldies love the tunes from their own day). I headed off. My fuckin drone followed.

In the following days and nights the drone bothered me more and more. It was whirring outside my window late at night. The noise off the thing combined with the perpetual hum from the coastal fracking operation and the two sounds really did my head in. The lack of sleep eventually caused me to lose it and one morning I opened my kitchen window and fucked a saucepan at the levitating shithead. I hit it and it made a funny noise and crashed into a lamppost. It wasn't long before security personnel arrived and I was carted off to the community assistance centre (formerly known as the cop shop).

They smiled and spoke gently as they scanned my retina, took my prints, and attached an electronic tag to my ankle.

'Why are you so disagreeable Mr. Fugger?' one asked.

'Because the world has become disagreeable.'

'I don't think most people would agree with you there Mr. Fugger.'

'That's because most people have lost the ability to disagree with you.'

'Me?'

'Yeah, you lot.'

'And just who are us lot?'

'The powers that be. The servants of the establishment.'

'This all seems a bit nebulous Mr. Fugger. Could you be more specific?'

'If you don't know it's too late for you.'

'Do you not like being protected Mr. Fugger?'

'Not when I'm treated like the thing that I'm supposedly being protected against.'

'There is no need to feel that way Mr. Fugger.'

'Yes there is, you've tagged me.'

'We're only protecting our property Mr. Fugger.'

'There are more important things than property.'

'Like what Mr. Fugger?'

'Liberty for a start.'

'Aren't you free Mr. Fugger?'

'No.'

'Well, let's imagine for a moment that you are correct Mr. Fugger, which you are not but let's imagine for a moment that you are. What would you do with your freedom if you had it?'

'Well, I'd. . .'

(I paused.)

'You'd what Mr. Fugger?'

'I'd. . .'

(There was a longer pause as I thought about it.)

'Are you happy Mr. Fugger?'

'Huh? Yeah! Sure! . . .sometimes.'

'Are you happy with your lot?'

'In some ways.'

'We don't think you are Mr. Fugger.'

'And how would you know?'

'We've been watching you remember.'

'Oh yeah.'

'And we haven't been watching a happy man Mr. Fugger.'

(I said nothing.)

'We think you're seeking catharsis by transposing the source of your woe on to our little system. A system everyone, all the rest of us, have agreed upon Mr. Fugger. A system that only wants to see you safe and secure and happy.'

'Yeah, as long as I can pay for it right?'

'Money greases the wheels Mr. Fugger, most have agreed to that social contract, the exceptions being internet malcontents and, of course, terrorists.'

'You're saying I'm a terrorist now?'

'No, Mr. Fugger, I am saying that you are a very unhappy man.'

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, maybe it was the anxiety caused by my arrest, but something about that last thing he said caused tears to run down my cheeks. I was silently crying and soon I was loudly sobbing. My head was on the security person's chest and he was cradling me and saying 'there there, there there'. I felt a right fool but I also felt I had broken through something, something inside my own head. Why was I so defensive? Why did I kick against a world that was only there to make things easier for me? A world that was only watching me so it could watch my back. Why did I accuse the world of denying me freedom when it was me who was denying myself freedom. It dawned on me that the real source of my misery was fear. A fear of my own freedom. I didn't know how to handle it and so had made myself prisoner of the fantasy of societal unfreedom. My God but this fella was good. Within the space of a short conversation he had shown me that my prison was self-imposed and that I could actually be a free and content man. All I had to do was shut up. All I had to do was shut the fuck up and go home and watch the telly or call a friend and talk about the telly or whatever else we wanted to talk about because we were free to talk about whatever we wanted as long as we didn't talk about not being free because to entertain such notions was, in and of itself, a threat to freedom.

I was allowed to return home later that day. When I got back I climbed into bed and tried to get some well needed sleep. The ankle tag bothered me a little but the drone had gone. It seemed I didn't need watching anymore or maybe the tag was doing the job. Either way, I no longer minded. Ultimately, I was only being protected from the enemy. Ultimately I was being protected from myself. I dozed off to the gentle hum of the fracking and I was happy. I was a happy man because tomorrow was another day and anything was possible. I was a happy man because I was free. I was a happy man because the future belonged to me. It belongs to to all of us. Enjoy it. You must.

THE SADDEST MUSIC YOU EVER HEARD

I once composed a piece of music on my Stylophone and it was the saddest music you ever heard. A heartbreaking little melody that seemed at first to be almost struggling to survive but gradually grew stronger, eventually swelling into a tsunami of profound grief. It really was quite something. My eyes grew watery as I composed it and by the time it was complete I was bawling like a baby.

I put it online and in no time at all it went viral. People the world over were weeping into their keyboards. Those who downloaded it at work were so overcome they had to be excused for the rest of the day. The work absences actually began to have a detrimental effect on the global economy but, excluding a handful of deaf economists, everyone was too busy listening to the music to notice.

I found myself performing the piece in the world’s largest arenas. Images of poverty stricken children, the war dead and washed up whales were projected onto a large screen behind me. These concerts were nothing less than orgies of emotional divestment with communal sobbing, mass wailing and group hugging. As my tune approached its climax, audiences would tumble from their seats and inconsolably writhe around on the venue floors, which would be wet and slippery with tears. When the performances concluded, the concert goers would pull themselves together. Sniffing and snuffling, they would slowly get to their feet, don their coats, and form an orderly queue for the exit. It was very odd.

The music was used in several feature films and in advertising campaigns for various products, the promotion of which required staggering poignancy. A new social phenomenon sprang up where suburban types gathered in certain houses on certain days to listen to the tune and weep together. These get-togethers were effectively car key parties only with tears as the principle bodily emission. My tune then became a much requested funeral accompaniment, which I found off-putting. What disturbed me most though were the thousands of unhappy citizens jumping under buses and from high buildings with my tune looping on their MP3s. I decided it was all becoming a bit unhealthy.

I returned home and set about writing a piece that would lift the spirit of the human race. A jaunty little thing that would pop and fizz its way along until it burst into a rousing chorus of anthemic joie de vivre. When completed, I kept this new tune under wraps as the promoters set about booking me into the world’s major venues. My C’mon, Let’s Smile tour kicked off under the stunning glass dome of the Frankfurt Festhalle. The place was packed with Teutonic misery junkies eagerly awaiting their next fix. Well I was going to ‘fix’ them alright. I was about to turn them on to a new kick. A kick called happiness.

I sat poised, the Stylophone on my lap, the immense throng hushed before me. I lowered the stylus and began to play. My new number made its merry way out into the audience, permeating the sea of heads with good vibes, growing catchier and more joyful all the while. Or so I thought. Over the sound of my melodious merriment I began to hear boos. Paper cups were thrown on stage. People started roaring up at me: ‘Play The Sad One!’ ‘Play The Sad One!’

I ignored them. I gritted my teeth. I persevered. They will be happy! They WILL! I stabbed the stylus down into the tiny machine and it began to squawk. The notes became sustained and intense. My happy tune distorted into a twisted mockery of good cheer. My frustration transformed the piece in such a way that it became a subversion of its original intention. If you can imagine a Dalek singing Jingle Bells, it was something like that. I was horrified. I tried to calm down but then I realised that the audience were cheering. The music had told them that happiness was an unsustainable sham and they agreed. In the grip of something far stronger than my conscious agenda, I had no choice but to improvise a segue and go straight into the sad tune. A huge roar of approval and then a mass outpouring of tears. I had failed. My muse had betrayed me. It was on their side.

I have played the sad tune so often now that it no longer affects me. I have been inoculated against its melancholy appeal. You might still see me weeping as I perform but it is not because I am moved by my work, it is because I am imprisoned by it. I am doomed to forever peddle the pornography of misery to an audience that never wanted to be happy in the first place.