Thursday 1 October 2009
Me and Vicious bring out the bile-spitting bastard in one another. We love a vitriolic rant over lunch or in the pub. Afterwards we leave feeling righteous and cleansed, strong in our belief that everyone else is extremely annoying and wrong. So Vicious’s recent declaration that she was off to dabble in a bit of Buddhism met with the same shocked silence as did my saying that yes, I would go with her.
Buddhism always sounds like a great religion for spider-catching vegetarians. Also an introduction to Buddhism evening sounded like a good excuse not to drink. We did our homework: Vicious lent me a book called The Buddha, Geoff and Me, which is kind of a motivational 'Buddhism Lite', involving a bloke who drinks and eats kebabs and is crap with women but pulls it together thanks to the Big B. After reading it I still felt like a bit of an impostor: like someone who’d never set foot in a church but was still planning on going to Holy Communion just because they thought Away in a Manger was a nice tune.
We wheeled up recklessly early and hid in a pub down the road called The Windmill, which was roughly the same size as a Vegas casino and had no people in it (why are big pubs always empty?) and a curiously pre-war atmosphere. A shilling for two drinks?? Well alright – 50p each. They were lime and sodas after all. And two old gents in the beer garden sad “Evening ladies.” Had they been wearing caps I feel sure they would have doffed them.
As 7.30pm drew close, fear and paranoia loomed...
Me: What do we do if they ask us hard questions?
Vicious: Like what?
Me: Like ‘what are you doing here?’
Vicious: I’ll say. I’ll say... I read this book and – well what are you going to say?
Me: I’m just going to say it was your idea and you made me come with you.
Vicious: That’s not fair – you’re not allowed to say that!
Me: Oh fuck – do you think we’ll have to take our shoes off? I’ve got holes in my tights?
Vicious: Can you go to the toilet and tie knots in the toes?
Me: The holes aren’t there… they’re on top of my feet… like stigmata! Quick – phone a proper Buddhist and ask!
There was then a mad blur of fear while we worked ourselves into a froth of fear about whether we'd be asked questions; my holey (not holy) tights; who was going to enter the building first; whether we’d be the only two people there and everyone would try to brainwash us; and whether four minutes was too much time to get there and we’d have to stand around going “Errrr – well we read this book called The Buddha, Geoff and me…” like a pair of prannocks, while all the proper Buddhists stood around disliking our aura. Oh the horror, the horror. But, I can honestly say the fear would not even have been lessened by a pint of lager.
As life’s most dreaded things always are, it was fine. A normal bloke opened the normal door to a normal-ish house and in we went.
Buddhists it would seem are nice people who emanate great calmness and veer towards slightly outlandish hairstyle choices. Bob Geldof and Bernie Ecclestone seemed to be hair-do role models of choice in our little group.
We were plunged right in at the deep end with a job lot of chanting. This was good. Had there been any forewarning, I’d have gone “Urhh!” and leapt through the window. But it just happened and there was no way around it. The chanting isn’t a very loud thing but it can’t half fill a room. It has depth and resonance and texture and everyone’s voices contribute. And then if anyone stops because they need to breathe or cough up a fur ball, it’s a bit strange because you suddenly realise the contribution each individual voice makes. It was really rather soothing and I became mesmerised by a fruit bowl at the front of the room. I’m not sure what the fruit bowl was doing there (perhaps this is covered in Intermediate Buddhism?), but it reminded me of when my small friend Bigmouth lived with a Buddhist and said Buddhist used to hide fruits around the house for luck and Bigmouth was forever stubbing her toes on coconuts when she went to draw the curtains.
Next up was a little chat about what it’s all about: the nicest bit is you’re not expected to worship someone: you worship life and treasure and honour it. And you have to be good and put goodness into a big communal bank of goodness and then everyone gets to draw the goodness out. So far so good. Karma is the complicated bit: it’s not about payback for naughty things, it’s cause and effect on a massive scale. And it’s not just your actions that cause effect – it’s your thoughts as well. The number of murderous thoughts I have in the gym or in the supermarket on a daily basis are enough to convince me that Buddhism is possibly not for me. But it obviously all works out for the Buddhists and they have some very excellent ideas. Good for the good old Buddhists: they seem like a lovely bunch.
By the end, however, I had retreated into churlish husband mode tucked into an alcove in reception, playing Snake on my phone to avoid further interactions, while Vicious (Her: “It felt like people keep looking at me” Me: “That’s because you keep asking questions... come on!”) interacted with a German lady about further meetings.
Afterwards we went for a Thai. I resisted the call of Singha beer and had rose tea, which was a little bit like drinking water from the bottom a vase with a sugar lump thrown in. Vicious had jasmine tea and obsessed about her hair – something I am destined to endure every six weeks for the rest of my life. While I’d been sat in front of a mystical bowl of fruit, she been sat in front of a mirror. Had I known, I would have swapped. Her: “Look at my hair. It’s BORING. Don’t you think it looks dull?” Me: “Doesn’t look dull – looks nice” Her: “How can you say it looks nice when it looks dull?” ad infinitum. As far as I am concerned, Vicious has a perfectly lovely, slinky dark bob. Sometimes it is shorter, but this is entirely to be expected if you go and get your hair cut.
I got to to the tube station, sober, boarded the tube, sober, read my book, sober (which meant that today I remembered exactly what page I was on and didn’t have to re-read 30 pages I’d forgotten all about. Arriving home was a revelation. I didn’t feel like trying to cook noodles using my head as a stirring implement. I did not belch sonorously and triumphantly. I did not walk into anything. I had a nice cup of white tea and started writing this whilst feeling that little bit more at one with humanity.
Units dodged: Ooh. Let’s say five. Two pints could so easily have been bolted down through sheer fear in the Windmill and then I really would quite have liked a Singha beer with my Thai. Top dodging for a Thursday night!
The Unit Dodger
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