For most, their brain is made up of levels of knowledge. Levels of knowledge floating in pink brain goo. Knowledge trifle, if you will. I don't want to sound too much like Donald Rumsfeld but there are things you know - that is the sponge; the foundation, the cornerstone of every good trifle. Then there are the things you don't know - the fruit. Healthy foodstuffs have no place within a trifle, I can discard a whipped cream-coated orange segment with the hardhearted ruthlessness of an assassin and I advise you to do the same. Atop of that is the stuff in between - brain custard. The facts that you once perhaps knew but now, well, seem have gone on day release. These are the facts that make you nod sagely at a pub quiz in the hope nobody will realise you don't actually know the capital of Macedonia (In my defence, I thought 'Skopje' was an implement used to test for STDs).
My brain differs somewhat.
My field of actual knowledge is tiny. Stupidly tiny. Leo Sayer tiny.
Bearing that in mind, my brain consists mainly of differing levels of cluelessness. Think less trifle, more of a soup. Imbecile consommé. The soup mainly consists of the things I will never, ever understand. Isotopes, for instance. Long division. Iraq's socioeconomic stability. Riverdance. They make my head hurt, my brain wilt. Every time I fail to complete the numbers round on Countdown, I can feel another brain cell bite the dust. I think half the battle is that I spend the majority of the thirty seconds trying to work out just when Carol Vorderman became so slutty looking. I don't mean that in a bitchy way; au contraire, I like the fact she feels it appropriate to thrust her trussed bosom right under the nose of the elderly contestants. Who cares about multiplying twenty-five by nineteen when you can watch Carol's lyrca-clad buttocks dance by. Although it would be wise to remember, Vorders, you don't need nine letters to spell "Mutton".
Floating in my broth of stupidity are the croutons; the things I don't understand now but perhaps will in the future. Men. Geography. Pop socks. There is one particular crouton which, however much I try and ignore it, always seems to rear its crunchy little head and float back up to the surface. So, once again, i've given into temptation and decided to bite.
Beso, it would seem, is back.
]]>