Reality

Upon dismounting the stairs on the top floor of the Stratford-based spa hotel I'm visiting due to my fortuitous occupation, I remark to The Brunette (yep, I'm using AA Gill's affectionate terminology now) that I sometimes question whether I'm completely mad and imagining everything. For all I know, I say, I could well be strutting nonchalently through an Aberdeen crack den, talking to myself, dressed in a bin liner and Jesus sandals.

She giggles, probably at me, not with me.

Given that I have a lot of spare time on my hands, and that hotel rooms are fairly dull when you're not engaged in the various horizontal entertainment options, I continue riffing on this Descartian (or 'Matrix-esque' to people who don't spend their time over-analysing Keanu Reaves flicks) alley of a conversation.

Like the character Cypher in the hit 1999 film, I would rather take the blue pill and live through a fake, but enjoyable, simulation than face a harsh, but potentially spiritually rich, reality. The Brunette agrees and I shut up for a second- a rare event- and put on the television.

The curiously square and curvy relic features an unresponsive and unnavigatable electronic programming guide which forces me to give up and leave it on Sky News.

Current ramblings on the slick and ever-earnest 24 hour Murdochian cable channel revolve around the alleged activities of Jon Venables, one of the murderers of James Bulger. Still a subject that's difficult to stomach.

I'm very much aware that this is hardly the best viewing option for a romantic weekend away- damn this malfunctioning digibox- but I leave it on, mainly because I'm about to start another undergrad-level philosophy rant.

What if, I begin, Venables is essentially living life on a different plain of reality? Maybe that's what evil is, some fucked-up psychlogical plateau in which someone can have the same consideration for human life that I do when playing Grand Theft Auto?

Everyone, for example, would percieve the floral curtains in this hotel room with a different frame of reference (personally I find them a bit mid-nineties and Noveau Riche, since you asked) but very few, I hope, would consider driving through San Andreas, or Stratford Upon Avon for that matter, in a stolen Cadillac at 100mph whilst carrying a 9mm Uzi. It would take a very different level of reality, no?

The Brunette, who studied Criminology, asks whether I'm trying to say that I would have locked up Venables for his crimes or allowed him to lead a more normal life in which steps can be taken to erase this 'alternate reality' in which he lives.

It's an irritatingly logical question which throws me a bit, but I carry on with my rant regardless, notching it up a level, mainly for shock value.

What then, if the people in high positions of power, politicians and the like, have achieved their high-standing because they live in a warped mode of 'reality' which facilitates a borderline psychotic charm offensive which is effective at deluding people and ultimately leading us into wars? Maybe evil works in different ways and people are never aware they are 'evil'.

I wouldn't have led us into war. But I'm also not knocking down doors canvassing for votes, I add, probably coming off like a pompous cross between Alex Jones and Eric Cartman.

Nethertheless, I think I'm onto something and I'm reminded of this book which I'll probably never be arsed to read.

The rant is left hanging. Cartoons come on the telly. It's not on Sky News anymore, unless Murdoch's had a major strategic rethink. Which I'd be all for.

I lie down and chill out for a bit, like normal people do at spas. I take the blue pill, drift off, and enjoy the antics of Tom and Jerry- a show that features a cat with the same name as me, which for some reason forces me to side with him.

I get lost imagining myself locked in an eternal struggle with a cocky, but infinitely resourceful, mouse. An insightful allegory for life itself maybe?

No. No it isn't... Maybe I have lost it?

I look down, raise a puzzled eyebrow, and refrain from asking whether I'm wearing Jesus sandles. I've got enough on my plate anyway, what with this pesky rodent and all.