…knowing it all and knowing you know it
What you don’t realise, but it can’t be kept from you forever, is that you are a cunt. It has nothing to do with the fact that you’re reading this right now – you would be a cunt either way. Deep down you are probably aware of this. But deep down doesn’t count. Because deep down your organs are pumping blood, your colon is pushing shit and your other bodily organs just don’t have the spare change available to deal with such concepts as “being a cunt” and “not being a cunt”. So, on the surface you’re a cunt. Which is not to say that this is only a matter of perception, that you’re being a cunt is only skin deep or a thin veneer of being a cunt which disguises someone who really isn’t a cunt. You are a cunt, your skin is the skin of a cunt, your veneer is the veneer of a cunt, and your organs are pumping the blood and pushing the shit of a cunt. And, before you ask, no, it isn’t a figure of speech. You are a cunt.
And what about me, the writer, you are probably asking yourself right now, because that’s what a cunt would do – ask themselves such a question. You probably went so far as to voice the question, stretching the vocal cords of the cunt you are in order to lend the question the kind of accusatory force it never really could have.
The answer which you would be expecting – that I am not a cunt – is not the answer you will get. So you can’t pull that trick, the trick favoured of cunts everywhere – the hypocritical defence – because anything a hypocrite says must be wrong – you stupid cunt – because I am going to declare right here and now that I too am a cunt. But I can afford to scoff and look down on you because only now are you realising what a complete cunt you are, yes you are – you complete cunt.
Not that you’re at all to blame. Indeed, how could you help but be a complete cunt, having been stuffed with bullshit throughout your formative years – bran flakes, piano practice, encyclopaedia entries on exotic trees and the peoples of the Amazonian rainforest, Saturday morning television, beans in tomato sauce, your father’s collection of aphorisms, your mother’s carpets, jpegs of big tits and blonde hair, textbooks explaining the importance of calculus, bottles of semi-skimmed milk, everyone suffering from existential angst, deep and meaningful conversations, one tennis racquet, books in which nothing happens, sub-titled films, twenty-pound notes…
But you will say – “hold on a minute there. I rebelled against all of that. I rebelled.” And that would prove what a bigger cunt you are, because adolescent rebellion is just another step in the formation of the cunt you had been, the cunt you were then, and the cunt you were always going to be. Just look at those teenagers rebelling right now, sitting on the piss stained concrete in the city centre and trying very hard to look nothing like everyone else who they slavishly mimic – are they not cunts? And just because you no longer model yourself on just another cunt, does that make you not a cunt, less of a cunt, or a different type of cunt? Is there a even a line to this line of argument? You are still a cunt.
You might argue… you’re no longer a child, no longer impressionable, naïve, stupid… how do you figure that? Did someone tell you last week or a few years ago that you’ve stopped being stupid? Have you worked it all out? Has that little trick of dipping everything you say in irony suddenly rendered you anything but a cunt? Will you not look back in six years, six moths, six weeks, six minutes and realise what a complete cunt you are being right now – you silly cunt?
I realised that I was a cunt when I was seventeen. Not only did I realise that I was a cunt, but that I was always a cunt, and always would be a cunt. It dawned on me in a manner similar to Saul’s moment on the road to Damascus. I was camping in the Peak district with some friends from school – the kind of friends you don’t like and who don’t like you. I was pissing against the door of a little cottage, shortly after the pub had kicked us all out, when the lights came on inside. An old woman shouted out “who is it?” and it hit me then – I’m such a cunt. I threw this comment away with a brief chuckle.
How I made the leap from such a throwaway comment about my behaviour, behaviour which I should add was uncharacteristic, but behaviour of which I wasn’t particularly ashamed, to the declaration of a general truth, is difficult to say. It must be down to my level of intelligence being very high, I suppose. What else could I suppose? I am, after all, a cunt.
So as I lay awake that night in the tent (for around ten minutes before I fell into a contented sleep), I philosophised on the truths which transcend our everyday existence – and they all neatly reduced to one – I am a cunt.
That night I dreamt I was lying in a tent and sleeping soundly. When I woke up I was startled by the manner in which my dream mirrored reality. It was raining outside but I still went out to put on breakfast. I was hungry. The smell of sausages burning in the rain will forever evoke that moment for me – a moment in my life which is typical in its complete lack of significance. I threw the remaining sausages in the river, followed by the stove, the pan and the coat I had been sitting on and finally the tent. It was still raining. Everyone else was still asleep in their own tents when I left to catch the first train back to town. After waiting at the station for three hours I was joined by my friends – the tent was left behind. We spoke about ourselves on the journey back, each of us waiting for our turn to speak.
…all of this clearly adds up to the fact that I am as much of a cunt as everyone else.
Now the deep thinkers amongst you (in future for “deep thinkers” read “cunts”) might object at this point. Well surely, you deep thinkers might say, if everyone’s a cunt then surely no one is, because the term would be robbed of its meaning if it is to apply to everyone. Isn’t it analogous to the case that if everyone is rich then no one is?
There is only a short answer to that objection: don’t be a cunt.
A longer answer might go something like this: being a cunt is more akin to being a Homo sapien. Just because we’re all Homo sapiens doesn’t make none of us Homo sapiens. So being a cunt isn’t like being rich or poor. You can’t be more of a cunt than the next person can; the converse of this – that you can’t be less of a cunt – is also true. So there are no shades of cuntishness. It is an absolute quality – like being dead or alive, and not a relative quality – like being sick, stupid, ugly or polite.
You are as much of a cunt as anyone else is.