NYGman wrote:JimUk1 wrote:
Sounds like all the symptoms of an ranting alcoholic if you ask me, Dave.
Keep out of the Spoons and off the whisky.
That explains everything, he seems to have lost all the his memories around rational thought, logic, and common sense. His loss of memory seems to also include the ability to forget all the times A61 has not worked, and the memory of inventing the other events has long since gone, leaving only the faded false memory of past victories, that weren't. At least we now have the answer.
As to the Cause, could be excesses of the drink, or he could have some serious mental/psychological issues, that are manifesting these symptoms. Could it be due to his medical condition, or side effects from other meds he is on...
I think the other factor is age, and the alleged male menopause.
When a chap reaches his 50's, there is a process of reflection, including mourning and satisfaction. Many of our dreams and goals have not been achieved, and it is now too late. We will never be a soldier, a brave fireman or centre-forward for Spurs. We will never own the kind of car we've admired and coveted, or the house, yacht etc. We will never again whisper and giggle under the duvet with a slender, athletic 19yr old. So many doors are closed now, so many regrets arise. We feel older and weaker, our friends and peers are starting to die, and all around us the world has moved on. The rare exceptions who retain influence and potency (through wealth or performing talent for example) just rub salt in the wound. Richard Fucking Branson gets to play with supermodels and jetski's on his private luxury island, while I worry about my job security and sciatica.
And then on the other side of the ledger, there is what we
have achieved. While dull and unremarkable by our boyhood dreams, most of us have done something with our lives. We have a few moments of real pride and satisfaction, times when we acted bravely or kindly etc. And usually a family, friendship group and career of some description. We didn't reach the heights of our profession, but we established a solid reputation. Our spouse is old and fat, but that relationship has grown into a deep and sustaining bond which transcends physical beauty. Our kids are making their own lives, perhaps grandchildren are appearing.
For most men, this stocktake ends reasonably well, giving peace of mind about our decline and mortality. We put our boyish dreams into context, we are satisfied with our lot. We feel liberated to pursue new goals and interests, without the fretting anxiety of our youth. But some men, like David Robinson, cannot achieve this. Their balance sheet is in deficit, and there's nothing they can now do about that. They feel angry, frightened and worthless, cheated by the world or by their own poor choices. Their remaining life does not offer hope or joy, they are overwhelmed by pessimism and mourning. They desperately try to turn the clock back, to salvage some meaning from their existence. For Robinson, his imagined potency as a revolutionary leader is the last throw of the dice. And he knows it is futile, but to admit that would be to admit his own insignificance and failure.
