Chairman of the bored

They say that when a man is bored of London, he is bored of life. If this is true, I should take a running leap off Hammersmith Bridge in my solid concrete Hushpuppies – however, no matter how boring life may get, I’m certain that the alternative is even more so. To clarify, of course I’m not bored of London, merely bored in London.

All the usual pleas to rouse fall on deaf ears. It’s a lovely day outside – no, it’s typical British autumn, grey and wet. London is filled with museums and galleries – yes, and my soul is obese from a glut of culture. It’s going on a crash-diet of The Jeremy Kyle Show starting tomorrow. You could always do some work – no, I’m looking for something to avoid boredom.

I’m sure this sounds familiar to many of you. For all the great wonders and sights of the capital, for all the complex galaxies of social interaction available, it can be painfully easy to sail into the doldrums of interminable boredom. It’s not like I haven’t tried; I’ve already exhausted several avenues of novelty but nothing quite scratched the itch of my ennui.

At first I tried cleaning, that perennial favourite. Everything went back in its proper place and the newly-vacated surfaces were polished to a shine. I went round and round my house with the vacuum cleaner, on all the floors. Once, then twice and then I hoovered the walls, just to make sure. The bathroom was next, the toilet bleached, the bath de-limescaled and the tiles scrubbed of mildew. I even removed the U-bend from under the sink and began harrying it with a toothbrush. Althought perhaps I should have let the bleach pass through first. All I know is, after seeing some phantasmagorical colours in a faraway land, I awoke to the exact same apathy.

I then grew more adventurous. With some stale cheese, I was able to tempt a few opportunistic mice into my company. Initially, they were too skittish to learn any tricks. I thought I’d help them loosen up by dosing them with marijuana (That I just happened to stumble upon: honestly, I thought it was pot-pourri!). Unfortunately, the only stunts that they could perform were giggling uncontrollably and asking if I had any Mars bars. While this was somewhat amusing for a little while, I stopped laughing long before the mice did.

Adventurousness gave way to criminal insanity. Climbing to the top of the tallest buildings I could find, I took it upon myself to throw a series of cakes, tarts and desserts into the metropolis below. The result was like watching a firework display of flour, sugar and cream, with the same inherent joy. My soul leapt to see a zesty lemon cheesecake explode across the pavement and I felt a lightness in my spirit as pedestrians fled screaming from the sudden downpour of Black Forest gateaux. The catastrophic, instantaneous beauty seemed to resonate with my sense of the fleeting futility of human endeavour... also, it was damned good fun to watch the custards go splat!

As my spirits began to lift, I realised the macrocosm of my experience. Humanity gets bored very easily and seeks constantly to alleviate it through the pursuit of the novel. We are all trying to ease that eternal itch of the soul. Each may have his preferred avenue; it just takes some experimenting to find the perfect salve.

My own experiences on this dreary afternoon have led me to coin a stupendous new proverb, or tweak an old one (Apologies, Dr. Johnson): “When a man is bored with inhaling bleach, dealing illicit drugs to rodents and delighting in the combination of cake and gravity, he is well and truly bored with life.”