Imagine you’re down the pub and in front of you is a glass of booze. Delighted, you reach out for it, only to observe that it now only contains 284 of the original 568ml. Is the glass half empty or half full?
“Well Garth”, you begin, earnestly from across the table, “Unlike you I’m not a miserable cunt and there’s booze in that glass so it’s definitely half full”.
“Fine” I reply. “But you do realise that because everything is so fuckin’ expensive these days, and you have that really shit job, you only have 7p in your pocket. It’s therefore very unlikely indeed that you’ll be able to afford another. Still half full?”
“Course it is!” you say. “I can’t wait to drink it! Furthermore, with 7p in my pocket I’m well on my way to getting enough for another one – I’ve certainly got more than you – your only hope of spending a penny is by taking a piss!”
“Speaking of which” I continue, “when you went just now your glass was three quarters full, but as soon as you were out of view I grabbed it and swigged down a load. Still half full?”
You don’t look so certain any more. You cannot ignore the fact that you should be looking at a ¾ full glass. You cast me a look of resentment.
“And don’t forget, we’re not in your Bohemian regular, surrounded by likeminds – our quest for lubrication took us here, to the Butcher’s Knife, surrounded by chavs and cunts. We could get destroyed at any minute”.
You survey your surroundings, and your disquiet continues to build.
“I should also add that whilst you were gone I swapped our glasses round. I am now drinking your delicious glass of Belgian beer and, consequently, am even more certain that my glass is half empty. You, on the other hand, are now staring at 284ml of pissy Kronenberg. A chore to down for even the most sincere boozer.”
Your smile falls and you nod in resignation.
“That’s life, I suppose”, you mutter.
“Yes it is”, I reply.