Unpopular Opinion: I Prefer Things To Experiences

As I type this from my studio flat, where my bedroom/living space has become manageably overrun by Jellycats of varying sizes and species, it’s fairly obvious where my spare cash has gone. I become obsessive easily, cycling through collections; pokemon cards, cassettes, Clifford Simak novels, modelling clay and various yarns (wool and acrylic, although my book storage levels remain critical). I despise feeling overwhelmed and penned in by junk, clinging to the spring clean as a means of survival, but nevertheless my desire to pick up something new persists. Jellycats have stuck around for a few years now though and thus, I’m now the Jellycat guy.

It seems incredibly uncool to admit that I am someone who prefers material items over lived experiences, but my truth is that if you gave me £100 I would spend it on miscellaneous items rather than a ticket to the theatre (note: looking at the cost to see David Tennant in MacBeth prompted this existential spiral). I prefer what many people see as trivialities, and Instagram would have me believe that a collection of ticket stubs is held in a higher regard than toys and games. I'm very jealous of the things my friends see and do, but their rock and roll lifestyle is not for me.

We’re meant to go out, right? I should have had a holiday or two over the last few years; posing before a national landmark or photographed mid-bite of some local cuisine. And of course, that would be lovely. I dream of New York and Madrid – but when? In 2017 I travelled around Europe in a van, but I didn’t have a job or a deadline. It takes me half a week to recover from a particularly strenuous day at work. When I reach a certain level of fatigue I get vertigo, the shakes, or a mixture of both. My last summer trip to Sussex left me feeling like I needed another week off to recover, so the thought of charting a plane to a whole other time-zone feels insurmountable. Even more pathetically, this week I caught a train half an hour out of Manchester for a little nature walk and needed a nap as soon as I got home.

I’m happy to venture out with my noise-cancelling headphones and an album on repeat. I love music but the thought of standing at a gig with a backpack and a bottle of water makes me prematurely age thirty years. Now I no longer rely on alcohol and drunkenly performing a character to get through social situations, I’ve learned to say no to things I don’t want to do. With nothing to prove to myself or anybody else my desire for quiet rooms and early nights can no longer be denied. My preference is comfort, and I don’t find comfort in the sensory overload of competing voices, varying temperatures and standing for hours in a packed room. I like pleasing fabrics and textures, and having warm feet.

Did I mention I like quiet? People go to the cinema for a chat, checking their phones throughout the show and I seethe for the rest of the screening. I would like to hear a performer above the sound of other people screaming their lyrics. I recently tried to justify my decision not to buy a ticket to see Taylor Swift and I sounded like the living embodiment of ‘bah humbug’. (Because I am!) I struggle to justify spending money on experiences that feel momentary, three hour evenings forgotten all but the feel of them. Historically I’ve remembered the wrong parts; feeling faint at Jimmy Eat World and desperately needing the loo midway through Stewart Lee. I can’t remember when I went to see The Decemberists in 2018 - and I was sitting down, so there was nothing to distract me from forming a core memory.

But I wouldn’t write about this if there wasn’t the lingering anxiety, the hint of fear hidden within the words I write that life will get lonely if I don’t find a tribe in which to enjoy the outside world with. I joke but dread the idea of growing isolated with only an Amusable Sandwich or grumpy frog for company. Will experiences insulate me from my inevitable future, providing me with a rich vault of memories to remind myself I was once so alive? When I feel hopeless, I don’t draw on experiences as a source of emotional strength. Sure, I remember the joy I felt as I leapt over the waves in the sea in the south of France, but I don’t recall it like a prayer when I’m panicking. I don’t list the places I’ve been or the art I’ve seen to ground myself. When I’m on my deathbed, will I be reminiscing with the nurses about the time I saw LCD Soundsystem at Academy 3 or will I be canvassing the room for their opinion on the latest r/AmITheAsshole post, my former life as a gig-goer forgotten?

The only possible conclusion perhaps, is to accept that one can spend money filling their bedroom with ridiculous anthropomorphic animals and also accidentally fill their life with experiences that you can get for free. Maybe I won’t prioritise and plan a trip to Spain anytime soon. I likely won’t spend a weekend’s wages travelling to London for a book launch or an exhibition, but my heart won’t be any less empty for the memory of the family of frogs I saw crossing the road on a country walk, or the time I danced in the rain during a thunderstorm. Every scarlet sunset or rainbow watched from a bridge. Sitting on the beach throwing stones at an empty can of cola. Sitting in the sun with a sketchbook, sitting in the shade with an ice cream. A lot of these involve sitting, huh? Running through the woods with no path to follow, scrambling over rocks on a hillside walk. Feeding an apple to a horse and feeling its teeth brush against your palm, picking blackberries and turning them into crumble. Cycling down a very steep hill.

God, it took me ages to think of those. I am so not an experience person, guys.