Is it sometimes better to experience the highs of excitement vicariously? Such as watching your children win races, create artistic masterpieces with bottle tops and curly pasta or spectating as your sporting heroes do something amazing, like not berating the referee or falling over when a slight gust of ego comes crashing into them.
This weekend will see me parked in front of the TV for more epic rugby battles. Ulster take on the Ospreys – I’ll be trying not to hear the result – some carousing is preordained. It should be a good game, my favourite Welshman will give me a match report.
Voyeuristic joy is of a different order, and not to be confused with vicariousness. Maybe it’s a fine distinction, but an important aesthetic differentiation (sorry, I swallowed the dictionary instead of my Weetabix this morning).
I am a big fan of lusty pink fluffiness, and yet the carnality is too obvious. Just because our senses are woken up by something that taps into our animal nature, doesn’t mean that we are experiencing a truly aesthetic embracing of the conceptual space. Get me a bucket, please. Some of this stuff I honestly believe, and yet like Micheu, I can sit on the fence until I am utterly convinced one way or the other.