The Plural Of Nemesis is Nemeses, Whether You Like It Or Not

Written by Eoinín McAlpine

For all the uncertainty that one faces in these tumultuous times, it is reassuring to know that there is still one entity that can be relied upon no matter what state the stock market is in.

Death.

Yes, that industrious chap clad in the retro black robe clutching his trusty scythe, working his way through a list that shall exist as long as creatures insist upon breeding. Death takes many forms; a hairdryer in a bathtub, a carelessly discarded banana peel, or a vending machine being rocked back and forth to retrieve some lost change or withheld confectionery.

So when his icy black finger fixes on your hapless self, what will be the legacy that remains in your absence? What shall be the one thing that defines you as a person after the final whistle has blown? Your assiduous dedication to office administration? The inexplicably enormous stockpile of canned asparagus in your pantry? Your painstakingly selected collection of adult contemporary music?

All of them are indisputably significant achievements, but probably not killer epitaph material. What you need is a purpose, a noteworthy pursuit, a raison d'être.

You, my friend, need an arch-nemesis.

A Joker to your Batman. A Lex Luthor to your Superman. A Larry Bird to your Michael Jordan.

An arch-nemesis gives a beige existence vivid colour, and can transform a life by numbers into something worthy of adaptation for a feature length film.

This is not to say that your arch-nemesis need be a super-villain hell bent on creating lawless chaos and seizing control of an entire city or country. On the contrary, your chosen adversary may be an individual of as simple needs and ways as yourself.

Choosing an appropriate arch-nemesis is as important a decision as selecting a pair of trousers for one’s self. If, for example, you are a mild mannered clerk by day and also in the evening, a machine gun-toting psychopath with a proclivity to rooftop battles and confusing riddles involving obscure bible passages, nitroglycerine and busloads of school children probably isn’t your kind of guy.

There’s no point punching above your weight.

Just as there are slacks to suit everyone from the skinny to the orcaesque, there are also arch-nemeses of all calibres just begging to have their evil schemes thwarted, whether it is by someone with a utility belt who wears their underpants on the outside, or by someone who collects the dole and watches The Ricki Lake Show without fail.

Executive Boss. This fiendish scoundrel rules with an iron fist and a PowerPoint presentation. He confuses and disorientates his hapless minions by using made up words like “proactive”, “upskill” and “e-learning”. His multicoloured 3-D bar graph of quarterly sales figures create an ideal smokescreen as he ditches work at 3pm, zipping away in his convertible Porsche Boxster en route to his next swingers party.

Street Preacher. Armed only with his own unique interpretation of whatever religious text he follows, a microphone and a 10 watt amplifier the lord bestowed upon him at a garage sale for a nominal price, he is the chosen one. You, on the other hand, are damned. He hypnotises the sinners that dare to appear in public by spouting appropriate passages from his text, then smites the poor sods with his own catchy religi-slogans. “Forget your iPod, listen to your iGod!” Amen.

Inspector Death. He wields a stick of chalk in one hand to mark the tyres of his next victim, and a book of evil tickets his other sweaty paw, shoving them under windscreen wipers quicker than you can say “inferiority complex”. Some say he was dropped on his head as a child, others speculate that he was never a child at all. He is a relentless mechanism, quivering in sensual delight in his ill-fitting council uniform each time he snares another dupe foolish enough not to respect the sign clearly marked “2hr Parking Except Between 12am-12pm on Days Occurring During Weeks Falling On Years Containing Weeks Containing Days Public Holidays Inclusive”.

These masters of low level malevolence are unlikely to hold the world to ransom, even if the thought has crossed their twisted little minds. Unchecked though, the sum of their petty deeds may add up to an equation few may be capable of solving.

Imagine a world where you are ruled like a dog for 40+ hours a week by a bourgeois gobhawk more concerned with snorting cocaine off prostitute's bottoms than your next pay rise. You seek retail therapy on your day off, only to be assailed by some self-righteous halfwit trying to force his beliefs down your throat. Horrified, you beat a hasty retreat to your vehicle, only to discover that a person who lacked the nous to pass the police entrance exam has claimed half your pay cheque because your tyres were a horrifying two inches over a white line.

Keep your underpants on the right side of your trousers. Stop scanning the clouds for a spotlight bearing your symbol. Step away from the phone box. You don’t need to be a superhero to combat this gaggle of soulless bottom feeders.

Look within yourself, and like Batman and his ilk, you shall find the desire to fight injustice and evil. Go home when you’re paid to. Tell overbearing pseudo priests to shut their word holes. And even if you shouldn’t have parked in that loading zone, bugger it. Follow that parking inspector back to his car and slash one of his tyres.