Err…

Okay – I suck. I got up this morning, fully intending to go haring round the park, but my legs wouldn’t work and I fell over.

Mission aborted.

I tried to have a boiling hot bath to loosen the little muscle that I do have (which, by the way, is protesting most vociferously) but that appears to involve bending. Bending, reaching, balancing and lowering – all skills that, at this present time, escape me.

Coughing, laughing and breathing are also verboten.

I’ll try again tomorrow.

FYI: liberal applications of the house-white from Cafe Andeluz have reached those parts that Raddox cannot help. I have great hopes for Saturday morning..!

May the force be with you

I have always insisted that, until I saw a jogger smiling, I wouldn’t  let the idea occupy even a split second of my valuable time. My motto? No need to run unless you’re being chased.

I do smoking. I do drinking gin. I do lying on the sofa, contemplating life. I don’t do unnecessarily energetic movement – anything that smacks of healthy living is anathema.

Until now.

Friends, I have gone to the dark side.

The circumstances of my conversion are still too painful to recount, suffice to say that the person responsible for this situation shall forever remain nameless (BECKY BECKY BECKY) and I wouldn’t dream of seeking revenge.

So. I spent a ridiculous amount of money on footwear (I may have to frame them – I really can’t think of any other way to recoup the loss except as ‘art’) and a pair of short-like things that make my arse look HUUUUUUUUGE (the latter purchased only after wasting 20 minutes hunting for the jogpants I last saw when I was 19, although I have enough crappy t-shirts to sweat my way through til the best part of next year. See, ma – I can economise!) The S-LT’s have a nifty little pocket at the back – I’m told that this is for your keys and/or bus fare, but it’s perfect for a couple of cigs and a lighter. The shoes have no redeeming features.

I wore them both for the first time this morning, a period of mere minutes best summarised as painful

1. I got hooted at by a van driver. Not, as you would think, for my bitchin’ S-LT’s, but because I got tangled up in my headphone wires whilst crossing Great Western Road and held up traffic.
2. I have discovered that jogging is a damn sight harder that it looks – it was suggested that I run for the length of one track, walk for the next. Apparently this should be 3 minute alternates. The reality? Sympathy For The Devil, the Stone’s extended version. I thought you listened to music that you liked in order to make the whole affair an interactive pleasure – I wasn’t aware that Ipods are utilised as some bizarre form of torture device.
3. I nearly threw up. Several times. A 3-month-old kitten has a greater lung capacity than me.
4. The path running along the River Kelvin smells of dog shit. As soon as I fully realised my (admittedly pathetic) lung capacity all I could taste was eau de crap.
5. I can’t jog, run or trot. I wheeze, stumble, stagger, sob, gasp and hack.
6. I’m going again tomorrow as the only way I can think to get my own back on Becky is to turn up really early.
7. Becky is out on the piss tonight.
8. Ha ha.

*!”@*&!

Things that drive me to use rash language:

1. people who use the phrase ‘only joking’ to excuse their ignorant, tasteless and offensive remarks whilst exhibiting no discernable sense of humour when the roles are reversed: young man with the bad haircut (and, I’ll bet, no sex life) this means you.
2. people who make loud and vicious comments based on gender/race/accent and then, upon belatedly realising that you may fall into at least 2 of the catagories that inspire such vitriol, say; ‘not you, of course’. Oh, of course.
3. people who        speak        very        slowly        to        the        minion.  I know I’ve mentioned this before but it bears repeating: SOME OF US CHOOSE SUCH JOBS BECAUSE WE LIKE THEM, NOT BECAUSE WE’RE TOO THICK TO DO ANYTHING ELSE. (Although a winning lottery ticket might change our minds. As would your continued patronage…)
4. people who welcome the smoking ban because ‘it means I cut down’. As if they’re not adults. As if they’re otherwise forced to light stick from butt, ad infinitum, by some malicious evil power. As if they didn’t choose to start smoking in the first place. (And let’s face it, it tastes so foul when you’re a nicotine virgin that it takes a concerted effort to get to full blown addiction. Surely if you wanted to give up you wouldn’t require Government intervention to achieve your goal? Or perhaps you’re too cheap for hypnotherapy/acupuncture/patches/whatever. Or you’re just faking it when you bitch about Orwellian states…)
5. people who assume that just because they gave up, I want to too. FYI: I don’t. I like smoking. I enjoy the ritual, the act and the psychological boost. I miss (oh, lord, how I miss) the after-work treat of a tall, iced, freshly-limed gin & tonic accompanied by the first crisp cigarette of the evening, and I begrudge foregoing my enjoyment to allow for your lack of will power. So bugger off.

Rockabye Baby

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l9WvXFUg2Ls

Pearl Jam definitely has the edge, here…

Words fail me.

I think, perhaps, that I am cursed in all things H2O: first it was The Incompetence of the Fat Plumber, then it was The Trials and Tribulations of the Thing That Flushes, and now it is The Mystery of the Broken Toilet Seat.

FOR GOD’S SAKE, PEOPLE - PEE, FLUSH, LEAVE!

HOW HARD CAN IT BLOODY WELL BE?