Sundays. What exactly are they FOR? I am sorry if what I am about to say makes Jesus cry, but its official; Sundays are rubbish. I always suspected as much, yet there’s been a niggling doubt in my mind. In the past I thought my dislike of the Sabbaths was because they were always a groggy comedown from Saturday’s alcohol indulgences. But now I have checked through eyes of full-consciousness and sobriety, I can now objectively verify that Sundays are just plain rubbish. And don’t talk to me about what a lovely hot summer’s day it’s been either. If anything, the nice weather only made it worse. Personally I wish it had it lashed down. At least it would have been a more honest representation of the Sunday vibe. You can’t polish a turd.
Actually I’ve just researched this matter on the internet and apparently you can polish a turd; either by lacquering it, baking it to remove all the moisture, adding a caking agent or allowing it to fossilise. It also says you could laminate it, but this would be a bit of cheat because you’d actually be polishing the shell rather than the faecal matter itself (honestly, I appreciate the fact that people need hobbies, but can you seriously believe some of the pedantic drivel that some people clog the cyberspace up with?)
In case you can’t tell, I am feeling bitter. If you’ll remember a few entries ago, I stated my intention to have a weekend away at Shell Island. Then as soon as I saw the downpour on Friday afternoon, I showed my trademark lack of resilience, immediately pulling out of the trip. But it seems that those who had persevered ended up being rewarded with glorious weather. I, on the other hand, went for a Sunday roast. Now usually I love Sunday dinner. You ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you as much. But the trouble is that hot weather doesn’t lend itself well to a Sunday roast. And on days like today, the consumption of such a dish is more a task than a pleasure. Honestly, attending that plate was like stoking an engine furnace. At least when you embark on a rigorous task, you expect that it might make you sweat, but heavy perspiration is not a pastime I wish to indulge in when I am at my leisure. I may have soldiered on, but couldn’t help resenting having paid good money for the privilege of such hard work. I never thought I’d see myself typing these words, but I longed for a salad.
At one point the chef came over and asked if we had enough gravy. He needn’t have bothered. I was sweating so much that by the time I finished, that plate was awash with more gravy than when I started. What a strange and deeply unpleasant phenomena this must have looked to the young and rather attractive waitress who collected our plates. I actually felt a bit embarrassed. This made me sweat even more.
Maybe I am being too hard on Sundays. After all, this was just one unfortunate occasion when I’d made a bad choice about how to end my week. That’s not really Sunday’s fault is it? Perhaps I’m being a bit petulant.
Oh well. I suppose I’ll have to have another crack at a Sunday next week and see how that one goes.
Sat 27th June 2009
In case you were wondering about the progress on my teetotaller’s bingo card, here it is. Because I’ve hardly given drinking so much as a passing thought, I have neglected to include it on the last few entries. The only reason for including it here is because today has been a bit more challenging. It seems like almost everyone has a good old glug on a Saturday night, and this has indeed been my own regular behavioural pattern for quite some time. I opted to keep away from pubs (I usually consider pubs to be the best places in the world, but if you’re not drinking, the thought of going just seems like some sort cruel self-flagellation). Of course some people will argue that the main point of pubs is the social angle, but bollocks to that – when you’re a fully fledged misanthropist like me, what’s the point? Only the soothing, escapist qualities of alcohol from this prolonged wail of despair we call life, holds any sort of appeal (since I am financially secure, with no health worries living in a crime-free suburban village with no poverty or violent oppression to worry about, I am only joshing when I say this. To a certain extent).
To console my longing, I treated myself to an Indian takeaway for tea. Unfortunately, my irritable bowel seems to have taken exception to it, which ironically means I have all the intestinal turmoil of a heavy drinking session without any of the fun. More proof that if there is a God, he is a vengeful entity who punishes, rather than rewards our good intent. He is a grander equivalent of an abusive spouse in a rather hammy soap-opera, punching you in the face whenever you try to be a better person. Who would want to praise someone so fundamentally spiteful? Like all evil soap-opera characters, he is a pantomime baddy in the making, and far from being celebrated, it seems more appropriate we greet him with a chorus of boos and hisses every Christmas.
Once again, I feel obliged to stress that I’m only exaggerating my alcoholic plight for tragicomic effect. But there was one very genuine moment today, when I was suddenly consumed by a striking desire to sit in the warm evening sun, on a pub patio with an icy cold pint of lager. And when I remembered I was on the wagon, I did feel a rather abrupt pang of remorse. I must also confess at this point, to briefly considering whether it would technically be cheating to get myself a few consolatory cans of Kaliber or Shandy Bass (you must understand, it was the idea of that lagery taste that I currently craved, not loss of sobriety). I had no idea what my policy on Kaliber was, mainly because I had not covered this in my list stipulations before I set out on this epic battle of abstinence. Do these drinks contain traces of alcohol, thereby still being technically potential classed alcohol consumption? Would it somehow be tainting my achievements to indulge; undermining the point of this exercise, by maintaining a kind of behavioural crutch by association? Does it show a stronger will to go ‘cold turkey’ on all beer-based drinks altogether? Or was it just abstinence from the effects of intoxication that was important? Clearly I had been hoisted by my own lack of preparation when setting my initial targets and motivations. What I really needed was some sort of independent adjudicator to set the rules for me. So I headed round to the bookshop to see my mate Al. But when I explained my plight to him, he merely shook his head, like a disapproving father who had inadvertently stumbled upon his son’s stash of granny-porn. From one simple “he’s a lost cause” type of look in his eye, I realised what a desperate and pathetic character I had become. After all, I was CONSIDERING BUYING KALIBER - an appallingly low act in itself, irrespective of any dubious motivations behind it.
So thankfully I resisted, and can cross off another day of my progress chart with an untainted conscience. And although I may have conjured an exaggerated version of my dependence for the purposes of this entry, I still can’t help feeling genuinely chuffed to have resisted those fleeting lures of temptation.
To console my longing, I treated myself to an Indian takeaway for tea. Unfortunately, my irritable bowel seems to have taken exception to it, which ironically means I have all the intestinal turmoil of a heavy drinking session without any of the fun. More proof that if there is a God, he is a vengeful entity who punishes, rather than rewards our good intent. He is a grander equivalent of an abusive spouse in a rather hammy soap-opera, punching you in the face whenever you try to be a better person. Who would want to praise someone so fundamentally spiteful? Like all evil soap-opera characters, he is a pantomime baddy in the making, and far from being celebrated, it seems more appropriate we greet him with a chorus of boos and hisses every Christmas.
Once again, I feel obliged to stress that I’m only exaggerating my alcoholic plight for tragicomic effect. But there was one very genuine moment today, when I was suddenly consumed by a striking desire to sit in the warm evening sun, on a pub patio with an icy cold pint of lager. And when I remembered I was on the wagon, I did feel a rather abrupt pang of remorse. I must also confess at this point, to briefly considering whether it would technically be cheating to get myself a few consolatory cans of Kaliber or Shandy Bass (you must understand, it was the idea of that lagery taste that I currently craved, not loss of sobriety). I had no idea what my policy on Kaliber was, mainly because I had not covered this in my list stipulations before I set out on this epic battle of abstinence. Do these drinks contain traces of alcohol, thereby still being technically potential classed alcohol consumption? Would it somehow be tainting my achievements to indulge; undermining the point of this exercise, by maintaining a kind of behavioural crutch by association? Does it show a stronger will to go ‘cold turkey’ on all beer-based drinks altogether? Or was it just abstinence from the effects of intoxication that was important? Clearly I had been hoisted by my own lack of preparation when setting my initial targets and motivations. What I really needed was some sort of independent adjudicator to set the rules for me. So I headed round to the bookshop to see my mate Al. But when I explained my plight to him, he merely shook his head, like a disapproving father who had inadvertently stumbled upon his son’s stash of granny-porn. From one simple “he’s a lost cause” type of look in his eye, I realised what a desperate and pathetic character I had become. After all, I was CONSIDERING BUYING KALIBER - an appallingly low act in itself, irrespective of any dubious motivations behind it.
So thankfully I resisted, and can cross off another day of my progress chart with an untainted conscience. And although I may have conjured an exaggerated version of my dependence for the purposes of this entry, I still can’t help feeling genuinely chuffed to have resisted those fleeting lures of temptation.
Honestly, if it wasn’t for the stash of crack cocaine stuffed under my pillow, I don’t know how I’d have got through it.
Fri 26th June 2009
I’d like to use today’s blog to say a few words; pay my own very special and personal tribute to someone. If you happened to catch the news this morning you might have already seen what I am referring to. I am of course talking about Susanna Reid, the lovely BBC Breakfast presenter. I like her a lot. Not as much as this man here clearly does, obviously. I like her the about the right amount.Hers is the first face I see after opening my eyes on a Friday morning. And in my mind, that makes her the closest thing to my wife (only a wife that I actually still find titillating and have not yet started taking for granted. Which in a way is better. So no there's need to patronise my lonliness with your detatched sympathy). She is clearly humble too, often choosing to play down her lad-mag potential by pulling odd little faces at camera.
At one point during today’s inevitable coverage of the death of renowned West Ham supporter Michael Jackson, lovely Susanna corrected her co-presenter (I don’t know his name, but who cares anyway. It’s not like I’ve any desire to search for HIM on Google Images like Susanna- which incidentally I did solely for the research purposes of procuring referential pictures for this blog entry, rather than for any other reasons) over the origin of one of the photo stills on the
screen. He was in the flow of narrating one of them picture gallery tributes, saying something like “And here he is on the cover of ‘Off The Wall’”. Then suddenly Susannah interrupted her co-host to inform him that is was actually the cover from the “Billie Jean” single. There was a brief pause as both of them looked a bit momentarily stunned at what had just been said. Technically she was probably right, but either way, surely it was irrelevant given the contextual gravitas of the greater story. Nevertheless, I felt all a-quiver. Maybe it was the earnest dedication to pedantry that I found so profoundly arousing.Susannah soon realised her tactless frivolity and was soon trying to justify herself, saying “I just wanted to correct you, before we had thousands of letters of complaints from people saying you got it wrong.” Because of course if you were a Michael Jackson fan, the last thing you’d want to see is the legacy of his life being defiled through any possible misrepresentative media speculation. You just wouldn’t be used to that sort of thing, would you? And this is the cover art of his DISCOGRAPHY we’re talking about! What else is interesting enough about the mythical, super-rich and darkly troubled pop-star to neglect referring to his sleeve art correctly?
Usually, I would have snorted derisively upon witnessing such a haplessly flailing display of banter before my eyes. Definitely if Kate Silverton was at the helm (she seems to be trying too hard to pull the intellectual MILF schtick, but without her adept skills of pronunciation she is nothing more than a potential ‘flashback’ scene for Diedre Barlow, should the writers of Coronation Street go all ‘Twin Peaks’). But no, this was Susanna and Susanna never gets even the faintest scoff from me. And in her defence, after the endless mawkish loop of celebrity tributes, and massively hypocritical tabloid opinion u-turns, this moment was the most honest and human piece of Jacko coverage I’ve seen all day.Thu 25th June 2009
Rather than going to for my regular Thursday night in The Swan pub, I took away any temptations to drink, by heading round my mates’ bookshop. When I arrived I headed off to the kitchen to make us a cup of tea, where I found a bottle of milk on the draining board. Since it was not found in any refrigerating device, I gave it an obligatory sniff before pouring. The fact I released a rather audible (and laughable) retch would imply that the contents of the bottle had probably seen better days. Actually -judging by the awfulness of the stench, they had possibly seen better millennia.
It gave me a flashback to my days living in a shared lad’s house, where selecting one of the numerous half bottles that had often rather curiously been left in close proximity to a radiator, became a punishing game of Russian roulette. Now let’s not beat around the bush, I am a self-confessed slob. In fact, my room was actually nicknamed the ‘grief-hole’. But when it came to slobbery I was no better or worse than the other inhabitants. If cleanliness is next to Godliness, then our house was quite literally condemned to hell.
I can still smell the washing up bowl which was like experimental soup, with its crutons of condiments and cutlery, the stray bin bags sitting fetid by the door, the carpet of yesterday’s papers strewn across the floor, mountains of cigarette-ends piled in the ashtrays. In fact amongst this anarchy, the tenuously balanced ashtray contents bore the only house-rule: whoever bought the tumbling stack of fag butts down would have to empty the ashtray and clean the mess off the carpet. Looking back I suppose it was as good a cleaning-rota system as any. At best it discouraged smoking and at worst, it brought a entertainment element, a kind of game which rewarded skills of delicacy; a sort of ‘ashtray Jenga’ I suppose.
In fact now I am older I have come to realise there were other short-term benefits to such a life of slobbery. Essentially the low-maintenance element which meant one had more time to apply to more pressing activities; such as sitting in front of perpetual ‘Only Fools & Horses’ re-runs on UK Gold, then heading off to bed for a mid-afternoon nap/quick wank, before getting up later to catch the repeat cycle of the earlier ‘Only Fools & Horses’ re-runs on UK Gold. Then one more off the wrist before bed. Not that the wanking had any sort of direct relationship with the re-runs of ‘Only Fools & Horses’ you understand. For some reason I feel an obligation to re-emphasise this was a chronological, rather than simultaneous reporting of events. It is not impossible there may have been an occasion when one of Del Boy’s early working class ‘dolly birds’ permitted a kind of arousing, gritty sexual frisson, but if this ever happened, I certainly don’t remember it.
Also, that washing up bowl in the kitchen may have been grim, but it will certainly have paid some great dividends in strengthening my immune system. And as for the strewn pile of yesterday’s newspapers – well, they came in particularly handy the night one of my housemates came back drunk and was sick all over the floor (easy to wrap up and throw away, avoiding any carpet-stain implications. It all aided the audacious argument to get our deposits returned at the end of the tenure).
Of course, I do not and would not wish to live like that nowadays. That was all just a moment in time. It’s not like I have not been conditioned to live like this like some Pavlovian dog or anything. But the point is, that even in the bowels of anarchy, our house managed to adapt to its own perverse system of ecology. Maybe there’s a lesson embedded in that somewhere, about chaos finding its natural order. I would explore the idea further, only there’s an eighties sit-com is just starting on the telly. I may have seen this episode before, but fuck it, I’m feeling horny.
It gave me a flashback to my days living in a shared lad’s house, where selecting one of the numerous half bottles that had often rather curiously been left in close proximity to a radiator, became a punishing game of Russian roulette. Now let’s not beat around the bush, I am a self-confessed slob. In fact, my room was actually nicknamed the ‘grief-hole’. But when it came to slobbery I was no better or worse than the other inhabitants. If cleanliness is next to Godliness, then our house was quite literally condemned to hell.
I can still smell the washing up bowl which was like experimental soup, with its crutons of condiments and cutlery, the stray bin bags sitting fetid by the door, the carpet of yesterday’s papers strewn across the floor, mountains of cigarette-ends piled in the ashtrays. In fact amongst this anarchy, the tenuously balanced ashtray contents bore the only house-rule: whoever bought the tumbling stack of fag butts down would have to empty the ashtray and clean the mess off the carpet. Looking back I suppose it was as good a cleaning-rota system as any. At best it discouraged smoking and at worst, it brought a entertainment element, a kind of game which rewarded skills of delicacy; a sort of ‘ashtray Jenga’ I suppose.In fact now I am older I have come to realise there were other short-term benefits to such a life of slobbery. Essentially the low-maintenance element which meant one had more time to apply to more pressing activities; such as sitting in front of perpetual ‘Only Fools & Horses’ re-runs on UK Gold, then heading off to bed for a mid-afternoon nap/quick wank, before getting up later to catch the repeat cycle of the earlier ‘Only Fools & Horses’ re-runs on UK Gold. Then one more off the wrist before bed. Not that the wanking had any sort of direct relationship with the re-runs of ‘Only Fools & Horses’ you understand. For some reason I feel an obligation to re-emphasise this was a chronological, rather than simultaneous reporting of events. It is not impossible there may have been an occasion when one of Del Boy’s early working class ‘dolly birds’ permitted a kind of arousing, gritty sexual frisson, but if this ever happened, I certainly don’t remember it.
Also, that washing up bowl in the kitchen may have been grim, but it will certainly have paid some great dividends in strengthening my immune system. And as for the strewn pile of yesterday’s newspapers – well, they came in particularly handy the night one of my housemates came back drunk and was sick all over the floor (easy to wrap up and throw away, avoiding any carpet-stain implications. It all aided the audacious argument to get our deposits returned at the end of the tenure).
Of course, I do not and would not wish to live like that nowadays. That was all just a moment in time. It’s not like I have not been conditioned to live like this like some Pavlovian dog or anything. But the point is, that even in the bowels of anarchy, our house managed to adapt to its own perverse system of ecology. Maybe there’s a lesson embedded in that somewhere, about chaos finding its natural order. I would explore the idea further, only there’s an eighties sit-com is just starting on the telly. I may have seen this episode before, but fuck it, I’m feeling horny.
Wed 24th June 2009
A colleague and I moved into a new office today. To celebrate the occasion, I went out to the £1 shop to buy essential provisions – two new tacky mugs for our tea. For myself, I bought a mug emblazoned with a “Carry On Matron” film poster. For my colleague, I bought a spectacularly tacky Elvis mug. Oh the smug glee of the condescending middle classes – ho ho ho.
I made my way to the checkout to be greeted by a woman with bobbed black hair. She looked at the mugs for a moment, before pointing at a sticker on them I had not previously noticed. It said “Buy 2 get one free”.
“You’ll have to pick another one if you wanna get one free” she announced.
I could have used my expert pedantry to deconstruct the vague language used on the sticker, by pointing out that the offer technically implied that if I bought two, one of them should be free. I could have helpfully advised that if it was necessary to buy 2 before taking advantage of a free mug offer, then surely the sticker would be less ambiguous if it were to say something like, “Buy 2 mugs and get a third free”. But I opted against doing this for 2 main reasons:-
1) This was a pound shop, so I did not want to look particularly miserly by trying to barter with products already priced at a mere £1 each.
2) I appreciated her seemingly genuine concern that I fully obliged my purchase offer, so it didn’t seem fair to inconvenience her with my linguistic pedantry.
I headed back to select another mug (this one had a baby wearing headphones – lovely!), and wandered back to the girl at the till. She looked at the three mugs, and looked at me. Then all of sudden, with no prompt or warning, she brazenly announced, “You don’t live with a woman do you?”
Well, as you can imagine, I was rather taken aback by this. How on Earth could she possibly know such a personal thing about me? This deduction was so unprecedented that I began to wonder if this humble pound-shop worker actually had some sort of special gift. Maybe she had some psychic powers. She certainly had a bit of the Mystic Meg look about her. And thinking about it, you don’t actually see that much of Mystic Meg nowadays, do you? Could it be that old Meg has fallen on such hard times, she is now trying to make ends meet by supplementing her wages with a till job at Wolverhampton Poundland? Of course not. If she really knew what I was thinking, (following her very vocal and public presumptions on my lifestyle) it is very unlikely she’d have been willing to serve me at all.
So for what other reason would she assume I did not live with a woman? Could she be implying that I am gay? Or that I am so grotesquely ugly I couldn’t possibly procure the affections of the opposite sex? Well – no. It transpired the reason she made this bold assumption was, in her words, “because none of the mugs matched each other, and a woman wouldn’t have allowed that.”
So there you go ladies - I’ve learned something new about wooing your affections today. How could I have been so foolish for so long? It was so obvious! Apparently you do not want a man with one tacky “Carry On Matron” mug, but a man with whole series of identical “Carry On Matron” mugs. From now on I will win your hearts, proving how I have tamed myself from chaos to a settled, ordered world. After all, no woman in their right mind could possibly love a maverick with arbitrary drinking vessels.
By the way, in case you were wondering, I am being sarcastic. I did not believe for one second that gender politics have reached such base levels of caricature. But in that checkout girl’s world, clearly they had. And so as not to disappoint, I humoured her stereotyped world-view of hapless blundering men, by accidentally leaving a foul anal mist with her at the check-out.
I made my way to the checkout to be greeted by a woman with bobbed black hair. She looked at the mugs for a moment, before pointing at a sticker on them I had not previously noticed. It said “Buy 2 get one free”.
“You’ll have to pick another one if you wanna get one free” she announced.
I could have used my expert pedantry to deconstruct the vague language used on the sticker, by pointing out that the offer technically implied that if I bought two, one of them should be free. I could have helpfully advised that if it was necessary to buy 2 before taking advantage of a free mug offer, then surely the sticker would be less ambiguous if it were to say something like, “Buy 2 mugs and get a third free”. But I opted against doing this for 2 main reasons:-
1) This was a pound shop, so I did not want to look particularly miserly by trying to barter with products already priced at a mere £1 each.
2) I appreciated her seemingly genuine concern that I fully obliged my purchase offer, so it didn’t seem fair to inconvenience her with my linguistic pedantry.
I headed back to select another mug (this one had a baby wearing headphones – lovely!), and wandered back to the girl at the till. She looked at the three mugs, and looked at me. Then all of sudden, with no prompt or warning, she brazenly announced, “You don’t live with a woman do you?”
Well, as you can imagine, I was rather taken aback by this. How on Earth could she possibly know such a personal thing about me? This deduction was so unprecedented that I began to wonder if this humble pound-shop worker actually had some sort of special gift. Maybe she had some psychic powers. She certainly had a bit of the Mystic Meg look about her. And thinking about it, you don’t actually see that much of Mystic Meg nowadays, do you? Could it be that old Meg has fallen on such hard times, she is now trying to make ends meet by supplementing her wages with a till job at Wolverhampton Poundland? Of course not. If she really knew what I was thinking, (following her very vocal and public presumptions on my lifestyle) it is very unlikely she’d have been willing to serve me at all.
So for what other reason would she assume I did not live with a woman? Could she be implying that I am gay? Or that I am so grotesquely ugly I couldn’t possibly procure the affections of the opposite sex? Well – no. It transpired the reason she made this bold assumption was, in her words, “because none of the mugs matched each other, and a woman wouldn’t have allowed that.”
So there you go ladies - I’ve learned something new about wooing your affections today. How could I have been so foolish for so long? It was so obvious! Apparently you do not want a man with one tacky “Carry On Matron” mug, but a man with whole series of identical “Carry On Matron” mugs. From now on I will win your hearts, proving how I have tamed myself from chaos to a settled, ordered world. After all, no woman in their right mind could possibly love a maverick with arbitrary drinking vessels.
By the way, in case you were wondering, I am being sarcastic. I did not believe for one second that gender politics have reached such base levels of caricature. But in that checkout girl’s world, clearly they had. And so as not to disappoint, I humoured her stereotyped world-view of hapless blundering men, by accidentally leaving a foul anal mist with her at the check-out.
Tue 23rd June 2009
Today I re-booted my gym regime with particular unprecedented gusto, by actually going before work. Yes that’s right – BEFORE work.
I rather enjoyed it too. You kind of get to start your day with an added vigour. Obviously one has to avoid the other people in the gym at that time; for they must be a bit over-enthusiastic towards their fitness – getting up so early clearly makes them a bit weird and sinister. Trust me; I know this because I have done the gym-before-work routine before. As I recall, I was on the cross trainer, heading close to my 4.5 mile target, when suddenly the fire alarm suddenly sounded. But rather than evacuating, all the weird gym enthusiasts just kind of carried on, completely non-plussed; even when the alarm had rung for a good 30 seconds or more. I thought it was odd that they had no regard for their own safety, but because I am a leader rather than a follower, I simply carried on with my exercise too. And as is so often the case with these things, it did turn out to be a false alarm. But even so, I thought their determination to continue exercising through the cacophony showed a strange level of enthusiasm towards weight loss. So strange, that I wonder if they just nonchalantly consider a blazing inferno the most effective way to burn calories or something.
In hindsight, this interruption had rather fortunate timing for me. Had I been taking a shower at the time when the alarm sounded, there’d have been no other people for me to follow the lead of. I’d have been faced with the dilemma of taking decisive action myself – either potentially risking my life by hoping it was a false alarm, or walking out to the car park’s fire assembly point whilst in a completely naked state. Given such a circumstance, I’m not quite sure what I’d have plumped for.
What if I’d actually chosen to evacuate? Seeing as it had turned out to be a false alarm and all the rest of the weirdo gym-freaks had no intention of abandoning their exercise, any passers-by would effectively witness me as a solitary naked man, standing very publically in a car park, for no conceivably visible reason whatsoever. So even though I’d have been the one person sensible enough to follow H&S protocol, it is me who would’ve actually been seen as the weirdo! Where’s the justice in that?
I rather enjoyed it too. You kind of get to start your day with an added vigour. Obviously one has to avoid the other people in the gym at that time; for they must be a bit over-enthusiastic towards their fitness – getting up so early clearly makes them a bit weird and sinister. Trust me; I know this because I have done the gym-before-work routine before. As I recall, I was on the cross trainer, heading close to my 4.5 mile target, when suddenly the fire alarm suddenly sounded. But rather than evacuating, all the weird gym enthusiasts just kind of carried on, completely non-plussed; even when the alarm had rung for a good 30 seconds or more. I thought it was odd that they had no regard for their own safety, but because I am a leader rather than a follower, I simply carried on with my exercise too. And as is so often the case with these things, it did turn out to be a false alarm. But even so, I thought their determination to continue exercising through the cacophony showed a strange level of enthusiasm towards weight loss. So strange, that I wonder if they just nonchalantly consider a blazing inferno the most effective way to burn calories or something.
In hindsight, this interruption had rather fortunate timing for me. Had I been taking a shower at the time when the alarm sounded, there’d have been no other people for me to follow the lead of. I’d have been faced with the dilemma of taking decisive action myself – either potentially risking my life by hoping it was a false alarm, or walking out to the car park’s fire assembly point whilst in a completely naked state. Given such a circumstance, I’m not quite sure what I’d have plumped for.
What if I’d actually chosen to evacuate? Seeing as it had turned out to be a false alarm and all the rest of the weirdo gym-freaks had no intention of abandoning their exercise, any passers-by would effectively witness me as a solitary naked man, standing very publically in a car park, for no conceivably visible reason whatsoever. So even though I’d have been the one person sensible enough to follow H&S protocol, it is me who would’ve actually been seen as the weirdo! Where’s the justice in that?
Mon 22nd June 2009
Well I made it through the first day of alcohol abstinence, as attested by the picture of my little homemade ‘chart’ (which surely would stand as supporting evidence in any court of law).
I like my chart. It feels like a being a child in December using an advent calendar to count down the days to Christmas. Admittedly, a really grim little advent calendar made out of cheap lined notepaper and poorly scrawled biro which counts its way down to the next hit of intoxicating poison, but an advent calendar nonetheless. I am not saying I intend to market it or anything. Although if you would like to buy one off me, I am willing to make you one if you send me a postal order and an S.A.E. (that’s a ‘stamped addressed envelope’ to those who didn’t ever join the Beano fan-club or watch Saturday morning television in the 1980’s)
Maybe excitedly counting down the days to my next alcoholic beverage is not really encouraging the best spirit for this exercise. It’s also quite telling that year upon year, using a real advent calendar, I could patiently manage the anticipation of the 25 days till Xmas as a child (when a month seemed much longer because you’d had a comparatively smaller percentage of lifespan), yet I am only targeting a feeble 21 days till my next glug. But even so, it’s nice to monitor progress; it gives a sense of achievement. I am also merely an hour away from adding my next cross too! Unless I suddenly snap, and crack open the taunting bottle of wine in the cupboard downstairs, and glutinously pouring it all over my face, whilst my desperate tongue thrashes about, lapping the liquor in some breathless, near-sexual ecstasy. But that would be a spectacularly sad and unlikely sight, considering I never usually even drink on a Monday anyway.
The hardest part of my abstinence will be getting through a planned trip I have at Shell Island next weekend. I will be on holiday at a place which is famed for being rather desolate and having absolutely nothing to do; accompanied by people who will be filling their abyss of unobligated time with vast quantities of alcohol. That’ll be when the real challenge kicks in.
Maybe excitedly counting down the days to my next alcoholic beverage is not really encouraging the best spirit for this exercise. It’s also quite telling that year upon year, using a real advent calendar, I could patiently manage the anticipation of the 25 days till Xmas as a child (when a month seemed much longer because you’d had a comparatively smaller percentage of lifespan), yet I am only targeting a feeble 21 days till my next glug. But even so, it’s nice to monitor progress; it gives a sense of achievement. I am also merely an hour away from adding my next cross too! Unless I suddenly snap, and crack open the taunting bottle of wine in the cupboard downstairs, and glutinously pouring it all over my face, whilst my desperate tongue thrashes about, lapping the liquor in some breathless, near-sexual ecstasy. But that would be a spectacularly sad and unlikely sight, considering I never usually even drink on a Monday anyway.
The hardest part of my abstinence will be getting through a planned trip I have at Shell Island next weekend. I will be on holiday at a place which is famed for being rather desolate and having absolutely nothing to do; accompanied by people who will be filling their abyss of unobligated time with vast quantities of alcohol. That’ll be when the real challenge kicks in.
Incidentally, I don't blame you if you boycott reading this for the next 21 days. If I succeed, no doubt the entries will be going all dull and Cliff Richard all over yo ass. Otherwise, the entries will resemble the dullest Charles Bukowski novel never to be written. Either way, it's a grim prospect.
Sun 21st June 2009
Can't believe Solstice is here already. It seems like the summer has only just started, yet here we are again, stood on the peak of the hill, peering down into the abyss of the gloomy, depressing, long wintery nights that await us. Maybe it’s for the best. I realised last night that I had been drinking for ten consecutive evenings; which may be some explanation as to why this blog has been so neglected of late. To be fair, this boozing has been as much to do with circumstance as opposed to genuine thirst. I went away for a few days and – well - you have to relax and have a drink while you’re on holiday, don’t you? Then the night I got back, there was a staff party, and the beer was at a heavily discounted price (£1 a drink) so, well, you have to take advantage those prices don’t you (and let’s not forget you need vast quantities of alcohol just to get through spending your own leisure time with work colleagues). Then it was Thursday, which is my regular weekly pub night. And before I knew it, the weekend had arrived – and well, you have to drink at the weekend don’t you, if only to escape the unbearable responsibility of unstructured time.
Oh dear. Reading that paragraph back, with all its tenuous excuses for glutinous glugging, I can see how this entry looks like a very public admission of an alcohol problem. That’s just brilliant - so now I can add ‘drinking problem’ to my ever-increasing list of failings. I don’t know why I do this stupid blog. When I started I thought it would be fun to keep a nice little light-hearted diary, but the whole thing has become more like the slow compilation of a monumentally grim CV of damning traits.
Having said this, we must also remember that the fundamental characteristic of a troubled drinker is to deny they have any sort of problem. So by freely confessing I have a problem must paradoxically mean I don’t actually have a problem at all. Q.E.D.
Or maybe my brain cleverer than I anticipated it to be; convincing me to admit I have a problem, so I can use this confession to form the basis of an even deeper denial.
Either way, I’m not taking any chances. I hereby use this entry to make a stark declaration of alcohol abstinence. Yes that’s right. For the next 21 days I intend to live in the harrowing world of complete sobriety. I think 21 days is just about long enough to boost my own confidence that I am not dependent, without going too over the top and setting myself an unnecessarily sanctimonious target. Because once I’ve pushed the “Publish” button on this blog entry, that’s it. It becomes real – a contract made in print, that can literally be accessed and referenced by anyone in the world. So since I really will have to jolly well stick to it, it's best to set myself easier goals. To contemplate sobriety for any more that 21 days would inevitably turn me into a desperate and gibbering wreck.
And let’s be honest, isn’t this blog neurotic enough already?
Oh dear. Reading that paragraph back, with all its tenuous excuses for glutinous glugging, I can see how this entry looks like a very public admission of an alcohol problem. That’s just brilliant - so now I can add ‘drinking problem’ to my ever-increasing list of failings. I don’t know why I do this stupid blog. When I started I thought it would be fun to keep a nice little light-hearted diary, but the whole thing has become more like the slow compilation of a monumentally grim CV of damning traits.
Having said this, we must also remember that the fundamental characteristic of a troubled drinker is to deny they have any sort of problem. So by freely confessing I have a problem must paradoxically mean I don’t actually have a problem at all. Q.E.D.
Or maybe my brain cleverer than I anticipated it to be; convincing me to admit I have a problem, so I can use this confession to form the basis of an even deeper denial.
Either way, I’m not taking any chances. I hereby use this entry to make a stark declaration of alcohol abstinence. Yes that’s right. For the next 21 days I intend to live in the harrowing world of complete sobriety. I think 21 days is just about long enough to boost my own confidence that I am not dependent, without going too over the top and setting myself an unnecessarily sanctimonious target. Because once I’ve pushed the “Publish” button on this blog entry, that’s it. It becomes real – a contract made in print, that can literally be accessed and referenced by anyone in the world. So since I really will have to jolly well stick to it, it's best to set myself easier goals. To contemplate sobriety for any more that 21 days would inevitably turn me into a desperate and gibbering wreck.
And let’s be honest, isn’t this blog neurotic enough already?
Tue 9th June 2009
You join me mid-way through a troubled night. I am unable to sleep; probably all anxious and stuff about my first day back at work tomorrow. Which is now technically today. How perverse is my stupid, cretinous brain; worsening the anticipation of returning to work by making itself even more tired? Yeah, thanks brain! I’m sure you think this is a hilarious joke, in a kind of neurological sort of way. I hate you. Everybody hates you. In fact judging by all these self-loathing words you’re making me type, you even hate yourself (who’s laughing now then, you grey wrinkly tosser?)
I’ve just taken a couple of them Kalms tablets. Will they work? I’m not quite sure. They can be purchased at reputable chemists, which would imply they have a genuine medicinal value. But they can also be bought at those hippy emporiums which sell dehydrated fruit, obscure vitamins and cows made out of soya and tofu. That’s not to say all the shelves of yer Holland and Barretts are complete rubbish, it’s just that there is some stuff veering towards the exploitatively hairy-fairy, so you have to be a bit careful. Or at least, I need to be a bit careful. Especially being such a hypochondriac – those shops are a minefield. I’m forever discovering new supplements I never knew I needed, packed with nutrients I’ve never heard of, that I need in order to protect myself against ailments I never knew existed. When you are as vulnerable as I, it is better to arm yourself with a degree of cynicism in order to avoid becoming the next Pac Man. That’s why I insist on hard medical evidence before starting to habitually invest in some new tablet or some new ‘spirit strengthening aromatic bracken’.
Kalms are a weird one though, because they do have that one foot in the proper medical world, but I strongly suspect they are more a placebo medicine than anything else. I believe this for two main reasons:-
1) The pills taste all sugar coated and Smarties-esque before you glug them down. Medicines that work aren’t supposed to taste nice; they’re supposed to make you wince like a man anticipating a penal-administered catheterization.
2) The label on the bottle advises “If affected, do not drive or operate machinery”. This is a suitably ambiguous line. On the one hand, you think these must really work if they’re telling you not to drive after taking. But then the preceding words “if affected” make the whole thing seem dubiously uncertain. It’s almost like the even makers lack confidence in the effects of their products. And if they can’t be confident as to whether their product will work, then why the hell should I? I don’t want to hear the “if affected” bollocks, I want to be ORDERED not to drive or operate heavy machinery after taking, by threat of insurance-invalidating catastrophe and probable death.
Anyway, it is getting close to 3am now. Best stop blogging. I’ll let you know tomorrow how the Kalms did.
I’ve just taken a couple of them Kalms tablets. Will they work? I’m not quite sure. They can be purchased at reputable chemists, which would imply they have a genuine medicinal value. But they can also be bought at those hippy emporiums which sell dehydrated fruit, obscure vitamins and cows made out of soya and tofu. That’s not to say all the shelves of yer Holland and Barretts are complete rubbish, it’s just that there is some stuff veering towards the exploitatively hairy-fairy, so you have to be a bit careful. Or at least, I need to be a bit careful. Especially being such a hypochondriac – those shops are a minefield. I’m forever discovering new supplements I never knew I needed, packed with nutrients I’ve never heard of, that I need in order to protect myself against ailments I never knew existed. When you are as vulnerable as I, it is better to arm yourself with a degree of cynicism in order to avoid becoming the next Pac Man. That’s why I insist on hard medical evidence before starting to habitually invest in some new tablet or some new ‘spirit strengthening aromatic bracken’.
Kalms are a weird one though, because they do have that one foot in the proper medical world, but I strongly suspect they are more a placebo medicine than anything else. I believe this for two main reasons:-
1) The pills taste all sugar coated and Smarties-esque before you glug them down. Medicines that work aren’t supposed to taste nice; they’re supposed to make you wince like a man anticipating a penal-administered catheterization.
2) The label on the bottle advises “If affected, do not drive or operate machinery”. This is a suitably ambiguous line. On the one hand, you think these must really work if they’re telling you not to drive after taking. But then the preceding words “if affected” make the whole thing seem dubiously uncertain. It’s almost like the even makers lack confidence in the effects of their products. And if they can’t be confident as to whether their product will work, then why the hell should I? I don’t want to hear the “if affected” bollocks, I want to be ORDERED not to drive or operate heavy machinery after taking, by threat of insurance-invalidating catastrophe and probable death.
Anyway, it is getting close to 3am now. Best stop blogging. I’ll let you know tomorrow how the Kalms did.
Mon 8th June 2009
Nick Griffin is now an MEP even though he won fewer votes than he did five years ago. What can I say? I go on holiday for a few days, and when I’ve come back, this has happened. Can’t I trust you to look after anything when I’m away?
Although I do not live in Yorkshire or Humber, I suppose - in the fallout - I should also take my share of responsibility. I too was under the spell of voter apathy. I too saw the catchphrase “If you don’t vote, you’re not allowed to moan” as a challenge rather than a rallying call. A few days ago it just seemed a flimsy cliché. Anyone who has had to share a car journey with some squat-faced winging children will tell you that trying to shut them up on the grounds they ‘don’t vote’ and therefore have no right to moan is not a sustainable course of action. But now I realise what an idiot I’ve been. Turns out the cliches were right all along. I chose not to participate, and now the votes are in I have no right to moan.
There were also people telling me I should partake in the democratic process because “heroes died so I could vote”. I did not take kindly to the emotional blackmail element. I didn’t like the way that it was implied by not voting, I was somehow openly pissing over the graves of victims who had lay down their lives. After all, they fought for the democratic process, didn’t they? So surely they fought for my OPTION to vote, not for the vote itself? A stunt man once came to a tragic and untimely end on Noel’s House Party when his trick went horribly wrong. And although he died whilst trying to entertain the public, surely it doesn’t forever oblige us to watch Saturday evening light entertainment programmes in the name of respect, does it? I figured there are many reasons to vote, but guilt shouldn’t be one of them.
Here we are a few days later. I have a heavy heart, and am truly ashamed of myself. Once again I had missed the point completely. It was no protest not to attend the polling booths, just stupid short-sightedness. Yes - so the mainstream parties seem in most part a disappointing assortment of incompetent, back-biting, nauseating, self-serving, chortling Sebastians. Ok, so voting would have been like opening a packet of already-bland “Salt n Shake” crisps, to find the little blue bag of salt missing. But with the benefit of hindsight, every smart-arse little reason or argument I used to justify NOT casting a vote has now broken down. Essentially, we cannot allow our apathy or disillusionment be preyed upon by extreme bigots. The stakes are just too high.
If you were an abstainer like me, then I hope you also use this election as a warning of what sinister ideals can grow and fester when the majority sit back and watch (as if the whole Hitler thing wasn’t quite enough). We are not using our apathy for protest as much as we are having our laziness capitalised on by more dubious political causes. For God’s sake, let’s see this as a lesson learned. And please – let’s remember it in time for the general election.
Although I do not live in Yorkshire or Humber, I suppose - in the fallout - I should also take my share of responsibility. I too was under the spell of voter apathy. I too saw the catchphrase “If you don’t vote, you’re not allowed to moan” as a challenge rather than a rallying call. A few days ago it just seemed a flimsy cliché. Anyone who has had to share a car journey with some squat-faced winging children will tell you that trying to shut them up on the grounds they ‘don’t vote’ and therefore have no right to moan is not a sustainable course of action. But now I realise what an idiot I’ve been. Turns out the cliches were right all along. I chose not to participate, and now the votes are in I have no right to moan.
There were also people telling me I should partake in the democratic process because “heroes died so I could vote”. I did not take kindly to the emotional blackmail element. I didn’t like the way that it was implied by not voting, I was somehow openly pissing over the graves of victims who had lay down their lives. After all, they fought for the democratic process, didn’t they? So surely they fought for my OPTION to vote, not for the vote itself? A stunt man once came to a tragic and untimely end on Noel’s House Party when his trick went horribly wrong. And although he died whilst trying to entertain the public, surely it doesn’t forever oblige us to watch Saturday evening light entertainment programmes in the name of respect, does it? I figured there are many reasons to vote, but guilt shouldn’t be one of them.
Here we are a few days later. I have a heavy heart, and am truly ashamed of myself. Once again I had missed the point completely. It was no protest not to attend the polling booths, just stupid short-sightedness. Yes - so the mainstream parties seem in most part a disappointing assortment of incompetent, back-biting, nauseating, self-serving, chortling Sebastians. Ok, so voting would have been like opening a packet of already-bland “Salt n Shake” crisps, to find the little blue bag of salt missing. But with the benefit of hindsight, every smart-arse little reason or argument I used to justify NOT casting a vote has now broken down. Essentially, we cannot allow our apathy or disillusionment be preyed upon by extreme bigots. The stakes are just too high.
If you were an abstainer like me, then I hope you also use this election as a warning of what sinister ideals can grow and fester when the majority sit back and watch (as if the whole Hitler thing wasn’t quite enough). We are not using our apathy for protest as much as we are having our laziness capitalised on by more dubious political causes. For God’s sake, let’s see this as a lesson learned. And please – let’s remember it in time for the general election.
Wed 2nd June 2009
Today I went to Alton Towers, the major theme park tourist attraction, to experience some of them ‘white-knuckle rides’. These are rarely ever as scary as they look. In fact, as my sister observed, the most daunting moment is getting on them. You’re sitting in the seat and have pulled the restrainer over your head and across your chest, but you never feel satisfied until you’ve given it a little tug upwards again; y’know, just to check it’s locked properly. I reckon everyone does that.
This compulsion derives from those urban myths you hear about restrainers and seat belts coming loose whilst some poor sod is halfway round some terrifying rollercoaster, leaving them hanging on for dear life by a thread and a firm grip. I reckon everyone’s heard a story like that.
Rationally speaking, you know this is the sort of thing that only ever seems to happened to ‘a friend of a friend’ rather than anyone you’ve actually met, and you can’t help silently questioning why you never hear of any stress related / neglect-of-duty lawsuits being imposed on theme park operators. But you also simultaneously recognise that if YOU were one of the operators, probably from or near Stoke, having to confront the faces of grinning and screaming buffoons all day for a living, whilst trying to endure that same looping tape of atmosphere-building soundtracks (probably Swan Lake) - then would (or indeed should) customer welfare really be topping your agenda of priorities? Actually – given such a hellish existence, how long would it be until YOUR OWN welfare would willingly slip down your agenda of priorities? Forget questioning public safety; I ask how many bodies of suicide-driven theme park ride operatives are fished out the waters of the canyon-rapid ride each year?
As a means of ringing more tourist money from you, the theme parks often take photographs of you at the scariest point of their rides. The second time you go on any particular ride, you become savvy to the point where the camera is about to take its flash photo, so you consciously try and make your face a bit more deadpan and non-plussed; because those action-shots are never particularly flattering portraits are they? If a local paper were to report on my untimely and tragic death, I would not be too chuffed to think of one of those rollercoaster photos to be used to accompany it. I suppose most of the trade must come from friends who find amusement from seeing you looking vulnerable.
Humiliation-wise, those galleries of gurns at the end of rides are a modern day equivalent of the public stocks. You’ve never seen your face contorting in such a way. Your mates always seem to gawp at your photo, pointing and saying ‘hilarious’ thing like “Is that the same face you pull as when you’re ejaculating?” while they all have a good laugh. And even though your mates’ ribbing seems like a joke, you can’t help but feel secretly worried that the face you witnessed on that screen MIGHT REALLY BE the same one you pull when you’re ejaculating, because who are you to tell the difference?
Or maybe the last of these theme-park neuroses solely applies to me?
This compulsion derives from those urban myths you hear about restrainers and seat belts coming loose whilst some poor sod is halfway round some terrifying rollercoaster, leaving them hanging on for dear life by a thread and a firm grip. I reckon everyone’s heard a story like that.
Rationally speaking, you know this is the sort of thing that only ever seems to happened to ‘a friend of a friend’ rather than anyone you’ve actually met, and you can’t help silently questioning why you never hear of any stress related / neglect-of-duty lawsuits being imposed on theme park operators. But you also simultaneously recognise that if YOU were one of the operators, probably from or near Stoke, having to confront the faces of grinning and screaming buffoons all day for a living, whilst trying to endure that same looping tape of atmosphere-building soundtracks (probably Swan Lake) - then would (or indeed should) customer welfare really be topping your agenda of priorities? Actually – given such a hellish existence, how long would it be until YOUR OWN welfare would willingly slip down your agenda of priorities? Forget questioning public safety; I ask how many bodies of suicide-driven theme park ride operatives are fished out the waters of the canyon-rapid ride each year?
As a means of ringing more tourist money from you, the theme parks often take photographs of you at the scariest point of their rides. The second time you go on any particular ride, you become savvy to the point where the camera is about to take its flash photo, so you consciously try and make your face a bit more deadpan and non-plussed; because those action-shots are never particularly flattering portraits are they? If a local paper were to report on my untimely and tragic death, I would not be too chuffed to think of one of those rollercoaster photos to be used to accompany it. I suppose most of the trade must come from friends who find amusement from seeing you looking vulnerable.
Humiliation-wise, those galleries of gurns at the end of rides are a modern day equivalent of the public stocks. You’ve never seen your face contorting in such a way. Your mates always seem to gawp at your photo, pointing and saying ‘hilarious’ thing like “Is that the same face you pull as when you’re ejaculating?” while they all have a good laugh. And even though your mates’ ribbing seems like a joke, you can’t help but feel secretly worried that the face you witnessed on that screen MIGHT REALLY BE the same one you pull when you’re ejaculating, because who are you to tell the difference?
Or maybe the last of these theme-park neuroses solely applies to me?
Mon 1st June 2009
Saw an old friend today. We had a nice chat. We averted the issue that he recently tried to delete me from his list of friends on Facebook, by both choosing not to make reference to it at all. He is probably a little embarrassed because I had discovered his online snub. And in hindsight I am slightly embarrassed by the numerous desperate messages I sent in response, which begged and pleaded to know the reasons I had been so cruelly rejected this way, when we had never even had so much as a crossed word (although he did eventually concede to my seemingly emotionally-unstable harassment and reinstated me).
But this highlights a fundamental problem with Facebook relationships. If friends in real life drift away, it’s never really an issue. You might bump into one another and maybe you’ll sacrifice a couple of minutes to indulge polite conversation, or you might both avert your eyes and mutually pretend not to have noticed one another - no harm done, life goes on. But to actually ‘delete’ a friend seems like a rather bold statement. You’re basically telling the ‘deleted’ that, “I have such little regard for you I can’t even stand to see your name in a big list with a postage stamp-sized photo next to it.”
What’s the matter with these people? Do they go through their own phonebook with a pair of scissors, mercilessly cutting people out until it resembles some weird origami snowflake? I mean, to be honest I can’t stand half the fuckers in my ‘Friend List’ either. In fact the thought of them all gathering in one room together chills me to the core. It’d be too much of a juxtaposition, all those old school friends, colleagues, business contacts, distant acquaintances, family members, drinking buddies, ex-girlfriends, ex-housemates all being together, each with different memories of my personal failings and embarrassments from over the years, all on hand and ready to share. But even so, do I go round eliminating people from a list, like some sadistic Nazi general in a Jewish concentration camp? No I don’t - cos that’d just be rude!
But this highlights a fundamental problem with Facebook relationships. If friends in real life drift away, it’s never really an issue. You might bump into one another and maybe you’ll sacrifice a couple of minutes to indulge polite conversation, or you might both avert your eyes and mutually pretend not to have noticed one another - no harm done, life goes on. But to actually ‘delete’ a friend seems like a rather bold statement. You’re basically telling the ‘deleted’ that, “I have such little regard for you I can’t even stand to see your name in a big list with a postage stamp-sized photo next to it.”
What’s the matter with these people? Do they go through their own phonebook with a pair of scissors, mercilessly cutting people out until it resembles some weird origami snowflake? I mean, to be honest I can’t stand half the fuckers in my ‘Friend List’ either. In fact the thought of them all gathering in one room together chills me to the core. It’d be too much of a juxtaposition, all those old school friends, colleagues, business contacts, distant acquaintances, family members, drinking buddies, ex-girlfriends, ex-housemates all being together, each with different memories of my personal failings and embarrassments from over the years, all on hand and ready to share. But even so, do I go round eliminating people from a list, like some sadistic Nazi general in a Jewish concentration camp? No I don’t - cos that’d just be rude!
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