I have a new love in my life. It’s taken a while, there’s been a lot of soul searching, a lot of confusion and a lot more confusion. But finally I think I can safely say: I am loved up like a motherfucker from hell.
There she is, people.
Look at her. The curves. The amount of things she can do. The stay-cool handles. She has it all. Basically it was love at first sight and I will do everything in my power to make her mine.
Oh, did I not mention I don’t actually have her yet? Yes, it’s the pursuit part of things, where there’s flirting… umm… some other stuff… and… look, I’m not an expert at this. I wooed one ex by talking at her about a mug with a van on it. And another by drinking about 15 vodka Red Bulls and talking hyperactively at her for three hours before crashing hard and leaving without saying a thing and…
Wait, why the hell did these idiots even give me a chance in the first place? Ah, another blog for another time.
No, for now my focus is on this new love. She can make me complete. She can help me. She can provide for me. She can make it so I don’t burn my rice anymore. She can make porridge.
It will take time. It will take effort. It will take waiting until I have fifty notes spare, which might not be this coming payday next week. It will (“might”) even take waiting until my birthday and asking for her for a present.
But that would make it more like prostitution, which I’m not big on. Plus it would mean I would get less Lego this year. Which is unacceptable.
It makes me laugh. I like pancakes. Not had any today, because I have no BATTER, or anyone to cook for me or anything.
Screw you, pancake day.
I keep meaning to sit myself down and actually pay attention to MMA. I know I would like it. This isn’t based on my love for all things wrasslin’, like I’m sure you would all naturally assume as you all know me so very well.
No, it’s because at one point in my life I was quite into boxing. A noble thport, as Chris Eubank would put it. It wasn’t driven by my own desire to watch men punching each other, more down to a brother who watched it and I happened to watch too. But for a time it was brilliant – I genuinely cared.
Prince Naseem Hamed was amazing. Lennox Lewis and his Big White Pants. Mike Tyson, though I missed his initial breakthrough when he was genuinely terrifying, was still good to watch even if he had turned into a rapist cannibal. Others, too – characters; people worth caring about and not having to be utterly manufactured to get by. Prince Naz especially, with his ridiculous entrances on a par with Apollo Creed before having a match lasting all of 30 seconds and knocking the pretender ‘spark out’. Man, boxing was great.
But boxing is shit these days. I forgot it even existed until Floyd Mayweather showed up on WWE. Then I forgot again until David Haye and whoever that other guy is had some bullshit fake fight the other day. I just don’t care about that shit. There’s nothing to get excited about, and it feels like too much of a showy, bullshit demi-sport with all the credibility of a games journalist*.
So I want to move onto something genuine. It’s showy, it’s got bluster and wanky elements behind it, but MMA has a hell of a lot of credibility. Plus I want to move beyond just watching highlight videos and knowing a couple of names, get a real appreciation.
I won’t, though. Because I’m too damn lazy to get into different things.
I will never learn. Even though I am the age I keep on pointing out that I am, and even though this has happened countless times* in the past I have still let it happen again by virtue of being foolish.
Yes folks, I have lifted someone up while drunk and hurt my back. Again. In exactly the same place as it gets hurt every time I over-exert myself, don’t lift properly, tackle a target too big for my surprisingly weak frame or a combination of any/all of the previous points.
The lift was successful, mostly, and even resulted in the hilarity of someone suggesting the target be thrown in the canal. They were not. And I was too drunk to notice at the time that my back had gone done a hurt, so it didn’t put a dampener on the night. The morning put a dampener on the morning though. Bastard morning.
And it’s happened before. People are heavier than they look and I might not always think things through when I’m drunk, odd as that may seem. And it’s always funny to lift people up, even if you are as weak as previously mentioned. And picking them up and running away with them is even funnier.
You can probably tell I don’t regret this, even if my back is killing me right now. I will just teach myself. Learn from it. Work out on my back muscles and generally improve strength so I can lift freer and easier. Everyone will be lifted. Noone will be spared.
Well, that or I’ll just do it again and hurt my back again. But it will always be funny. Even when nobody’s laughing, it isn’t actually funny and I’m just being a drunken dickhead.
*You can probably count the number of times it has happened. Maybe even on one hand. But it’s still enough times to SHUT UP THAT’S WHY.
As my loyal fans will surely have seen me bleating about today, I finished Alexei Sayle’s memoir. I am not a huge fan of the man – though that’s not to say I dislike him in any way; he was just one that generally passed me by.
Apart from Lenin Of The Rovers, of course, and his appearances in The Young Ones.
But he is an interesting man – I knew he was raised a communist and was always a stand-out voice for being so bleatingly, delightfully left wing. So I read the book. And I liked it quite a lot. Very warm, very funny, very much a man willing to laugh at himself for being such a twat growing up. But there was very little mention of comedy – the main reason I picked the book up.
It didn’t harm the overall read in any way, as it more than stands on its own feet without endless tales of life on the road as a stand up. But the brief mention of comedy includes this passage, and it is one I cannot help but feel a great deal of familiarity with. Speaking of how he would discuss and analyse comedy with friends, Sayle points out that his analysis was always that bit deeper:
“When I looked at the performance of a comedian on TV or the radio it was as if I could see inside it, know what the comic was attempting, what would be coming next; also I would sometimes hear or see something that got a laugh and yet I would feel that the response was undeserved, on account of it being obtained through some trick or because the audience were too cooperative, too willing to laugh uncritically.”
This does seem to be me saying ‘hai guyz I’m well cool and funny like and I well gets comedy innit’, and it sort of is. Because that passage of text resonated with me quite a lot. There’s no neatly tied-off ending here, it’s just something that’s popped up today.
Plus I genuinely told some people off the other week for laughing ‘too easily’ at a joke I made. HAVE SOME STANDARDS, PEOPLE.
I am currently wondering why it is so many people have to ask ‘why’ when it comes to things people do/like/watch/dance/whatever.
Not in the sense it’s bad to ask why – I love asking why. I always want to know why. Not knowing why is pointless and stupid, and you should always at least make a perfunctory effort to find out why it is you’re doing whatever/going wherever/dancing as naked as you are. Curiosity is good and should be encouraged, always. Even if it can be a bit irritating.
No, I mean I’m wondering why people ask ‘why?’ in such a derisive fashion. It’s not a question put out there to find out the reasons behind your thinking, it’s a question put out there to dismiss what you’ve done/said/thrown/whittled/whatever as a stupid thing to do. It doesn’t say ‘why?’ it says ‘why did you bother wasting your time with that I am judgemental and a prat’ even though that takes it away from being a question and into other grounds of critical self-comment.
As is often the case, I’m as guilty as others even if I try not to be. This isn’t high-horsing, it’s just what my brain is thinking of right now. And right now it’s in a mood where it gets quite annoyed at a dismissive response of ‘why?’ when you tell people what you like, what you’re doing, what’s going on, how to do the Charleston to hardcore Belgian skiffle.
But it’s alright, because the only response you ever need to this question is the pure, undefeatable: ‘why not?’
Why not indeed.