Whilst my cold may be dissipating like the dreams and desires of young Iraqi lad with aspirations of being a surgeon only to return home from school to find his house blown to smithereens, incorporating lumps of his father and baby sister, and his mother weeping as she trawls through the wreckage in a desperate bid to find a trinket or an artefact she can exchange for food, my fucking motorcycle is playing up and so is my computer.
The bike is particularly irritating, I’m not going to bore you with details because, a. you wouldn’t understand and, b. I enjoy being patronising. Essentially when I shut off the throttle it’s not immediately responding, the upshot is frankly, fucking dangerous, especially when one is passing over the crest of a hill going a little over 30 (65) and is confronted by a queue of traffic that has no right or reason to be there. When one shuts off the throttle the engine acts like a big fuck-off brake, manual braking doesn’t really work if the throttle is open and the clutch engaged, as it didn’t yesterday on my return from work as I approached the much-advertised rear end of a Renault Clio. I had to take emergency action by overtaking the Clio and the following stationary traffic in addition to avoiding the flow of oncoming traffic, by selecting a (fucking narrow) 2-foot gap between the two and regaining some sort of control therein.
The only reason I’m mentioning this is to give you some idea of how hard/cool I am, despite nearly bursting into tears at the next set of traffic light and shaking like I was coming off 5 years of being addicted to the horse.
Today my angst is computer based, my raison d’etre for being in a fucking office is emailing mates, Swineshead (link to the right) in particular as he seems to follow the same embittered view of the human condition as I. It really is the bloody limit, I mean working in an office for a fucking living is bad enough, but being denied the basic human right of discussing the bilge on last nights television is frankly beyond the pail.
Still, it’s Friday. My weekend planning is coming into fruition. Tonight, unusually I will have a toddler in my flat, his dad is an old chum from the halcyon days of being a student where we managed to survive three years at art college by getting pathetically stoned daily and drinking so much that the late, awful, George Best would’ve raised an eyebrow. I’ve not seen him for a year as he lives up North in poverty, probably. The fact that my college chum has a child is worth a mention. He was never a fan of children when were students. One Saturday afternoon we received a knock on the door and were confronted by a rabble of six year olds collecting money for charity. My chum answered the door and the conversation went something as follows…
“Awight mister, we’re collecting for children in need…”
“Children in Need! You mean You, don’t you, collecting money to spend on sweets and fireworks.”
“No! Children in Need, off the telly…”
“You are children in need.”
“You are children in need of a fucking good kicking.”
And with that the door was slammed in their respective grubby faces.
I must say, I’m looking forward to seeing him, and his little boy, even if dad has unhelpfully informed him that I’m a pirate.
I’m not by the way, I get sea sick.