Yesssss, cycled in again today making it a hatrick. I’m sort of getting in training for next weekend’s stag do where I’m going to be scaling the new forest for most of the day. It’s not my physical health that I’m concerned about; it’s my iffy back. The thought of my lumbar vertebrae allowing the disc to flop out like a large burger in a small bun doesn’t bear thinking about at the best of times but for it to happen in the middle of nowhere fucking up everyone’s day is unacceptable. I’d have to sacrifice myself for the common good, ‘its okay, you guys go on, I’ll be fine,’ I’d say through gritted teeth, then, grabbing one of the party before they finally depart for the 3 and half miles to the Pig and Whistle, I’d whisper, ‘leave me the revolver old darling…’
The main reason I took up cycling again last year was because of the fucking back. In addition to assisting me to cough up smokers jelly, however unseemly it can be agreed that this stuff is better out than in, it offers unbeatable back exercise. The perpetual motion as one cycles is enough to actually strengthen the muscle structures around the offending zone and helps to keep the spine taught and essentially straight. This exercise is so effective that since I began cycling I’ve yet to have to return to my £50 a session chiropractor for treatment, though in the early stages of the cycle-remedy getting on the fucking bicycle proved the biggest challenge due to the fundamental nature of my injury. One has to lean forwards so one is level with horizon, and, gripping the handlebars with arms at their maximum bentness and ones head as far forward as possible, attempt to swing the right leg over the saddle but, ironically, keeping ones feet as close together as possible to avoid excruciating pain.
After I got in last night I was faced with a task so menial, so mind numbingly dull and unnecessary I can barely be fucked to burden you with it, but what’s mine is yours dear reader so you can fucking suffer as I do.
At Christmas time my friend (with tits) gave me a well posh bathroom rug. It is snow white with large golf ball sized luxury cotton bollocks all over its surface. In fact its so posh I think it was designed to be handwashed in the sacred river Alph by the Mitford sisters, not the in the cavity of my second-hand £75 washing machine.
The first time I washed the rug a huge quantity of material was masticated-off by the washing machine which subsequently became blocked full of luxury fibres. This meant the water hadn’t properly drained so when I opened the fucking door I partially flooded the kitchen floor, warping my shitty laminate flooring in the process. After removing a fistful of snow-white cotton fibre from the machine, I washed the rug again on a much lower setting. This time only one of the cotton bollocks was eaten off and the machine happily digested the resulting material, the setting was noted for future reference.
On Tuesday I washed a couple of t-shirts and some pants, being vaguely environmentally conscious I didn’t want to do a half load so I bunged in the fucking rug, remembering to use the golden setting, and thought no more of it. Forgetting to empty the washing machine later that night I didn’t actually get to empty it until Wednesday evening. To my horror the rug had vomited its white fibres all over my dark t-shirts to the point they all resembled fleeces. I removed the offending rug and re-washed the t-shirts on full-on full load setting, ‘fuck the environment!’ I yelled as I stuffed them back in. The second washing made not a blind bit of difference so hoping to ‘brush’ the fibres off when dry, I set them aside.
Last night it was clear the fibres had incorporated themselves into the t-shirt material. The only way I was going to get the fuckers off/out was to use parcel tape and, a la back, crack and sack mode, ‘wax’ them off. For nearly an hour I was on my hands and knees laying strips of tape over my t-shirts to clear off a billion white fibres.
I woke at 3 am this morning coughing; I flicked on the light and for a few seconds was convinced that the object dangling from my lower lip was a tapeworm, not a fat 2-centimetre length of fucking bathroom rug fibre. I took until 4 am for the subsequent panic to subside and I’m feeling the lack of sleep as I type this.
Still I managed to cycle in. And it’s Friday…