Category Archives: bernard manning

cy-cho

Cycling into work when it’s cold and windy is fucking shit. You begin the journey in denial, then reluctance until soulless misery rejoices in the icy teeth of a furious wind and a base temperature that would’ve kept Captain Oates in the tent, this gradually shifts unto an uncomfortable acceptance of what one is doing, which slowly fades into full on agonising pain in the face of sheer adversity as your entire body burns like napalm in the sun… Shutting down you arrive at your destination gibbering about traffic, sweating like Meatloaf and close to tears. The ten minutes that follow the cycle result in the body flushing from hot to cold in milliseconds as the mind fluctuates from screaming euphoria to Darfur depression. It’s hideous and wrong; this morning I actually hit ‘the wall’ walking down the fucking stairs. I never want to do it again. Shit, I have to get home. Shits.

Actually, cycling back, whilst a little easier -a flat full of wine, food, skunk and pornography is more of a carrot on a stick than a bloody office full of vacuous questions- is certainly more dangerous, especially now it’s dark. Homewards I’m required to spend more time on the roads with a hoard of motorists as keen to get back to their dwellings as I, no doubt for similar reasons. This makes people more edgy, they are prepared to take risks at your expense, a veritable peeled testicle on two flimsy wheels amid the pounding metal hammers of fuming cars and rumbling lorries, and of course, they’re not as alert as they were. In addition bleary eyes workers on foot wander in and out of the road like chickens, not having the roar of a triple cylinder 955cc injected engine, I zip through the night virtually unseen and silent to all and sundry. Christ, I’m only cycling because I don’t want to wind up with the physique of the late, awful, Bernard Manning yet there is a bloody good chance I could get killed, or maimed, or get home safely feeling chuffed with myself for not taking the easy, beautiful option of getting on her, yes, her, the black bitch.

When I did get home the evening went as follows, Radio 4 (Down the Line, 6.30 Tuesdays, one of the funniest shows, ever) whilst I cooked a spaghetti sauce (white onion, scallion, bacon, tinned tomatoes, tomato puree, tomato ketchup, beef stock, wine, chilli, lime juice, sugar, basil, parsley, salt and black pepper and of course, minced beef which was all cooked for 2 hours) in the meantime I bathed (I was naked, my soft skin complimenting the firmness of my toned taut body) and shaved around my new beard, which is marvellous, ‘magnificent’ as passers by say. When Myfwt arrived we drank wine and chatted, the spaghetti was cooked and added to the sauce, topped with some cheese and consumed gently, it was sublime. Look there is the recipe (make sure you fry the onion, bacon and scallion and add to the rest of the mixture in one large pot, prior to browning off the beef in the same frying pan, draining it off excess fat and combining it with all the other ingredients).

Balls, I have a meeting.


bettah?

Praise the fucking baby Joesph, I’m feeling a bit better.

Yes, I still have a sore throat; yes my right nostril is rigid with a viscous colloid containing antiseptic enzymes (such as lysozyme) and immunoglobulins, yes my body is still over manufacturing mucus produced by submucosal cells as well as goblet cells in the respiratory system consisting of mucin, a highly glycosylated peptide, but over all I can safely claim that I’m on the mend.

It’s Friday the 13th today, not that that means anything at all to me, apart from the fact it’s Friday and the weekend beckons. For the first time in months, my weekend doesn’t involve some culmination of an organised/planned event, I’ve made a few casual appointments with friends and the rest of it is mine. Essentially I intend to continue with the plans for the book, but something else has happened that requires my energies.I’ve decided to move.

I’ve had enough of Cunt and have concluded that if I stay much longer it will lead to violence on my part. I’m not a violent chap by any means, largely because I avoid getting into situations in the first place, and even then one is very aware that violence hurts if it doesn’t go ones way. I feel as if I’m approaching a situation where by I’d cheerfully smash his fucking idiot face into a bag of mechanically recovered meat, for a culmination of reasons but none in particular, irrespective of the consequences, which would of course be rather significant.

Last night Myfwt came over, we had a lovely night, ate chicken and roast potatoes, drunk G &T’s, watched BB and a rather peculiar programme on Bernard Manning in which he conducted his own obituary. At 11.30 we hit the sack, at about the same time, Cunt, who doesn’t fucking well work because he’s a fucking, well, cunt, came back with one or two ‘mates’. This is quite honestly the 3rd time since I’ve been living at my flat in the past 4 years that he’s ever had any ‘mates’ over, simply because he’s so *insert every possible derogatory adjective here* and a cunt he hasn’t any.

After the incident last week where I had to bang on his fucking door at 2am on a schoolnight because of the racket generated by a man who should be in hospital (mental or general, I don’t care which) I wasn’t expecting to hear a peep out of him for at least a fortnight. I’ll admit he did have the volume lower than last week but he still conducted ‘conversations’ -grunts and barks- over music with the bass turned up higher than any normal person would with an ounce of basic human respect for ones neighbour or indeed, personal dignity. When his hairy baby daughter was downstairs I did my level best not to disturb it, and its mother, and this is how I get repaid. As I type this, you can keep The Office, Fawlty Towers, Monty Python et al, what would really tickle would be watching him eating through a fucking tube.

So, I’m making enquiries already, subsequently I’m getting called and e-mailed by a variety of scum bag estate agents, those that refer to me as ‘mate’ get hung up automatically, as do people that can’t be bothered to speak correctly and I will deal with upward convergence with sarcasm prior to slamming down the phone.

This is a small price top pay for my liberty and ultimately my peace of mind. I feel jolly proud at myself for trying to do the right thing in the face of adversity.

Anyway, I want a garden.

This song is fucking lovely, nice weekends muddy funkers

(now go to Watch With Mothers and read about The Queen)