Category Archives: bruce parry

cyclemania

I’ve come to the conclusion that I loathe cycling; really, over the past couple of years I’ve attempted to convince myself that it’s alright, fun, even. I’m consciously aware that when the skies are blue and its warm and I’m cycling through a naturally beautiful part of my journey -the sunlight flashing into my eyes as it breaks cover from a canopy of lime green leaves, squirrels dancing to my side, birds fluttering at eye level- that I am to be enjoying this. ‘Enjoy this…’ Says my boiling hot brains, ‘…For this is fun isn’t it? Yes. Fun.’

It’s not, all I want is to be on my black bitch accelerating unreasonably hard from congested junctions, overtaking ribbons of cars on the outside of left hander bends, braking late and hard into corners, flicking v signs at cunts in BMW’s, shouting, all the while, shouting.

I got home yesterday evening and tried to do some more on the book, as Myfwt was due in an hour or so I couldn’t focus so I played with myself instead. Shortly after, and making sure I’d washed my hands yeah, I began supper with radio 4s 6.30 comedy slot irritating me in the background. (‘1966 And All That’ is bloody awful. Who commissioned that? It’s an anachronism that thinks it’s far cleverer than it actually is. I’m even tempted to complain in writing.)

I was undertaking a Shepherds Pie, whilst a dab hand at the Cottage variety this was an unexplored area. By the time Myfwt arrived I had the bastard nailed and was already crushing boiled Maris Piper (for mashing and roasting you’d be insane to use any other variety) to top over my filling.

We spent the evening lolling about like art students (oh those were the days) watching TV and eating, the pie was a sensation, incidentally, and Tribe on TV actually stunned us both into silence. Which is unusual in the case of Myfwt. At times you’d have more p&q watching George Bush on TV in a Mosque.

Almost to the point of cliché middle classness, I managed to cut my forefinger to the bone, sickenly I hasten to add, when slicing a lime for a g&t. I felt like a right tool. Unfortunately for me a rather tipsy Myfwt who is to nursing as gorillas are to needlepoint, arrived in the kitchen decided to take control. It was as if she swallowed a copy of ‘Horse and Hound’ and opened her portfolio of medical care by furiously sucking on the injured digit to the point I thought I may lose a nail. I was then dragged by my finger, I was plodding behind objecting, into the bathroom where she smacked a dollop of Savlon into, that’s ‘into’ not ‘onto’, the wound and applied a plaster so tightly I figured that unless I took it off in the next minute I’d be terminally unable to point at things.

Right, I’m going to post another non-music clip. This puts footballers /rugby players /cricketers moaning about having a dicky knee or some tendon injury that means they can’t play for 6 months into context.

Before you throw up, this bloke survived without so much as a broken bone. Fuck knows how.


yukka fukka

I’m not in the best of fucking moods.

I was forced to drive in this morning, as I was yesterday but for two entirely different reasons. The flat tyre on the bicycle required reparation; this was successfully undertaken at lunch. That morning I could’ve taken public transport into work and cycled back home but it was all wind and wee wee so I opted for the van from the outset and picked the bike up and brought it home.

Today, it’s all fucking wind and rain (it’s christing August) but I was genuinely intending to cycle, well I was last night until the plant pot exploded. If you read yesterdays babble you’ll have come across my cod-scientific explanation for the peculiar rodent-like sounds emitting from ‘behind’ my TV. I blamed the mirror glass cracking from heat. Last night during Tribe, I even explained the phenomenon to Myfwt, a glass expert incidentally, and despite looking bemused she didn’t throw up much objection, unlike Bruce Parry who was throwing his heels out of his chin at the time. In hindsight she probably wasn’t listening.

Anyway, later on Myfwt went off to powder her bean and I undertook the usual pre-bed ritual, clean up glasses, empty ashtrays, water plant…a simple task, all I have to do is fill a glass bulb attached to long tube with water and insert the tube into the soil, the plant then helps itself. The ready made hole in the soil has been in the same place for nearly two years but for some reason last night I couldn’t get the angle right so I shoved extra hard (this isn’t some sort of coded euphemism for anything by the way) and with an audible bang the plant pot separated in four different directions. A split second before it went, I heard the ‘rodent’ noise.

I’ve not re-potted my houseplant, a fucking enormous yukka, for 3 years. Despite its growing well in that time I just figured that the pot would simply limited its size, I wasn’t expecting the pressure of the pedantic roots to actually crack and break half an inch of fired pottery.

The upshot of all this crap was that I had to drive in this very morning in order to get a new fucking plant pot before my yukka decides to wander off on it’s own and take a bath. On my way to work I stopped off at Homebase, grabbed a white ceramic plant pot thing and some more potting soil and went on to work.

Feeling the glow off success following the completion of a necessary task I parked on the contentious gravel space in the front of the office, aware of my colleagues coming and goings, I made sure there was plenty of room for them to manoeuvre their vehicles (taking into account most motorist drive like cunts) and applied my handbrake. Suddenly my boss appeared waving his arms, ‘you can’t park there, you can’t park there’ he freaked. ‘No problem, I’ll move…’ I said, dead casual like.

It was a pointless operation, I was perfectly situated, moving to the other side of the lot wouldn’t make the blind bit of difference, no bother though. I switched on the engine and started to make up the angles for the manoeuvre. My boss remained on the lot, I could feel him glaring at me. Just as I was at the optimum angle to plant the van in the newly designated zone, I was informed by my boss that I wouldn’t be able to make it and to return to my original position. Of course I could’ve fucking made it, unless you’ve driven a white Transit you’ll be unaware of their incredible turning circle, they’re like black cabs. I objected briefly, by now returning to my original position was genuinely difficult… for fucks sake.

Ten fucking minutes it took getting it back to where it had been some 15 minutes earlier. Fantastic way to begin a miserable fucking Wednesday.

Let this run for a bit, let it run…