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.