Monthly Archives: January 2013

Day sixteen: what happened to fifteen?

Does everyone have a miracle cupboard? A cupboard of promise? A rogue tea-bag, a stale quarter packet of Brazil nuts and out of date pills? I fear mine is breeding, mutations of chewable Vitamin C & oversized Cod liver oil capsules, they have their own lock to the cupboard and the weak cannot enter, it is for immune systems who can cope only.
I was just sucking on an energy gel prior to my shattering in Tabata: round 2, which I had earlier discovered in such cupboard, after asking the Hobbit from next door to force the lock. I believe the gel was purchased stuck to the front of a glossy fitness magazine, a promotional hoodwink that drew me in-this time last year, when I made similar promises to bulk hulk up. It made the magazine feel like a quality purchase, a snip at £4.99 and so many advertisements to read! Thank you…but in 12 hours I would have a cover model physique, FACT.
The taste didn’t lead to any worry, the energy boosting gel tasted like what I imagine plastic surgery to taste like. The gold wrap, the fluorescent lies and list of energy performance substances were giving me the belief I would conquer Tabata (if you are wondering this is no Lance Armstrong confession)

The BB Date tattooed on the miniature sachet said 1st Jan 2012…so I spat it out and suffered another pounding of burpees, squats and planks. Even the brail magazines will refuse my cover audition. I puffed, I panted, I blew my lungs down. The cat likes my salty sweat though and licked my head upon a warm welcome home. Meow…you look ill. lick.

Forgive my lack of blog yesterday. I’ll simplify my excuse.
Football match (soccer) in freezing frost.
two pairs of socks.
forgot hat.
boring match.
forgot gloves.
Extra bloody time!
boring game.
We lost.

Tomorrow may be a struggle too, a late night teaching the staff room lot how to turn a computer on! They only come for the cakes.



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Day fourteen: ‘Cracking job Scribbler’

The flurry of snow didn’t quite cause the tizzy I had hoped for.  That tizzy being a day off work.  Instead the staff-room was the usual draining affair, menopause and diets (spat through biscuits) and gossip over who may be the female phantom 2pm pooer. I do most of the draining I am sure, the miserable bastard who doesn’t like hearing about labour pains or massive poos whilst he eats his sandwich…call me touchy!  The rest of the day involved a meeting in which, quite frankly, I wasn’t in, but I was, but wasn’t at the same time, it passed me by like a Big Issue Seller.  The remainder of the day consisted of talks about our moral compass: mine is pointing North West due to the Big Issue seller.

pg-28-wallace-and-grom-paI avoid the changing rooms these days, you only pick up influenza, athletes foot and a sight for sore eyes from Talc-Tackle-Ted & his scrotal spectacle…enough to scare you stiff. On editing that is a poor word choice. I’m talking of the gym, from whence I have come, which was done after my boring day and beans on toast.  Wallace & Gromit: The Wrong Trousers was on the gym television, a source of enormous motivation to all. Call me a Doubting Thomas, but that on its own is hardly a surge of adrenaline but the fact it had subtitles several seconds behind the plasticine animation hardly made me row quicker.  The Roly-Polys enjoyed it as they sat on the bikes, made a screening of it in fact, sausage roll crumbs and cheese & onion fingers washed down with an energy drink.  The peddles were glad of the rest I am sure.  I suppose they are easing themselves in, and I am sure they had to do that on entrance: greased the door frame and went in with the second class post and a good kick.

This moaning is all part of my crisis by the way: it defects from the arthritic pains and growing weakness that is catching me.  It creeps up on you like the hair on your bum, which as we know is tugged from your scalp.  In a sick turn of events I am booking myself back for a Tabata session, perhaps I didn’t make it clear to them first time I am actually this fragile.  I wonder, if I ask nicely, do you think they will put Wallace & Gromit on?

You have called me Touchy and a Doubting Thomas today, stop it.

I am the Scribbler.

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Day thirteen: In the shade of idiots


That’s a big house.

So is that.

That’s a big house.

Ohhhh, look at that garden, that’s a big garden.

That’s a big house. No not that one- that one over there.

(points at big house over there)

We have been out for a walk in the chipper breeze today. We walked wrapped in wool, like two knitted people.  To cheat the cold we carried coffee, frothy coffee to be precise, a drink that takes liquid and turns it to cloud, a lickable but not very drinkable drink.  It was made at home, with a real take-away cup…The world really is changing.   How we smugly pranced past Costa-lotta Coffee, sipping our home-brew and  burning our lips.  We walked past some big houses too, I believe that is clear, and into the park.  There was a lady training her dog- I didn’t know what she was teaching it (and I couldn’t be 70% sure she was a she).  Her ramshackle face enhanced with a  5-o’clock shadow suggested it was best not to ask. It wasn’t 5 o’clock. This figure was also knitted, but it didn’t look as cosy, knitted with medieval wire I think.  She stood there and glared at young love…her eyes bitter, her tongue hanging out and drooling…I’m talking of the dog now, the Alsatian fixated on two scabby pigeons frolicking in the twigs above.

Perhaps this old goat (back to the woman) thought we were mimicking her due to our milky-lathered lips, albino-moose-tache, not imitating her foaming at the mouth pet, just her bristly upper lip (woman again not dog!). I say this as whilst casually observing, she refused to teach the dog new tricks in front of us.  Top secret training  in an open public space, crafty! Was it to juggle apples? To steal handbags? Could this dog do voices?…I would have loved to hear a Nelson Mandella impression, we all like to think we can do that don’t we?  Try:

In my country we go to prison first and then become President.
Nelson Mandela

Most likely  it was to turd on the path and camouflage it with leaves.  One will never know.  Further down our journey there was a Russel in the shade of the trees.  Well, I never actually asked for names, but several pensioners were hibernating having a flask of tea.  At least that’s what I hope they were doing: strange as there was plenty of picnic tables too choose from yet they decided to snuggle under the canopy of brambles and the undergrowth of weeds.

I don’t like that house.

That’s a shit house.

That’s a shit house.

That house is hideous.

We walked back a different way.

A pleasant enough afternoon in Northern England.

The sleet is now washing our cars and dampening the paths… gracefully descending like baby feathers… this will likely cause mass hysteria in the morning, I for one cannot wait, but my mind goes back to the pigeons in the sky. I wonder if they saw what trick the dog was up too?

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Day twelve: bad timing


Two pints. Oh I am weak. Not even twelve days into January and water disguised as beer has parted my lips and walked on my tongue: bless me bloggers for I have sinned. I have many meagre excuses and stories of why, some involving Albino Hamster, some involving cat, mostly involving lack of will power and a hot & sour soup…all of which I am looking forward to sharing. My arms still ache due to Wednesdays Tabata, my eyes ache from writing to strangers, my ears ache from Ol’milky red eyes in its wheel. It appears to have gotten louder, the wheel that is, spinning out of control (like the tabloids chasing a celebrity pervert) it picks up momentum and only shows signs of gathering more pace….a noisy guest if ever I have had one.
…A question, whom or who or what/when/why was the noisiest guest you ever had the misfortune of inviting into your abode?

As it is Sunday tomorrow I will pray. I will pray for all the idiots in the world as there are many. I look forward to explaining my lack of will power and planning out some more mid-life crisis.

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Day eleven: Albino chilli red eye

I rubbed a finger in my eye.
Oh eye?
Oh aye!
Shortsighted I had fresh red chilli on my pointer. Longsightednessblindness now….ow! Who knows what I’ll tripe?


So with red eye like my new visitor…the Albino hamster, chalk white with a weekend pass, we wonder what Saturday will hold. As he canters in his wheel, rut a tut tut tut, rut a tut tut tut…the nocturnal vermin tells me to sleep, this is his time…the night is young, the views are new… this wheel will NEVER get repetitive. Well hang on their fur purse, what about cat? He has never seen a hamster before, only an albino monk named Silas: he got right mad with him, so easy you little fair-haired Dwarf…


…Hamster. Cats shits run the mill these days, no more constipation-she don’t want no aggravation.
There will be no bad-blood between these two fuzzy pets, so please readers do not fret.

As for Saturday, when I hope to awake, it will bring a yawn in bed and morning breath. I’ll stretch, I’ll scratch, cat will stretch and scratch, I guess the hamster might too…it’s Saturday for goodness sake, what else to do? The weather is planned chilli…just how I started today my blog , it’s almost gone full circle, like the hamster on the jog.

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Day ten: End of the week as we know it

Nearly Friday: I’ll cling to that tonight, I’ll cradle it like a benefit mums litre of wine- forefathers or four fathers? I couldn’t comprehend.

It’s Friday tomorrow.

I may cry with happiness in the morning and dance like Tina Turner when Friday is fulfilled, for we work far too hard.

For some, everyday is a Friday- and what then have you to look forward too?


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Day nine: Flex

Just back from something called Tabata? Oh my Buddha! If I have not posted again for several days call someone, anyone will do, and tell them not to ever partake in Tabata. I don’t even know how you spell it, let alone know why people do it.
The only satisfying element was the realisation this mid-life crisis I have planned is timed just right. Forget fit as a butchers dog, I am as fit as a pork scratching, the butchers dog will gobble me up.
Lunge after press-up after squat after burpee after …I feel frail.

Would I have performed better wearing the tight vest that the old chap with vanishing sweaty hair wore? I doubt it. He was not Popeye. Ga ga ga.
But I need the spinach.

I’m off to slumber, I have ordered the crane to lift me in the morning.


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