Swimanizing

I keep forgetting to defluff by my belly button before going to the local swimming baths. I'm worried that bad things will happen. What if, all of the fluff is gathering in one of them filters with the plasters and verruca pickings formulating a plan.... Eventually its large enough to drift around eating fat kids. I can't have that on my conscience.

Swimming is not as rewarding as you might think. The girls that go generally wear goggles. Like a tourettes ridden Greg Luganis, every time one of them goes past in a glorious butterfly stroke, I involuntarily shout:

"FOUR EYES! Your only swimming 'cos your fat and daddy doesn't love you!"

Not nice, I know. Still, empty pool! I'm expecting a lifetime ban, soon. It's probably for the best. I'm fast getting bored of swimming and that stingy, back of the throat, nearly vomiting, sore eyes, drowning feeling. Stupid side effects...

Squash next. Nice big walls to stop me upsetting people...

Dear Facebook...

With age many things change. The most important is the fact that I no longer pray to the supreme being for favours/things/fornication. I will be honest, he has been a little lax in his provision of happiness. I know he isn't there to provide me with that entry level digital SLR that I wanted but come on, make the effort.

It would seem that prayers to the lord have morphed into the Facebook status update. People probably think that God sits around all day reading status updates, hoping he will comment on them. Here are some examples:

Alex is hot
Alex is cold
Alex needs an Alan key that will work on the bicycle seat
Alex can't seem to grasp that being at work is not a time to show people YouTube videos
Alex is feeling rapey
Alex knows that there is no party like an S-Club party
Alex has HIV
Alex has AIDS
Alex is dead

... and so on.

It would be great if the almighty could comment on our status updates. If he did, he would probably say stuff like:

Ahhh don't be sad.... just wait until the second coming. I'm gonna fuck your shit right up for not being nice to the poor! lol

I once knew a guy....

... who confused pistachios and mussels. The guy would refuse to eat pistachios that were sealed shut. He would throw them away with a look of complete disgust. "Kill you, they can", he would announce. Needless to say, a few days after enjoying a mussel starter in some semi-glamorous restaurant, he was violently sick and died. He had insisted that the ones that did not open whilst being cooked were the tasty ones.

Before he died, I sat at his bedside in hospital talking about the good times we had. We had once kidnapped a pair of Brazilian Tapirs from the zoo and exposed them to a drink and drug fueled night out in town. The more extrovert of the two (we had named him Urkle) was taken to the red light district where he had paid for sex. The other one (christened Spangleton) had enjoyed a coffee by the Thames after we had failed to get him into St Paul's cathedral. It was a good day.

My friend had loved life but his utter stupidity had meant that he was to have no more fun days out in the company of underrated and unloved animals. He died in pain, calling out for Spangleton.

I should probably tell you that my friend was called Stanley Fuckwort. He falsely feared pistachios.

Kids say the sweetest things.

We all know that kids cannot draw. This includes children who are of my clan. Today was difficult. My niece produced a piece of work in an excercise book which she wanted approval on. This happened:

Niece: Uncle Alex, I drew this....
Me: Huh....
Niece: You like it?
Me: I... er.... well... what is it?
Niece: Its you and me!
Me: Huh.... Whats it say in that bubble?
Niece: It says "I love you, uncle Alex"
Me: And this one?
Niece: It's you saying "I love you too"
Me: I.. don't remember saying that.
Niece: ....
Me: Remember we talked about telling stories?
Niece: but....
Me: Ok take it outside.... Naughty step. Think about what you've done.
Niece:
Nephew: Man....
Me: I know!
Nephew: It's a terrible picture too!
Me: Hey! Be nice! Naughty step. You too.
Nephew: Fascist!
Me: OUT!

These are hard times. We must be strong and vigilant for such a blatant disregard for elders. I'm gonna cancel their cinema trip, tomorrow. Busted!

Letter to Hotpoint...

Dear Hotpoint

I know you do other stuff and therefore this letter should be directed to those members of staff associated with your mobile air conditioning units. I assume that one day not long ago, many of you sat down to consider the needs of the hot and sticky. I also assume that at this meeting, one of your more forward thinking members of staff wrote a note on the big 'ol think pad of a whiteboard you had there. Im my mind, I can picture it saying the following:

"Hey everyone... lets make this air conditioner that we are making *actually* cool places/people. lol"

Now. I would like to draw your attention to the Hotpoint model MAC150. It was bought in good faith by my employer so that I might be able to continue working for them as our sun continues to engorge our sorry globe in heat and fucking humidity. Why, then, rather than making my working day more bearable did it just sit there in the corner of the room wetly spewing legionaires disease riddled tepid air around me? What the fuck is wrong with you people? You think I like having the piss taken out of me? At first I thought it was a "setting". No. It wasn't the "setting". It was/is just a rubbish machine.

Anyway. As a result of your ineffectual ingenuity, I remained hot, sticky and largely uncomfortable. My productivity was on par with a Michael Jackson (RIP) backup dancer. I did fuckall today. It's your fault. If I get fired, I'm coming for you.

yours sweatingly,

Alex

P.S. The irony of being cooled by a hotpoint air conditioner was not lost on me. Ha ha. Cunt.

Summer time!

With age comes several unwanted characteristics and behavioural discrepencies. These are as follows:

1) Forgetfulness
2) Mal-nourishment
3) Self-defecation

These are the reasons why I have not been as dedicated to self diarising as i had been in yonder year. My cardiologist explained to me the importance of keeping up this literal excercise and he insists to me that the King of pop would have lived for at least another month had he bothered to blog. I await his well researched evidence.

Yawn!

Well.... as promised, I slept through Christmas and carried it on a little bit. I awake with street sellers flogging their easter wares on the streets of old London town.

Much has changed....
blah blah divorced blah blah homeless blah blah UK subbuteo runner upper. The list is clearly endless. A new set of life goals are needed. So far I have picked only one:

Frisbee football!!!

Im sure thats what they call it. I saw some guys (probably Australian/New Zealandesque) playing on the common as I sailed past on a bus (my travel ban ended whilst in my festive coma). With regular practice, I should be a champion of sorts. The Frisbee gods shall receive my prayers.