Made it back from America. Stories to follow as soon as i get parked.

This Weekend

I'm going to spend a shit load of money,
because i earned it.
I did everything you asked me to do.
I got up,
everyday,
even though i was tired.
I sold everything you asked me to sell.

I cared,
when production levels were down,
when the print wasn't quite aligned,
when your wine,
wasn't quiet warm enough.

I did my job.
I earned my wage.
I stood and smiled,
whilst you spent yours.
Ours.

You spent it on crap.

So this weekend,
i'm going to spend,
a shit load of money.

Because i earned it.

So whilst YOU minimise the losses,
and scheme meeting dream YOUR way out of this,
waiting for that beloved,
blue ballot box,
to roll on round.

I'll be out.

Spending OUR money,
screaming at YOU,
that WE earned this.

WE earned it for US,
not YOU.

Hey man, remember when...

Nostalgia is the cancer of tomorrow,
strangulating our spontaneity.
Cementing the fact,
that,
whilst all we do is look back in awe
and sorrow,
at the wild days gone by,
new tales will never be told,
our lives will no longer be lived.
I was there all those years ago.
Play me a chord i haven't heard,
sing me a song you've never sung.
Show me what you learnt TODAY,
or i set sail for Mars tomorrow.

Take the money and run

I've recently been diagnosed with IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome) which is an absolute ball ache, especially as the sole remaining love of my life is food and eating lots of it. For those who don't know IBS is a common disorder of the gut, where the intestines squeeze too hard or not hard enough and cause food to move too quickly or too slowly through the intestines. This results in pain and a large amount of it. It's brought on mostly by stress, anxiety, depression or generally just new reactions to certain foods and can make eating an emotional minefield, as you become more anxious about what food is going to jack you up and even more stressed out that you can't just nail a 10" and a can of coke. These two feelings inevitably lead towards depression as you can no longer eat whatever the hell you want, whenever you want. The cycle then feeds itself and you're literally gutted. Luckily I'm always up for a challenge so i set about reading up on the subject. Two days and a massive amount of terrible 'self help' websites later, I'm armed with the knowledge of how anxiety and the problems of the mind work and how they can affect your bodily functions. Exercise (to burn up the excess adrenalin that causes the anxiety) and healthy high fibre eating (to chill my tum) are the options, this leaves me with a choice, i either start to run off this fear or end up with the diet of a 40 year old woman, eating Yakult sandwiches and All Bran on cucumber for the rest of my life. No ta.

This brings me to my main point. I've always hated jogging and has always struck me as something done by people with a point to prove. The way they have to show the whole postcode how fit and active they are after work, by bouncing through the park and sneering at me as chain smoke tabs on the benches and laugh at dogs. It only goes to show, that they've spent too many nine to five's sitting behind a desk, whilst i was busy wasting summers, grinding my knees to dust making the polystyrene the fucker came packed in.

However, needs must and it's either run or bust. As a regular park wanderer I've noticed these joggers lord zebeddeeing along to ipods and wondered what they all listen to. I figure it's probably an even split between the men listening only to Jay-z and the women only Beyonce, or any similar artist with the whole 'look at me, i did it, rags to riches, I'm fucking mega me!' attitude. Luckily, i was fortunate to find an ipod earlier this year so i decide to make a random playlist of upbeat tunes and give it go. I tie up my new Adidas, put on a semi offensive t-shirt and smash out the front door and down the road to Trans AM 'Liberation'. The first songs got a pounding, almost hypnotic robotic beat, my feet are smacking the floor in between patched up over dubs of some guy ranting about the Iraq war, i feel charged and powerful, like I'm in the intro to an 80's cartoon such as Mask or Jayce and The Wheeled Warriors. 

 
After crossing the road four times without looking or checking the lights i hit the park. Trans Am are still beating away and I've settled into a good steady rhythm, i even get cocky and start to over take a few people here and there. I take the opportunity to check my ipod and see whats coming up cos i don't want any surprises now I've got going, this is when disaster strikes. I flip off the hold button but the bouncing motion of my running causes it to shuffle, suddenly A Hawk and a Hacksaw leap into my ears and unfortunately it's one of their Balkan gypsy numbers called 'Wicky Pokey'.

Rusty cymbals start smashing and crashing whilst accordions, violins and a double bass meander through a Bulgarian forest at 100 mph. I do my best to match the pace but i can't help but feel like I'm in the closing scene of an early Woody Allen film, as my course starts to zig zag round trees, i hurdle a Labrador near the swings and leap frog bin after bin. I glance down at my ipod in an attempt to change the song, for fear of peaking too soon but before i get chance, i tread on two ducks and glide into the pond like a water skier who's just let go of the rope.
As i walk home sodden, apple technology rinsed and falling under many a smirk from sports science students bounding along to 'All the single ladies' and 'Crazy in Love', I realise i do feel less anxious for the exercise and my stomach almost feels like mine again. Plus i've got decent story to tell my mates. I decide I'll not let it get to me and head out for a run again tomorrow, except this time maybe just to the Rocky 4 Soundtrack on an old tape Walkman.

I love a good strike me

So it makes me wonder, why is everyone so narked off with the postal strike anyway? All anyone gets sent at the moment is bailiff's letters and bank statements saying you haven't got any money. Tell you what though, if they wanna clear the backlog, Royal Mail should employ those lads who deliver the takeaway menus. Cos every time i walk through my hallway there's another four of the bastards on the door mat. Up the postie!

There should only be one six o'clock in your day

For everyone who feels like this, every time you have to get up and go to work at this horrible, shitty hour. There should only be one six o'clock in your day.