In which the need for alcohol becomes apparent.

I popped round to a mates house to sort out doing the London Marathon tonight. That’ll be fun, I’d thought to myself. Stupid myself. I’d forgotten that in planning to do the most simple thing there is always another simple thing just waiting to piss on your chips. And whatever it was relieving itself all over mine had been bursting to go for ages.

A couple of days ago I thought maybe I was done with hate. I was feeling well adjusted, calm, at ease with the dizzying mess surrounding me and generally unflustered by the hurly-burly, mish mash of uncertainty and collection of sickening, crushing disappointments we call life. I think people label the sensation ‘happy’, but it seems foolhardy, to me, to brand such a fleeting concept. Anyway, I distinctly remember saying to a friend that I was done with hate. That what did it achieve really? Nothing got changed, no one was bettered, not one jot improved. All that happened was that I got tired from the shouting and kicking, and the widening canyon between the them and the me, well, widened, as the more rational scampered away, back to their safe little nests to laugh at the brain dead, not real reality of The Only Way Is Essex. Or to phone vote for that insufferable Frankie twat on X Factor. Or to watch shallow, empty, stupid voiced, blonde haired husks of humanity try to win the self involved, incredibly stupid heart of Gavin ‘The Bachelor’ Henson.

Seems I’m not quite as done with hate as I’d thought, because an evening in the company of someone I find particularly irksome, spent watching morally and ethically bankrupt ‘entertainment’ programming that seems to share the mission statement ‘Make Those Of Anything Above Average Intelligence Slash At their Wrists With The Nearest Vaguely Sharpish Instrument’, has filled me with the familiar warm glow of genuine, fiery loathing. Add to this the constant interruption of the only thing that I did want to watch and you have the recipe for me wanting to smash someones head against the corner of the mantelpiece until they just STOP. PLEASE JUST STOP. FOR THE LOVE OF A GOD YOUR VERY EXISTENCE DISPROVES, WILL YOU JUST. STOP. TALKING.

it’s a miracle that I didn’t come round to find myself covered in someone else’s blood, wondering briefly where the last ten minutes of my life had gone, before looking down and coming to the conclusion that they’d been spent quite wisely.

Now, obviously I don’t mean that. Or at least bits of it. I’d probably never kill anyone for instance, but then again everyone has a switch and you never can tell so it would be remiss of me to tell you that I definitely wouldn’t. I mean, I may be many things – potential murderer, bastard etc – but I’m not a liar. Still, I probably wouldn’t actually stove in a head. I’d probably just leave. On this occasion I ended up making it pretty clear that I found said individual pretty fucking annoying, stated that sometimes it’s the brash, un listening, non comprehending, controlling company that makes me act like a verbally aggressive, sullen wanker and not because I am one, and apparently allowed someone I do actually like to think that I called them fat. Which I didn’t. I said I liked iPads better than most women because you can turn them down or off, they have a fixed, known memory and processing ability and because they are all thin. When asked what was wrong with ladies of a fuller figure (by a lady with a fuller figure), I said “nothing, but they’re not for me”. By which I meant that I don’t find larger girls physically attractive. Which I don’t. Sorry, but I don’t. True of most men, not a great shock across the gender as a whole and certainly not from me, perhaps unfair but there we go. And actually, I’m not sorry, I just don’t.

Not the smoothest line granted, but in context – which is that I had left the main room to sit in another room on my own to watch my bastard programme in peace and that I was clearly irritable due to an evening spent with someone known to irritate me and that every other prick was drunk and I wasn’t because I wasn’t drinking at the moment that’s why now leave me alone, and because it was delivered as, and obviously was, a bloody, pissing JOKE – I think it was a line that should have been taken in the spirit intended. Which was iPad related jest, nothing personal and basically what I thought was a better way of saying ‘piss off’, than saying piss off. How wrong one man can be. Nothing I can do about it now but sit back and await the inevitable backlash, heightened no doubt by typing the whole sordid affair up and posting it on the interwebs. Smashing. Yet again, by being the only sod in the building willing to say what everyone was thinking and by being quite happy to make a funny without first making sure it didn’t contain any reference that might offend someones own personal insecurities or social weaknesses, I have become the cunt. Brilliant.

As well as that the London Marathon was fully subscribed. Which was annoying at first, but as our plan is to do the Paris Marathon instead now, and to make a holiday out of the whole adventure, that all turned out rather well. More expensive, but well. Who wants to run round London anyway, in an event sponsored by a company that can’t even make proper cola. At least when it was that spread they had the sunflower as an emblem, now all I can see is a smug, beardy face. Plus, the crowds will be mostly native, so when they’re shouting stuff like “come on you pathetic wheezing ponce”, or “your one eighth hearted attempts make me want to puke up my own gall bladder so that I can hold it in front of you and produce bile directly onto your face”, it’ll be in French so I won’t understand any of it.

Training begins next week. I intend to imagine that those who I have offended, either intentionally or not, have spotted me from across the street and look pretty pissed. That ought to get me running. If that doesn’t work I’ll pretend I’ve already done what I think I might do to start to win heart of fair maiden, and that it’s not gone as hoped. Shame and embarrassment: sponsors of the Paris Marathon 2012.

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