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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