Burning trees and feeling displeased.

Spent most of last night stoned into oblivion to the point that when I got home (after getting lost in Asda and spending enough time deliberating over which kind of muffins I wanted to cure my munchies with that someone came up and asked if I was alright) I found deeper meaning in the ending of Wanted and thought the first half of Transformers 3 was mighty good. Like I said, baked. Started off the night planning to just work on my CV, listen to Kasabian while going through the usual ritual of scouring the internet for any sort of work and aimlessly slapping F5 on the half-dozen tabs open in my browser when I got a message from a lass I hadn’t seen much of for a couple of months. Used to have a real case of pussy blinders when it came to her but got rid of them in the interim and figured I might as well get myself some free hash and something to do for the night. Drove up to “our” smoking spot a ten minute drive outside of town next to the masts that serve most of Glasgow. There’s little traffic, or police, and it’s high enough up that the views as the sun goes down in summer are awesome. So don’t tell anyone right! It was a good enough time, the pair of us were never really… conversationalists… when we spent time together, so listening to music and having a relaxing smoke was like falling back into an old habit.

When I eventually made it back to mine after playing Deal Or No Deal in the supermarket I had one of those little feel good epiphanies that are liable to happen when you’re high, and being a real 21st century boy I took to facebook to let everyone know that I’d had a thought. So I proclaimed to the world that we should all just sit down, chill out, and be nice to each other. Nothing original or funny, or really interesting about it for that matter, and I promptly logged out and went about vegetating to the work of Michael Bay, whilst drinking the wateriest water I’ve ever had, and eating a blueberry muffin that was baked especially for me by God himself, falling asleep on the couch for a couple of hours and waking up in a slight panic because I’d forgotten how to breath for a second and had lost the sensation in the lower half of my legs. Hopefully only as a result of how I was lying. I managed to drag myself upstairs after laughing like an idiot at how the dog was slapping her tail against her bed as she slept, and went into a deep, dreamless sleep when I got to my room.

After I’d woken up and drank two pints of water to try and fix my serious case of cottonmouth I checked facebook again like it was the morning paper and found that a fuckton of people had liked the status about everyone just getting along. A couple even sent me private messages saying how much they agreed. Usually it’ll be a smaller group of people will like some things but not another. A post about something stupid my brothers did will have family liking it, some things will appeal to women, others to guys. All of them I know and see fairly often, and those I only vaguely know from school or friends of friends won’t like anything at all, that’s the way it seems to be for everyone. Not for that one status though, this transcended social group and closeness, location, religion, gender, a whole smorgasbord of different people clicked that little button…

And that’s shit, seriously fucking shit. Why is it that something so simple, something that should be common sense, stands out so much? Then I realised that there were three things that people talked about on that site: me me me me me, everyone else is a cunt and they’re doing things wrong, and football. They either focus on themselves, the negative aspects of other people, or 22 wankers kicking a ball around. I’m as guilty of it as they are, I’m doing it right fucking now after all. Christ, it was by moaning that I was bored that resulted in me getting asked out for a smoke last night. Something stupid like that shouldn’t need to be pointed out, it shouldn’t be noticeable by the absence of anyone else saying anything like it. Maybe it’s an indication of how shit life is for a lot of people right now, fuck knows. I had a train of thought and now I’m too scunnered to keep going with it.

Have a good weekend troops.

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In which I’m drunk and whipped.

Friday night carried a few nice surprises with it. Started off with a couple of pints with a friend, who I’ll call Phill (as in Jupitus, who he bears a resemblance to, or John Goodman circa The Big Lebowski), before everyone else came. He’s one of those rare people in life who is just an all round sound cunt, who nobody dislikes and is naturally hilarious, without being big headed or really aware of how he’s being funny. Few pints later and everyone else had arrived and Marsha pulled out a bag with a few presents in it from everyone for my birthday, little things like novelty soap, chocolates, shower gel inside a statue of The Stig and some test tube shots.

The nicest thing though had to be a comic that Hans had made out of pictures from my facebook of all of us and my family. The title was “Johny vs The Tories” and revolved around me putting a superhero squad together to defeat the evil emperor in the form of David Cameron. It no doubt came from my many rants during college and nagging at Marsha constantly about how she was a right wing bitch, in the most loving way of course. (It worked too, she went from a unionist centre-right party to the SNP, a separatist socialist party, enjoying their first majority government in a “fair” system designed to make sure the chances of them doing so stayed slim. Though the fact she was a student living on a bursary, not getting money from daddy and needing half the rent on her flat paid by the council probably showed her the upside of helping your fellow man.) The comic means a lot to me, gosh darn if stuff like that doesn’t make me feel all soft and fluffy inside. Shows that someone knows you, you know? Those few pages of A4 paper stapled together are better than something big and showy any day. Though, some things do come close…

We’d moved from Wetherspoons over to a pub across the road as there was (apparently) an ex of one of the folk in our group they wanted to avoid. So off we went, a few more pints were had and then the DJ shouted out my name. I thought that they were going to end up singing happy birthday or something and cause me to die of embarrassment, what happened instead was far, far worse/better. I stood up, deciding to take it like a man, expecting the DJ to keep on talking, then saw a woman standing dressed in what I’m fairly certain wasn’t a standard issue police uniform next to an empty chair in the middle of this crowded pub with a mic in one hand and a pair of handcuffs in the other, asking if I’d been a bad boy. I’ll not go into too much detail, as some things are best left in my mind and in the pictures and videos that are currently residing in too many phones. Suffice to say, it involved those handcuffs not being nearly big enough, a belt as a leash, a quiet thank you to God for making sure I wore my good boxers that night, and one of the finest bodies mine eyes have ever had the good fortune to see. Was vaguely aware of a guy with a video camera filming it all, I’m not sure if it’ll arrive in the post mailed to me, or maybe they’ll find it funny to send it to my mum or just keep a hold of it until the next house party and stick it on repeat. Whatever happens, I. Regret. Nothing. I’ve got Marsha and Belle (de Jour, natch) to thank for it. They know me too well!

After the pub we’d staggered to my house so I could put in my stuff before we got the train to the Cathouse, Scotland’s biggest and as far as I know only rock club. Things around this point get a little bit hazy, though I do remember champagne on the train, a bladder killing queue to get into the club and a fuckton of dancing. Also some guy in the toilets shouting about being able to smell coke in the cubicles like they were fucking lavender scented candles. Met a surprisingly large amount of old school faces there as well, including one guy who slurred that he’d always meant to catch up with me to reminisce about the time I streaked in front of a bunch of visiting Italian students. Other than for rugby it’s the only time I’ve ever gotten into the papers, thankfully not named. Passed out on the night bus home, managing to float my way to Asda for some badly needed Oasis and crisps, part of my post-binge preparation to ensure that the next day doesn’t make me want to top myself.

Which I wasn’t far off from doing, I was a bit of a wreck. Aside from the usual weird dreams, which involved zeppelins flying over the Dover Cliffs and culminated in a different one about me hiding on a roof from a rampaging bear, which then climbed up the side of the house and was about to bite me before I realised that hey, it’s just a fucking bear, and grabbing it by the scruff of the neck and throwing it back in it’s cage, I had trouble keeping myself in the one spot for more than twenty minutes but a complete inability to get out of the house which the odd attack of wondering where the fuck I was. Like I said, was a wee bit rough. Had an awesome night though.

Went to a sort of military fitness group yesterday, so suffering again today, more in body than mind this time. It’s one of those things where 40 odd people are getting shouted at in public, doing press ups and sit ups. My dad had signed me up for an induction last night and moaned at me to make sure I went as he goes a lot. Wasn’t as bad as it could have been, the people were friendly enough and it wasn’t anything I hadn’t done before, not really sure it’s for me though. They didn’t try to act as if they had a secret method of curing all your troubles either, it was just “exercise more, get fitter.” It’s all exercises that I can do myself though, and at the danger of sounding like a misanthrope, I don’t see the point in doing it in a big group of people when there’s no goal at the end of it. Not like you’re a team and this is part of training, feels like I’d be better off just going to a gym and working on my own. I’d be tempted at going back to it, but with my dad offering to pay for it and him saying they take six months up front it’s really too much for something there’s a chance I’d end up hating. Train by yourselves, cunts!

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Wasting.

I’ll confess, this post is largely a stalling tactic so I don’t have to go shopping for a pair of jeans and a new top. I’m convinced that with just the right amount of swagger, I can pull off the hole-in-the-arse-of-your-trousers look. If I delve into a bad enough mood I’ll go into French Connection and growl at the effeminate shop assistants if they come up to me while I’m trying to find a hoodie with an “X” in the size. Upon finding out that there will invariably be none of them, I’ll leave the shop safe in the knowledge that everyone’s a cunt and there’s a nice told pint of beer or ten waiting for me later on tonight. Then there’s the fact of getting to the fucking shopping centre in the first place, it’s in a town you never want to set foot in. Not because it’s dangerous or anything, but because it was built only a few decades ago, back when town planners seemed to think that in the future the one thing we’ll all want to do in our hovercars is go round roundabouts constantly. Looking at the place on google maps makes it seem as though someone’s thrown knotted anal beads at your screen. And the weather’s shit as well, with that kind of grey sky that tells you it’s going to rain at some point, but it’s going to hold off until the most inopportune time possible, then drop it all on your head.

What have I done today besides procrastinate? Um… signed on! The jobcentre had no nutters in it today, which was a bit of a shame, it’s always good to see some free range mentals bouncing about, so I was stuck with the far more boring sight of men no doubt out of work because whatever seasonal work they had has finished, young girls clinging onto the slight hope that a rich idiot will sweep them off their feet and give them a house to do nothing in, and middle-aged women who all had that face that said “Ah’m jist no fuckin well.” Had an appointment straight after for a work programme, basically they outsource the JC’s job onto a private company with a commission on everyone they get into work. It seems to be the usual fortnightly interview dragged over a longer time, with the offer of free tea or coffee. An agency by any other name… I’d hoped at least for some backdoor into the secret jobs that nobody knows about, but it’s the usual websites and newspapers that I look at and scour through before even leaving the house. At least they’ll send away my CV for me, fulfilling the role of a browser script that’s probably floating about already.

Right, I’m suitably grumpy that I can handle shopping, then tonight I’m going to have a couple small aquariums of alcohol and anything else I can lay my hands on. Wish me luck.

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The return, the run, and Jiminy.

Well shit, where in fuck’s good name have I been? What’s been keeping me away from updating this lovely wee blog here? Truth is, not much. Nothing’s really changed in the past month or so, I’ve just shamefully let this fall by the wayside for a few weeks. I am thoroughly ashamed, and vow that I’ll get back on the wagon and spouting shite every few days. Might as well begin…

It was a cunt, no doubt about that, but I finished the run. It started off at the transport museum and basically went in a loop around the Clyde. There was a few hundred other runners doing it as well, but it would have been ridiculous of me to try and compete with the lanky gazelles who treated it as a matter of life and death. Instead I chose the fairly short chubby man with facial hair that was too long to be stubble and too short to be a proper beard, he also had glasses and was determined to encourage me all the fucking way. Needless to say, I absolutely detested him with every fibre of my being and made it my life’s mission to beat him to the finish line. And I did! We all need a nemesis right? There wasn’t any obstacles until nearly halfway (three miles) into the race, and I though I wasn’t expecting much they did seem a bit sub par. The first was three fairly low inflatable walls that had to be jumped over. The number pinned to my chest was ripped off so I had to stop to go back and get it, one of the safety pins was gone never to be seen again, and another had been driven into my chest, giving me a makeshift nipple piercing. Hurt less than I thought it would, and I carried on my way. After crossing the river there was a section where I had to go into the water up to nearly chest height, not the most exciting thing but the novelty factor was good. The only bad point is that soaking wet feet make it easy for blisters to come on, and trying to run straight after getting out of the water is like trying to move with iron boots. There was also a “snow” section where you had to crawl under netting while trying to ignore the ice cutting into your knees and forearms, a swim by the docks, and a mediocre obstacle at the old Finnieston Crane.

The best was saved for last: jumping from the deck of the Glenlee, an old sailing ship moored outside the transport museum and the main thing I’d wanted to do the race for. I love the feeling of falling and jumping from high places, eventually I’ll get around to going sky diving, but for now I settled for the thirty or so feet from deck to water on the ship. I’ve found that the most worrying part of doing something like that is not actually hitting the bottom, but reaching up and not feeling your hands break the water either. There was that instant when I wasn’t entirely sure just how far down I went, and how long it was until the surface either for that matter. But it was a rush, I would’ve went and done it again if they didn’t have so many stewards making sure that no-one did exactly that. From there it was just another couple of hundred metres until the finish line, where the last obstacle was a steep wooden slope with a sheet of oil coated linoleum and a rope to drag yourself up, with a jump onto a crash mat and little sprint to the finish. I enjoyed it, first time I’ve ever done anything like that, so it’s a little box ticked. I’ll confess though that I did think that there’d be more obstacles than there were, along with them being a bit more elaborate than they turned out to be. Channel 4 were there filming it, but it was only the first wave, which I wasn’t a part of, so they’d all buggered off before I got the chance to embarrass myself by getting seen on TV puffing and panting along. Not sure whether I’d do that particular run again, as the “run” part wasn’t really worth paying for, but there is the Tough Guy early next year, which is meant to be a whole lot better. Gives a target to train for, which is always good.

Found myself with this horrible feeling coming over me at times, this nagging little voice in the back of my mind telling me I shouldn’t do some things, and making me feel bad if I do. I’ve enquired with various medical professionals as to what exactly this is, and they’ve come back with the diagnosis that I’m suffering from a “conscience.” The symptoms manifested most obviously when I was lined up to be That Guy after a breakup for one of Hans’ friends who had come over to eat ice cream, watch The Notebook and have a good old cry. We went out for some drinks, got along well, but she was so damn nice. It’d have been like sticking your knob in a puppy after you’d just told it off for pissing on the carpet, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. So I failed miserably in my role of foreign cock that can be left and forgotten about in a faraway land, and I’ve yet to add a dot to my Atlas Pussy Bingo card beyond the British Isles and Spain, but there’s always the Olympics down south next year. I’d been thinking a bit more about finding a girlfriend until I mentioned to someone that, while I wasn’t looking, I was open to the idea, then their reply had the word “relationship” in it and I damn near shit myself. Took hearing it from someone else to solidify the fact that if there’s one thing I don’t want right now, it’s the hassle of a girlfriend.

No luck yet with work, didn’t get the one for Pets At Home, which was a bit shit. Figured I’d had a better than usual chance for it, but not exactly unexpected. The rest have all been rather quiet too. The JC put me onto one as a loft insulation inserter or whatever the fuck you want to call it. Told them it sounded good and I’d apply for it, then the guy starts trying to sell me the fucking thing, marvelling at how good it is and the training has travel and accommodation paid, then the woman next to him joins in and says how good the pay is and that it’s a lot and it’s a really good job etc. Good good good. It was minimum wage. Literally the least amount of money you can pay someone by law, and they’re trying to dress it up as if a position at Facebook had just opened because Mark Zuckerberg was taking early retirement. Colour me paranoid, but I get suspicious when people are too eager about anything. Maybe they can’t stand the sight of me for that twenty minutes early fortnight…

Was my mum’s birthday yesterday. She’d mentioned a few weeks ago that she hadn’t watched Desperate Housewives in years and I was out at the shops trying to look for a box set that had a few seasons in the one set, but they were all individual. Plus I could download them with no hassle later on. Luckily though I did find the complete Cold Feet box set, which I remember her watching from way back when I was a kid, and it was a bit less obvious than a more recent program. Trying to choose presents, and shopping in general, is about the closest thing there is to something that actually causes me stress, everything else I just take it as it comes, but trying to find that thing that someone will like, while not being so expensive that it looks like you’ve just thrown money at the problem in the hopes it cures everything, or giving something that’s too cheap that it looks like you don’t really care is a fucking hard thing to balance. She liked it though, and I bought some supplies of chocolate and sweets as a joke for her to have while she watches it. Watched Billy Elliot later on in the night, everyone else cunningly buggering off when she put it on so I was suckered into sitting and watching it with her being the kind dutiful son I am. Not a bad film either, it’s usually only British films that can get away with kids being battered and brotherly love consisting of “fuck off” for goodnight and still somehow be heartwarming.

Also, it was my birthday today! Big 22. Pulled out about that many grey hairs this morning though, damn I’m getting old. It’s been a fairly quiet one, few cards, some DVDs and a bit of money from my parents and brothers, was good. My phone has been on silent and left in my room most of the day, it’s been going every two minutes between texts and facebook notifications of folk saying happy birthday. God bless the like button. Spent the afternoon helping my mum choose a laptop, managed to find the one decent deal in amongst the rip-off shops around here and the clueless staff swindling even more clueless customers. Got it set up for her and she’s spent the rest of the day avoiding it like the plague, typical! Went for a chinese buffet with the family as a joint dinner for our two birthdays, food was great but the music made me feel like I was in a seriously bad 80s nightmare. Got to enjoy my little brother thinking that just because you can choose your own food doesn’t mean that fired rice and profiteroles are supposed to mix. A good time was had by all. I was full to the brim and sleepy on the way out, making my brain fall into an unwary state so when a pretty girl walked up to me and asked if I had a cigarette I looked dumbly down at my hand, back up to her, and said “Naw hen, it’s a fortune cookie” then walked on for ten paces before I realised what a fool I’d been. Overall I’ve really enjoyed today, had good food, good company, a girl I like has come back on the market which I’m convinced is a secret happy birthday to me, my cake was tasty as fuck, and I’m heading out on friday for some proper drinking. Shaping up to be a good week.

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