Seediness, Santa, and bidding farewell to 2011.

Christmas has come and gone, and it wasn’t half bad I must admit. I spent the latter hours of Christmas Eve going into the early hours of Christmas morning in a jovial mood in the back seat of my car. Which sounds far seedier than it actually was. The good thing about where I live being that you’re never too far a drive away from a nice quiet spot, with good views and a relaxing atmosphere. I’ll start feeling dirty if I find myself pumping down back alleys underneath an orange street light. Think less sleazy, more erotic. Yeah, that’s what I’m aiming for. In any case, the day started off quite well, and I toddled off home to pass out for a few hours. When I was younger I could never bring myself to sleep, didn’t matter if I’d stayed awake the entire night before, or been dosed by my mum on the extra drowsy kids medicine, I’d still be wanting to catch the moment that big fat red bastard shot down the chimney. This year however I actually had to be woken up by my brothers. I’m getting old yo.

I’ll get right onto listing the booty: Tickets for Derren Brown, some DVDs, money, usual smelly shit, couple of books, a few giftcards, and a load of useless little stocking fillers that are nonetheless an integral part of the day. There was a ton of chocolate as well, which was munched at a steady rate throughout the day, only stopping long enough to go and get the curry for dinner. It sound weird to have that rather than the normal turkey with all the trimmings, but it works out better overall. Who really wants to stand and cook on Christmas day? So one of us goes out to the best Indian in town, gets all our favourite food, and we have an excellent meal where everyone’s relaxed. And Doctor Who was on in the background as well. Perfect.

Boxing day was a fairly busy one, we all piled in the car and drove over to see my cousin who was back for a week or so from working in LA. He brought his girlfriend with him, was the first time I’d met her, and she was really nice. Lucky fucker has done well for himself. I’m wondering if being Scottish is something you can trade on abroad…. Dinner consisted of lasagne and chilli, with various breads and whatnot. There’s a time for fancy food, and there’s a time for good fucking scran that you don’t need to figure out how to eat. As the day wore on the drinks were steadily consumed, and nobody seemed to realise that my dad had went through to perform a little spot of acupuncture on my uncle’s foot while a few times over the limit until he’d been gone for half an hour. Someone for some reason decided that charades would be a good idea, and for my first ever go it wasn’t that bad at all. Says a lot about my side of the family that they got poo+knees to mean The Goonies, and from fart derived that I was talking about Sparticus.

Sadly I’ve been working since yesterday, and it’s made me appreciate those fortnight long holidays I used to have all the more. Without a doubt the first holiday days I’ll be booking will be a couple on either side of Christmas and New Year. Things at the call centre have been looking up, spent a bit more time listening in today, got to the point where if I was asked I’d be fairly comfortable taking a call myself, which I’ll be doing next week at some point whether I want to or not. As for plans for Hogmanay, I’ve not really got any. Been invited along to a house party, but I don’t know if that’s still happening, and there’s always just staying in… But I’ve done that every year, I’m in the mood to be out in the biggest crowd I can find.

Been a not half bad year looking back on it, had some awesome times, got decent grades at college, an alright job, my car is alive, and I’m not going through new year in a dry patch. Shit could definitely be worse. Next year may be even better, who knows, but that’s what I’m aiming for. This will probably be my last entry of 2011, hope it’s been a good one for all of you, and that next year is even better. Have fun!

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Closer to work, escape plans forming, and surprise tampons.

The second interview went not too badly, though it did serve to highlight that even though I use a computer every day for gaming and all the usual stuff I don’t actually know a great deal about the ins and outs of them. Not off the top of my head and in technical language anyway. I was asked ten questions, largely about the likes of diagnosing connection problems with the internet and peripherals like mice and printers etc. It was fairly informal, just sat in a room and rattled through it quickly then back out the door again. The position was apparently “tier 3” technical support, whatever the fuck that means, as opposed to the original one being one lower. No mention of earning more money from it though, and the lazy part of me that doesn’t want to work a job in IT for the rest of my life is yelling to do the least work needed if they’re both minimum wage. I didn’t want to bring it up in the interview for obvious reasons, right now I’ll take what I can get. The interviewer told me again that I’d already got into the job (or training, which better be paid or I’ll cry) I originally applied for, and this was just to see if I’d be suited to another part of the company. They said they’d call me back today but I haven’t gotten one, with any luck it’ll be tomorrow. I wouldn’t mind a bit more of an assurance before I go telling everyone in the off-chance that they change their mind or there’s been a mix-up. And mostly because I don’t want to have to deal with any of those annoying cunts at the work programme.

Fingers crossed though, I’ve scrimped enough that I’m keeping a steady £150 or so in my account so if for any reason my dole gets stopped I can survive for a couple of weeks. Other than that I wouldn’t mind getting a few presents for everyone in the house, the car’s exhaust is slowly but surely dying again, and I’d like to update my wardrobe to decent stuff that I don’t need to pretend is shabby chic. Or that I’m such a hardcore ironic hipster that I’m making a statement out of old trackies and battered trainers. Maybe I’m going to stumble my way right into a £22,000 a year job, a professional call centre monkey! I’ve began to have notions of saving every penny for two years then quitting and fucking off somewhere, anywhere. The pan hasn’t progressed further than that rough outline. Getting out of this house is the first priority now though. Save up, find a guy that needs a roommate, and get out of here. Made the mistake of mentioning to my mum that I’d probably gotten a job rather than just leaving the house on monday morning and coming back eight hours later. For some reason this makes it open day for abuse. Everything from using the wrong lights to see with to the dog not having any tinned meat to eat, can’t do anything right. And instead of me getting a job, the complaint is that I should’ve gotten one sooner. Soon it’ll be not handing over enough money, that my work isn’t that hard, when am I going to move out… I might get a well done to start with, but I pay for it over the next few days, as always.

Spent today hanging out with Hans, this may be our last Thursday meet-up unfortunately. I’m starting to dislike this employment malarkey already. Told her that if I did get the job I’d ask around and see if they needed anyone fluent in German. It’s a big company with a lot of contracts, a German native studying English at uni level would walk into a niche job like that. When I left and got in my car to drive home I found a nice present waiting for me on the passenger seat: a tampon. The joys of having women for friends eh? I looked at it like an ape would an iPad, or a soldier in a war film would stare at the grenade that’s landed in front of him right before it goes off. I’m ashamed to admit that my first thought upon seeing it was “That’s an oddly shaped mint.” I wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it. Should I give it back? Are they valuable? Personalised? Do I keep it in the glovebox in the unlikely event someone asks me if I have a spare one? What does the inside of it look like? Should I take it home, fill up the sink with water, drop it in and giggle as it expands? In the end I chose to chuck it out of the window, bouncing it off the windscreen of a passing Transit van. Some mysteries are best left unknown.

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Osama’s sound, snottery beaks, and poofy scholars.

I’m in a pisser of a mood. I’m choked up with the cunt-faced cold and the snotters are blinding me. In a few hours I’ll have worn off the first couple of layers of skin on my beak and it’ll be this time next week before I stop looking like Rudolph. In short: I’m not a happy chappy.

Bonfire Night was last night, which is one of my favourite nights of the year, if for no other reason that colourful explosives are going off left right and center and there’s usually a decent party atmosphere going on. There’s a reason for all of this happening of course, but I seem to have misunderstood the finer details of the day when I was growing up. See, a couple of hundred years ago there was a man named Guy Fawkes, he had a blocked nose and the snotters were blinding him too. But in those days they didn’t have any Vicks, and you didn’t know if you had a mild cold or a terminal disease. So he went to his doctor and got given a prescription, but before he could get to the chemist he was arrested for breach of the peace. He’d wiped his nose on his sleeve and flicked a bogie into the middle of the street, then told the PCSO to fuck off when they tried giving him a fixed penalty notice. This mightily vexed young Mr Fawkes, as all the polis were Rangers fans, and they slapped him all night long until each and every one of them sported their very own Red Hand of Ulster. Being the trendsetter he was, this bodacious young Catholic decided that the IPCC weren’t going to be of much use, and that his complaints would be far better addressed directly to the House of Lords with 36 barrels of gunpowder. And he nearly got away with it, if only someone hadn’t sent an anonymous letter spilling the beans about the plan for avenging Fawkes’ well skelped arse. He was caught literally sitting on the evidence, and hanged not long after for taking the piss out of a fuckton of health and safety laws.

All that is fact, backed up by irrefutable proof. Problem is, I got the wrong end of the stick as to just what it was we were all celebrating. It seems that people are setting off fireworks over the fact that he was caught before he blew up parliament. But ever since I was a child I always thought we were remembering about how a man almost blew up the parliament. For me Fawkes was the hero, not the villain, and burning effigies of him was just a ritual rather than the people, y’know, throwing a terrorist on a bonfire. The historical and political side of things were never that big of a deal, it’s not treated along the same lines of Remembrance Day, it’s just something that happened nearly half a millennium ago and it’s tradition. Maybe being from Scotland had something to do with it. In school I can only remember being given just the facts, never the teacher’s opinion on anything. With the lovely sectarianism we have here (no racism, everyone turns grey in a fortnight mind) it may have something to do with a Catholic trying to blow up a Protestant government. The IRA were still setting off the odd bomb at this point, so they might have tread on eggshells around it. Or it might’ve been an already deep-seated mistrust of authority figures that I had when my age was still in single figures. I mean, surely the government must have done something wrong if a man’s going to all that effort to blow them up? Those gunpowder barrels are heavy after all. In the end though it’s about bright lights and bigger explosions.

Not that I seen any of them, that’s what I meant to moan about in the first place. I’ve got the cold, and it was absolutely freezing last night. The parents were away to a family party for just the old ones, Goggles was off out trying to get drunk enough to enjoy himself but no so much that it was blatantly obvious, and Thickness played games and watched TV as usual. I spent most of the night in a warm bath reading, wishing that my leaky beak would vanish so I could try to salvage an extremely casual date/meet I had arranged with a lady friend who was there with her pals. I don’t know if I’ll mention any more of that kind of thing, I’ve mostly kept quiet as “so I got a bit of nookie” isn’t that interesting. Tonight though it was a girl who seemed quite promising in regards to going out with her rather than a drunken fumble. Another day another chance.

I had another meeting at the work programme, which turned out to be as soul destroying as I expected it to be. They had taken my CV from me a couple of weeks ago, said they’d make it better and handed me out a few copies of it on Friday. It was filled with spelling, grammar, and punctuation mistakes. This is meant to be the shit that they fire off to everywhere with an opening as well. Useless cunts. I’m getting more and more exasperated at having to attend this shit. “Do I really want a job?” Why are you even fucking asking me that? Aye! Ya shower of fucking spastics. The new advisor had the cheek to make me wait for twenty minutes then whinge because I arrived bang on time instead of early, which then kept me late for getting across town to actually sign on. I’m getting at least an interview by next friday, I’ve had enough of this shit, I’m going to annoy, harass, impress, threaten, cajole, intimidate, blackmail, or steal a fucking job by this time next week.

NaNoWriMo is going as shit as expected, I’ve got a lot of planning done, but I’ve still to make a start. Part of me doesn’t want to rush it, another just doesn’t want to even begin. I will though. Quantity over quality, any monkey can drag a piece of shit out to 50,000 words. If I make it incomprehensible enough and tell everyone I’ve got a drug habit I might even be able to go full circle and proclaim it as proper art. There’s also the small fact that I let slip to Hans that I was doing it, she with the English teacher boyfriend, he the English teacher boyfriend with Doctors of Words and Saying Stuff Dead Good for friends. Her reading it means he might read it, and it might end up as a literary Goatse for a bunch of scholars. Altogether now, after three: “But they’re just posh cunts, who gie’s a flyin’ fuck whit they ‘hink anyway!” I’m sounding more self-conscious than I feel, but then it is something that you’ve crafted and put effort into creating being grilled. I’m running low on don’t-give-a-fuck, I’ve been up for more than a day again. Yet I’m not that tired, and I’ve gotten myself into the groove of sitting and typing. I might just go and make a start at this thing. Only six days down after all.

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Secrecy and pork blood.

So, what’s happened after last night? Um, nothing. Sent her a text earlier on in the day and not got one back. Knowing how she’s usually got herself plugged into every possible means of communication I think it’s highly likely that I’m just being ignored. Which is fair enough I guess, let shit simmer down. I’m presuming that she hasn’t told her boyfriend, otherwise I’d have gotten at least a strongly worded PM by now. With a bit of luck that’ll be the end of it, or I’ll pay for it later, who knows. Hey, this not giving a shit malarkey is a piece of piss!

The day’s been more or less a write-off. The weather’s been fucking awful and I haven’t set foot over the door. Did get some more writing done having said that. The thing seems to grow a bit more each time, from a simple outline to a highly detailed synopsis, to something almost resembling a story. Most of the writing I’ve done hasn’t exactly been creative, I never knew “not trying to sound like a pretentious wank” was such a big part of it. But it’s still coming along nicely, even if I have a habit of beginning something, then thinking too far ahead and not remembering what it was I wanted to say in the here and now. When voice recognition has advanced to the stage that it can understand a Scottish moan, I doubt I’ll ever touch a pen or keyboard again. Which neatly segues onto your second portion of Scottish Comedy You’ve No Idea Exists:

Ho ho! Wasn’t that wonderful? And that’s from one of the shitter sketch shows! Anyway, due to me staying up until everyone normally heads off to work and feeling all cosy curled up in bed it was pushing seven in the evening by the time I woke up, knocking my routine properly out of whack so now I’m going to have to spend a day and a bit awake in order to compensate. Doesn’t really do much for my new healthy routine either. I’ve found myself eating about one meal a day and not feeling particularly hungry. Though it has been a lazy few days, not been burning many calories. At worst it’s been a bit of mild hunger, I’m looking to get fitter, not starve myself.

And this may sound stupid, but I’ve been keeping it fairly quiet as well, as in not telling anyone about my change in diet. What I’ve been doing has been working, and like most other things I do I learned years ago that if I want to enjoy doing them then I don’t tell my family. Regardless of the idea it’ll be at first either stupid or plain wrong, and eventually move onto not good enough. The first time I told my mum that I was going to college to do my Highers she asked me why I didn’t do a night class “like normal people.” Funnily enough the image I had in my mind was of a gay kid coming out to his staunchly conservative parents. All I did was say I was off to get some better qualifications. Go figure. At any rate, saying something like I’ve stopped eating as much shit will see me hearing that I should be doing X instead, telling them that I’m training will find me being told I either should be doing something entirely different or am doing it wrong. So I keep it quiet and tell nobody nothin’ as that means I can do whatever the fuck I please in relative peace. Like be unemployed and wonder if I’ll be stopped in the street by an irate boyfriend or two. That kinda stuff.

That’s it pushing seven o’clock, nearly a whole twelve hours of consciousness. My immediate plan is to head on up to my room and watch Captain America, which will take me up to a respectable time where I’ll come back out, go for a shower and if it’s still cold enough try to find myself a hot breakfast that doesn’t come with a heart disease warning on it. Man I miss black pudding, even if the main ingredient is “pork blood.” Then I’ll take the dog on a good long walk round the woods, and perchance buy myself twenty quids worth of dope and sail the night away. Have a good one peeps.

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Battered kids in wheelchairs and my calling as a fish van man.

That’s the parents back from their cruise, they seemed to have a lovely time, which I was glad to hear about. My mum in particular has fallen in love with Rome, this being the second time she’d been. I picked them up from the airport, knowing almost as soon as I’d parked the car that karma was going to get me back for always being late by making me wait for ages because I was on time for once. And so I did, after more than an hour they’d finally managed to get all the baggage off and collected. Ever noticed that when people are on coach trips all the luggage is off the bus and into the owner’s hands within five minutes? They should do that for flights as well, just let people down onto the tarmac, grab their gear and head into the airport, it’d save a fuckton of hassle. When they eventually did get out, a bit more tanned and full of cheer and good food, I got told the most important details of the trip first. Not how nice the cruise was, or seeing Pompei, or the dinners, or the general awesomeness of Silvio’s big brothel… nah, I got the tale of the misbehaving little boy in the wheelchair, whose mother finally had enough and leathered the child, who promptly started crying. My dad was rolling about laughing at retelling it. Now I know where I got my habit for naming all the disabled people at college from. I still miss you, Grawp.

Before they had left I’d asked my mum if she wanted anything done for them coming back, they’d just be back from a week of drinking and sightseeing AND NOTHING ELSE and I didn’t think they’d want to go out for dinner again, she said just a nice lunch from Greggs the bakers would do fine. So before I left the house I handed Thickness a £20 note and told him to spend no more than a tenner, buy a few nice rolls (the kind freshly made with chicken and salad and all that good shit), maybe some hot stuff as well in case they fancied it, and yum yums if he had anything spare. He came back after spending more than a tenner alone on fucking steakbakes, sausage rolls, half a dozen plain rolls, and two toblerones. He fucked up to a degree that went beyond my ability to be pissed off at, so I burst out laughing instead. One day he might build bridges or design skyscrapers, but he’ll always be a dozy bastard. I told him that seen as he’d bought it anyway, he might as well break the toblerones into individual pieces and make them look fancy on the plate. He didn’t pick up on the sarcasm, so we came back to find a plate of them looking like an advert for Ferrero Rocher directed by Uwe Boll. Give him his dues, it was a nice wee lunch though. They’re away again to stay at a hotel as today is their actual anniversary, back tomorrow. Alright for some eh?

Aside from taxiing back and forth from the airport and abusing Thickness for deciding that mutton chops were a good idea for his first foray into facial hair, it’s been the same old stuff.  Mostly going to the work programme where I was told about the importance of being on time to a work interview, and somehow spending twenty minutes informing me of exactly jack shit and making absolutely, positively certain that I wouldn’t mind applying for a job in a call centre. Jesus suffering fuck spare me all this shit and just email me job openings with a name and number then gimme some peace. It’s gotten to the point where I sat with Hans today plotting ways we could earn the most amount of money with the least amount of effort. Aside from using her as a kind of bargaining chip if I get an interview (like a free clock with your life insurance!) the front-runners are currently going into business as a stripper and driver, or running a fish van together. Not entirely sure how we ended up deciding on the latter, but there’s no doubt a Freudian element to it. Hooring it out is a possibility, there’s probably fetishes I’ve never heard of that I’m walking around as without even knowing it…

That little “Don’t Consume” brain fart I had a few days ago? Going rather well. Upped and deleted a whole raft of films and TV shows that I was either never going to watch or would have had to make time in a busy schedule of watching everything else to make time for. Though then downloaded a load of music as I’ve been crying out for something other than the same old five albums on repeat. Not one to do anything by half, I’ve got a 2000 new tracks after that little binge. Replacing one thing with another? I don’t think so, it’s more of a passive thing, you’ll not often find me sitting just listening to music. I’ve decided to try my hand at NaNoWriMo this year too. Basically it’s spending November writing a 50,000 word book, and more about quantity than quality, the emphasis being more on doing it in the first place than doing it well. It works out at writing 1,666 words a day for 30 days. Considering I’m already more than halfway to that with this one blog post, I’d say that it shouldn’t be too much of a challenge. I’ve got an idea of what to write, but I’m not saying, in the off-chance that one of you robbing cunts makes a book first based on it. What I will say though is this: it’s the usual mix of immature and very grim serious. Like Apartheid with zombies.

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Give a fuckin’ inch…

Goggles snuck out last night and stayed over at a friend’s house, the wee cunt. I had gotten up early to phone and make an appointment with the doctor and was sitting on the couch listening to music when I heard the key get stuck in the door and knew it was him straight away as the dog ignored it, something she only does when she recognises the footsteps of someone close. Put on the angry face and shouted at him where the fuck was he, who was he with, why the fuck didn’t he ask first, all that spiel. The answers I got was the exact address, his friends (didn’t even mention a girl, I might have gone easier if he’d buggered off for his Nat King), and “I didn’t think you’d let me.” Which was probably right, it was a school night after all. What I was going to let him do was have an empty on friday night, which would have been his first and the only one he’d be able to get for a long time. An empty is basically a house party by the way, so-called because your parents aren’t home, if you’re unlucky it’s something that you’ll get rather than have. In either case, it’s a bit of a right of passage I suppose, one he won’t be getting now. Told him if he was that fucking keen on being out the house he could just fuck off right now to school, so he got changed and slightly staggered out the door.

With a “Don’t slam that fuckin’ gate either or I’ll slam you ya wee dick!” I burst out laughing as soon as he was out of sight. He came back home for lunch about five minutes ago with a puppy-pissed-the-carpet look on his face. Bastard knows he did wrong, but it’s funny as fuck to watch. He’s barred from going out till they get back, but I won’t tell them what happened. I am pissed off that he done it though, I gave the pair of them a lot of slack, we all do a bit of work which keeps on top of things and other than common sense stuff like not staying out all fucking night they’re free to do what they want. Was tempted to send him to his room with no phone and all that shite, but it didn’t work for me, so I wouldn’t bother with him. In fact I’d say it backfired completely, creating a kind of by-necessity buddhist mindset, where material things (like TV, music, games, books, and now and again lightbulbs and bed covers) ceased to matter so much. And it’s a hassle too of course, better to frown and show I’m rather displeased, which I’ve never been before with him. I’ll have to get a picture of him looking all guilty, it really is priceless.

Was in and out of the doctor’s in ten minutes as well. Filled her in on what was happening with the scars, got referred back to the consultant that handled it before, and was given my complimentary tent and sleeping bag for the 18 week waiting list. By the time I get seen my hair will have grown back to cover it up, fuck sake. Found another downside of having cut my hair so short: greys. Yeah I’m only 22, it could be worse, probably not as noticeable as I think. but I have shitty genes and it’s one more mark against me. Could it be that I’ll have to resort to Just For Men? Fuck that, I’ll try a Clooney first.

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The Depilated Authoritarian.

The parents are away for a week on a cruise to celebrate their 25th anniversary, leaving me with those two wee gobshites Thickness and Goggles to look after. It’ll be simple enough, freezer is stocked with enough food to last, there’s plenty of water in the tap and they’ll be at school during the day. Thickness is easy to handle as he’s a hermit at the best of times. As long as there’s a PS3 controller within arms reach I can leave him to his own devices. Goggles on the other hand, is a chancing bastard: When I woke up this afternoon he’d just got back from taking his friend to hospital. They’d sprayed hairspray on his leg when he was passed out drunk then set fire to it, now he’s got burns in the shape of a cock and balls. It’s not even that he gets up to mischief, he’s just completely bollocks at hiding any of it. Still, as far as I know he’s not had the worry of finding out if he’s going to be a dad or not before he’s 16, so he’s beating me in that regard I guess. They should behave themselves though, I didn’t inflict all those years of brotherly violence on them for nothing. Mum has very kindly left some money for us to spend on food and general living stuff. But I’m sure that the three of us can survive for seven days on stew and pasta, which frees it up for other things like booze. After all, beer is filling, and spirits are rather good at killing the appetite when drunk on an empty stomach. And weed. And a new pair of shoes. And hopefully enough petrol to go and drive to get all these things.

Before any of that though, I’m having a little change, namely shearing off my hair. I’ve worn it long for the past year or so, it looks alright, but I’ve decided that looking like a younger version of this…

…isn’t really what I’m after right now. So I figured that with £5 and as many minutes I can get it all taken away and shall magically turn into this:

Uncanny! I’m missing the simplicity of little things like washing my hair quickly and not having to blow dry it and generally worry about how it looks. And I’m tired of having sweat soaked hair getting into my eyes while I train but too proud to do anything about it like some sort of nancy boy. Plus if it does end up looking like shite it’ll grow back in quick enough. First time I’ll have had it since my rugby playing days, where it was primarily to stop it all getting pulled out when I taped my ears up. In case the pictures weren’t enough of an indication, I’m keeping the beard, it’s become my “thing” and I’m still a couple of stone away from having a chin to show in public. Tomorrow, things shall look different.

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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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A beige update.

Urgh, bored beyond belief so thought I might as well make an entry. Precisely sweet fuck all has happened in the past week, and I can’t seem to content myself with anything. It’s not for lack of distractions either, I have more music, films, and games than I can possibly listen to, watch, and play, but none of them hold my interest for very long. I’m into the slowly-feeling-more-shit-and-listless phase of unemployment from the looks of it. Get my results the day after tomorrow, same as my little brother. Man is it going to be shit comparing what we got. Let’s hope the wee gobshite had a lazy fifth year and will make it up in sixth.

My dad has been in an unusually helpful and generous mood, not sure if I like it all that much. My car’s been parked up outside for maybe around a month now as I can’t afford to get it serviced and fixed, he’s offered to pay to get me back on the road. I don’t want to sound or be ungrateful, and it’s nice of him to offer, but it’s my problem and I’d rather sort it out myself than have to rely on anyone for it. At the end of the day I’m coming up for 22 years old, I shouldn’t even be living with my parents, let alone relying on them to fix my car as well. Can’t afford to move out, but I want to handle this myself. I paid for it myself, as well as the first years insurance at nearly two grand, it’s my car, letting someone else contribute to it even with the best of intentions seems to make it less so. Even if it did get fixed, right now I’ve nowhere that I actually need to drive to, it’s a luxury that does nothing but eat money, so it can stay where it is until I’m rich again. Walking won’t do me any harm either.

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