I'm So Macho

Yes it's true, TD is a hunk of human steel. According to my rowing machine, whose readout this morning said "fuck me you're caning this, fucking hell you're as fit as fuck why don't you fuck off onto the fucking cross trainer or summat".

Also I've got muscles the size of Jean Claude van Damme. I mean each muscle is the size of him.

And I ran. I ran so far away, I ran all night and day (c Flock of Seagulls, 1983). Well, ok, 1.64 miles but for a fat old cunt like me that's a pretty good effort. Indeed it's world shaking, or so all the other gym members thought as my flabby arse was pounding the living fuck out of the gym - and get this it is pretty well made, as it was a WWII air base then a training centre then a USAF air base - it was all built to withstand some kind of megatonnage (I'm guessing not direct - more likely to take the flak from Brize Norton, even assuming a prevailing wind and bearing in mind the nearness of Cheltenham and Fairford - we're talking FallOut City here - kind of, I'm told there's still loads of the place underground that still works).

And ghosts, ghosts that wander the underground passages and ancient hospitals, the ghosts of people who never had the chance to die rather than the people who did. These ghosts stalk the designs and the roads, they wander up and down in front of cars and when you play your retro 80s tracks; they fade in and out among the leafless trees and they want you to fall back, to forget the nice new estates here and remember you were going to take all kinds of injuries and that you'd have very, very little time even though you thought you were nowhere.

From the hilltop you can see the Chilterns, and Andoversford, and Malvern. A 15 megaton blast (in a war circa 1965, before they realised that more damage would come from smaller and more conentrated blasts) would be seen here whether it hit Birmingham, Cardiff, Bristol, Oxford, Reading, Cheltenham, Swindon or even London. The fireworks would have been truly astonishing.

You'd have just about had enough time to enjoy it before you died, that is, if your eyeballs hadn't melted.


Oh well.

The Not-So-Nameless One

In a previous post (see Dec 07) I named a Mr C Smith as the one responsible for leading me into my, ultimately, ill-fated, alcohol experiments. These tests, it is now known, are responsible for all manner of psychological and physiological problems. Mr C Smith, whose name is known to be a pseudonym, is a singularly unscrupulous individual whose appearances in my life are associated, with a depressing degree of inevitability, with drunkenness and instability. He has, I am sorry to say, appeared again and has led me into a spiral of criminal (or at least outside government advice) behaviour. Today, for example, I _drove my car_ (heedless of the savage effect on the planet this would have) and then later I had _loads of booze_ (heedless of the disastrous effect on my blogging this would have). Mr C Smith is a shadow-figure, a metaphor: he is a vague character who lives in the sidelines and who prevents any serious activity from actually occurring. Instead he just snipes away at real endeavour and entices one into substitute activities (ie drinking, or listening to Tears for Fears, or both). He thinks that he can lure innocent humans to a timely end (all ends are timely to him, and he isn't even death) through asking them "Is it worth it? Is it really worth it?" and, do you know, eleven times out of ten, it isn't. He told me one late stormy night, while the December winds were pounding at the double glazing, that I should just jack it all in and go to Uttoxeter. Uttoxeter! I don't even know where that is, or what I would do if I got there. Nothing, I guess. Or not very much. Or maybe I was supposed to rent a room in a ghastly B&B and then walk the streets until I literally topped myself out of boredom. Probably that was it: Mr C Smith is a funny old guy, with a bizarre sense of humour: he wants you to laugh but doesn't really give a toss who you are or if he's met you. He often comes to me during a dull day at work, or rather, I go to him, as he's far too cool to approach me. He says encouraging things but you know he wants you to die, I think. Or maybe he doesn't; perhaps I've misjudged the stupid old bugger and he just wants you to do something, I mean really _do_ something, that'd give you validity for just a second at least.

I don't even know what the C stands for.

Lucid Dreaming

Disturbed night, strong winds blowing against loose lead flashing and through suburban Lleylandii. Drifting in and out of sleep. Falling down into a vortex of dull colours - "Hey, I'm dreaming, I know I'm dreaming! That means I can have sex with-". vortex disappears down a plughole, as awake as possible in the darkness.

Proof, not only of the existence of God, but specifically of a Catholic God of the old school.