Everywhere you look, economic turmoil. I'm fucking sick of it. When I went to bed on Monday the BBC was claiming this was the worst economic downturn since 1992, but by the time I woke up they had upgraded it to the worst since the 1980s. The media's hyperbole of how shagged we all are seems to be suffering from rampant inflation. I expect by tomorrow the downturn will be rubbing shoulders with the 1930s, and by the weekend it will be comparing favourably with the decline of sterling against the dubloon as the Armada sallied past Plymouth Hoe.
Anyway, its said that one of the best cures for the winter blues is rigorous gym-based exercise. This may or may not be the case, but January is the cruellest month, and I'm too skint to maintain my usual dizzying social whirl. So stepping, stationary cycling and limited rowing it is, at least until pay day. And running on a treadmill, of which I have developed a truly visceral hatred. One of the numerous unpleasant side-effects of this poisonous activity has been the discovery of a new and repulsive ailment - jogger's nipple. I won't go into details.
Baffled, I realised I needed to seek higher counsel from a friend of mine, a powerful and experienced jogger. Rather than invest in a costly and ill-fitting man-bra, she recommended instead wearing a football shirt on the treadmill of doom; hypothetically, this would act as a 'wick' to channel the chafing water away and reduce nipple moistness. You have no idea how long I've waited to use those two magical words together in context, by the way.
So this morning I had a rifle through my wardrobe to find something suitable to wear for today's post-work physiological torment. I was half-asleep and not thinking as clearly as I might, so I passed over the obvious candidate - a vintage West Ham shirt from the classic 1992 relegation season - in favour of the green and gold of a genuine Australian one-day cricket shirt. This is what's known as a strategic error. My friend Spoons brought this back for me from Down Under years ago, presumably in the hope that it would one day lead to me getting the thorough kicking I deserve. Well, his chickens were about to come home to roost, in spectacular style.
Shane Warne: spent most of the nineties eating
There seem to be three types of gym-goers. There are the normal folk who go once, twice or three times a week. There are the people who go for a fortnight in January then swear never to repeat the process. And then there are the meatheads, the morons who do nothing but lounge about in small groups near the free weights, flexing their ludicrously overpumped biceps, occasionally guffawing loudly (I always imagine its due to a nob gag or perhaps a fart, but I may be doing them a disservice and its something Swiftian), and very occasionally lifting very heavy things. Most gymnasia probably have a handful. Mine has dozens.
So I entered the changing rooms this evening, dodging around a gaggle of these oafs flicking each other's arses with their towels, and opened my PE bag. And then swiftly had second thoughts - ah. Come on. In for a penny, in for a pound.
I gritted my teeth and pulled on my Australia shirt, garish and unpleasant to the naked eye as it is. To be fair, this was a rather confrontational statement; the brash Australian sportsman remains a figure of both derision and fear.
Shielding his eyes, the resident King of the Meatheads barked
"Nice shirt. Are you wearing that for a bet, you Aussie twat"
This was not nice. And I must admit that I simply couldn't think fast enough in response. Before I knew it, the words
"No, its actually my boyfriend's"
were inexplicably tumbling from my lips, in the very finest of cut-glass accents.
Why? Why, why, why? I just don't know. Real heat of the moment stuff. It seemed to do the trick, though more by luck than judgement. Eyebrows were raised before the hyperdeveloped halfwits recoiled with something approaching horror and scurried away with a sneer and a scowl.
So a truly breathtaking work-out in all senses of the word, with me the hapless target of a healthy dollop of anti-Australian xenophobia and a dash of homophobia. Despite my being both a fair dinkum Pommie bastard and a keen admirer of the female form.
Incidentally, the shirt worked very well - my nipples have rarely been perkier.
Celebrity spots
The day before Christmas Eve I was eating crisps outside my office when greying inquisitor Jeremy Paxman loped past. I couldn't let this outstanding opportunity go, so I followed him for a bit to see what he was up to. First, Paxo was limping a bit; if I'm being completely honest, I'd say he's pulled a muscle in his arse. Second, he got hopelessly lost, and was wandering in a series of ever decreasing circles at the junction of Dean and Carlisle Streets. At this point I bumped into a work colleague, felt self-conscious and sloped back to the office, but its clear that the credit crunch is biting hard when someone like Paxo is forced to walk around the West End with a sore arse rather than getting a black cab and bunging it on expenses.
Paxman; suspected arse-muscle pull
Recommendations
Manchester City. God almighty. This evening we have learned that their billionaire owners are on the cusp of signing Kaka for an eye-watering £100 million. Even more ridiculous is the £500,000 a week they are offering him - a player that I've always thought was overrated, and not a patch on (thin) Ronaldo - to play. Just when you think you've seen it all, football contrives to deliver a new low. Though I must admit I do like Noel Gallagher's take on the issue - every time a Man Utd fan fills up his car with petrol he's effectively paying Robinhio's wages. Heh.
Anyway, this dramatic turn of events has left the betting world scratching its head, and I'm loathe to recommend anything until the waters settle. So I'll instead turn to the obvious second choice, Celebrity Big Brother. I must admit I've found it hard to get into it this time round, despite the presence of everything you'd expect - fading pop stars, socialist firebrands, dwarves - but then I found myself watching Ulrika Jonsson and Mutya Buena receiving sharp electric shocks as Coolio got questions about cockney rhyming slang wrong, and suddenly all seemed right with the world. Anyway, Mini-me is the overwhelming favourite (1/2, various) but - and I type this with a due sense of dread - this looks a little short. So I'm backing Terry Christian at a tempting 9/2 (Bet365) to be basking in glory in a couple of weeks.
I am enjoying the mellow, country-influenced tunes of Thao with the Get Down Stay Down, and I recommend you have a listen too to their uplifting tangles of guitar.
Anyway, its said that one of the best cures for the winter blues is rigorous gym-based exercise. This may or may not be the case, but January is the cruellest month, and I'm too skint to maintain my usual dizzying social whirl. So stepping, stationary cycling and limited rowing it is, at least until pay day. And running on a treadmill, of which I have developed a truly visceral hatred. One of the numerous unpleasant side-effects of this poisonous activity has been the discovery of a new and repulsive ailment - jogger's nipple. I won't go into details.
Baffled, I realised I needed to seek higher counsel from a friend of mine, a powerful and experienced jogger. Rather than invest in a costly and ill-fitting man-bra, she recommended instead wearing a football shirt on the treadmill of doom; hypothetically, this would act as a 'wick' to channel the chafing water away and reduce nipple moistness. You have no idea how long I've waited to use those two magical words together in context, by the way.
So this morning I had a rifle through my wardrobe to find something suitable to wear for today's post-work physiological torment. I was half-asleep and not thinking as clearly as I might, so I passed over the obvious candidate - a vintage West Ham shirt from the classic 1992 relegation season - in favour of the green and gold of a genuine Australian one-day cricket shirt. This is what's known as a strategic error. My friend Spoons brought this back for me from Down Under years ago, presumably in the hope that it would one day lead to me getting the thorough kicking I deserve. Well, his chickens were about to come home to roost, in spectacular style.
Shane Warne: spent most of the nineties eating
There seem to be three types of gym-goers. There are the normal folk who go once, twice or three times a week. There are the people who go for a fortnight in January then swear never to repeat the process. And then there are the meatheads, the morons who do nothing but lounge about in small groups near the free weights, flexing their ludicrously overpumped biceps, occasionally guffawing loudly (I always imagine its due to a nob gag or perhaps a fart, but I may be doing them a disservice and its something Swiftian), and very occasionally lifting very heavy things. Most gymnasia probably have a handful. Mine has dozens.
So I entered the changing rooms this evening, dodging around a gaggle of these oafs flicking each other's arses with their towels, and opened my PE bag. And then swiftly had second thoughts - ah. Come on. In for a penny, in for a pound.
I gritted my teeth and pulled on my Australia shirt, garish and unpleasant to the naked eye as it is. To be fair, this was a rather confrontational statement; the brash Australian sportsman remains a figure of both derision and fear.
Shielding his eyes, the resident King of the Meatheads barked
"Nice shirt. Are you wearing that for a bet, you Aussie twat"
This was not nice. And I must admit that I simply couldn't think fast enough in response. Before I knew it, the words
"No, its actually my boyfriend's"
were inexplicably tumbling from my lips, in the very finest of cut-glass accents.
Why? Why, why, why? I just don't know. Real heat of the moment stuff. It seemed to do the trick, though more by luck than judgement. Eyebrows were raised before the hyperdeveloped halfwits recoiled with something approaching horror and scurried away with a sneer and a scowl.
So a truly breathtaking work-out in all senses of the word, with me the hapless target of a healthy dollop of anti-Australian xenophobia and a dash of homophobia. Despite my being both a fair dinkum Pommie bastard and a keen admirer of the female form.
Incidentally, the shirt worked very well - my nipples have rarely been perkier.
Celebrity spots
The day before Christmas Eve I was eating crisps outside my office when greying inquisitor Jeremy Paxman loped past. I couldn't let this outstanding opportunity go, so I followed him for a bit to see what he was up to. First, Paxo was limping a bit; if I'm being completely honest, I'd say he's pulled a muscle in his arse. Second, he got hopelessly lost, and was wandering in a series of ever decreasing circles at the junction of Dean and Carlisle Streets. At this point I bumped into a work colleague, felt self-conscious and sloped back to the office, but its clear that the credit crunch is biting hard when someone like Paxo is forced to walk around the West End with a sore arse rather than getting a black cab and bunging it on expenses.
Paxman; suspected arse-muscle pull
Recommendations
Manchester City. God almighty. This evening we have learned that their billionaire owners are on the cusp of signing Kaka for an eye-watering £100 million. Even more ridiculous is the £500,000 a week they are offering him - a player that I've always thought was overrated, and not a patch on (thin) Ronaldo - to play. Just when you think you've seen it all, football contrives to deliver a new low. Though I must admit I do like Noel Gallagher's take on the issue - every time a Man Utd fan fills up his car with petrol he's effectively paying Robinhio's wages. Heh.
Anyway, this dramatic turn of events has left the betting world scratching its head, and I'm loathe to recommend anything until the waters settle. So I'll instead turn to the obvious second choice, Celebrity Big Brother. I must admit I've found it hard to get into it this time round, despite the presence of everything you'd expect - fading pop stars, socialist firebrands, dwarves - but then I found myself watching Ulrika Jonsson and Mutya Buena receiving sharp electric shocks as Coolio got questions about cockney rhyming slang wrong, and suddenly all seemed right with the world. Anyway, Mini-me is the overwhelming favourite (1/2, various) but - and I type this with a due sense of dread - this looks a little short. So I'm backing Terry Christian at a tempting 9/2 (Bet365) to be basking in glory in a couple of weeks.
I am enjoying the mellow, country-influenced tunes of Thao with the Get Down Stay Down, and I recommend you have a listen too to their uplifting tangles of guitar.
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