Hello reader (it’s always a bad sign when the singular of the term covers my entire legion of fans). Do you have a “Jim” in your life? Is he a friend, lover, acquaintance, stalker? If the answer is yes, you should count yourself lucky (well, perhaps apart from the stalker part), because I don’t have a Jim in my life but have, instead, been burdened with the similar sounding but completely fucking different in every way word - GYM! What a fucking curse this is. Standing there, for hours on end, sweating your brains out…but enough about date night! Joking aside (if, at this point you are saying to yourself “There were jokes!”, I think it’s best you leave now, as this isn’t going to get any better), gyms can be great places to go if you enjoy people watching, and you know I do! While I have spent more time in my gyms ventilation system than John McClane in the search for a bird’s eye view of the women’s shower area, I do from time to time hit the gym floor to look at my fellow sweaty messes.
Once there, what really helps me pass the time on the treadmill (sometimes I even turn it on) are those that use the free weights. While all are quite capable of “taking it to the max”, no doubt through their consumption of the wondrous power sauce bar, they seem compelled to make as much weight-related noise as possible once complete. Confused? Well shut the fuck up and let me enlighten you.
After doing 500 sets of 500 reps without a bother they, for some reason, find it impossible to gently place the weights on the floor at the end like good little gym monkeys. Instead they are overcome by the burning desire (I have a cream for that) to drop them from as high a height as possible, the louder the thud the better. In their own little steroid ravaged brains I can only imagine what they are thinking:
“Yeah bitches! Did you wimps hear that unmerciful clatter I just made? Well I’ve been lifting that shit for the last 10 minutes. I am the big dawg!”
At this point they usually start frantically looking around for someone to high 5, trying their best to snap the other poor fuckers arm clean off in a further show of strength. Am I about to fall prey to this? Fuck no; I’m back in John McClane mode, furiously writing women’s names in black marker on the inside of my arm. Now how do you spell “Hans Shandy”!
My first few months in the new job and Christmas reared its ugly head once again. €15 limit for Kris Kindle! I can do that, I reckoned, as I donated all but a single pint of my blood to muster the necessary funds. Having picked a recipient from a cupped hand which resembled a hat of sorts I was off, a bespeckled man on a mission. The day of reckoning came and I gave my present, happy in the knowledge that I had made the most of what now cost the equivalent of my duplex in the sticks.
Now, let me be clear, those that say that giving is receiving are full of shit, because giving is giving and receiving is, well, receiving, and my time had finally come to receive. Unwrapping my present with glee I felt like Charlie Bucket with a potential golden ticket in my hands. Starting from the top corner, I gently unwrapped my €15 of happiness. Oh, lettering, I thought, as I began to fret, really hoping that whatever it said would be spelt phonetically. ‘W’ - I’ll have a vowel please Carol - ‘I’… and a consonant - ‘L’. The gentle tearing continued until it dawned on me. I had in my hands what, in fact, my hands had acted as for much of my adolescence. Yes folks, my Willy Wonka dream had turned into a Willy Warmer reality!
Realisation made, I felt the room get hotter and hotter. How could they do this to me I wondered, as I tried to cover my “present”. It was too late, however. I was like a rabbit caught in the headlights. The instrument I found before my eyes was worryingly decorative, a veritable feast of knobbiness. This small piece of knitted naughtiness was mesmerising, with a bobbin at its head and 2 bells dangling from its undercarriage (the significance of this wasn’t lost on me either).
The bells, the bells! Far from being reminded of the Hunchback of Notre Dame, all I could think of was the conclusion of the most innocent of Christmas classics, “It’s a Wonderful Life”. As George Bailey holds his daughter in his arms, the bell on the Christmas rings out loud. “Every time the bell rings an angel gets their wings”, the daughter declared! Looking at my festive treat, the only significance I could attach to its bells ringing would be if someone was up to no good, Willy Warmer in situ. “That’s right”, I could hear George say in response. You’re a dirty bastard Georgie, but I like it. I like it!
Ahh people watching, is there anything better? Back up there motherfuckers, I didn’t actually expect all 2 of you to answer, for the question I posed was a rhetorical one, whatever that means. Most of my people watching is with them on foot, but I have discovered that you can also people watch people in their cars. In this situation, there is less of them available to watch, so you really need to be on top of your game to gleam any people watching goodness from it.
On the subject of cars (wild tangeant here), I find that driving presents a similar benefit that newscasters enjoy from time to time, namely that the wearing of pants is optional, having zero impact on the performance of the task at hand. In fact, being “sans pants” may actually help if you find that the task is IN hand. Hooray for smut! Anywho, oh yeah, people in cars! There are 3 types of drivers in this world:
People who put on their seatbelt before commencing their journey (gold star for them).
The foolish bastards who don’t wear a seatbelt. Just because the brain that will exit their head at speed when they crash into a wall will be smaller than everyone else, that’s still no reason not to protect it.
The 3rd type truly are a funny bunch. They are the ones that get into their car, start to drive and THEN put their belt on in a flurry of waving arms and erratic steering.
And the award for the oddest out of the 3 goes to….
(now would be a good time to make a drum roll noise)
…those drivers that drive around “sans pants”. What do you mean they weren’t one of the 3 options. They are right up ther… ah bollix!
Between bouts of follicle related depression, I do enjoy an odd show of 24. Having not watched it from the beginning, I am playing catch-up, watching the previous seasons on DVD.
I like Jack Bauer. I like his no nonsense style, and his commitment when it comes to his job, especially as his personal life goes to shit. He strikes me as the kind of guy who, when asked on his death bed if he had any regrets, would, without a moment’s hesitation reply “I wish I capped more fucking terrorists”. A man after my own heart.
Even more impressive than Jack, however, are his employers CTU, who can “cross reference” pretty much anything with everything else! Should one of Jackie B’s leads go as cold as the last terrorist he transitioned into a permanent state of “dead”, all he needs to do is get on the ‘ol satellite blower (satellite phones are all the rage apparently) to CTU, and cross reference the dead scummers name / age / height / underwear / BMI etc. with, let’s say, the local pizza shops in the area, and bingo bango, we have ourselves another lead. Before you can say “How the fuc…” Jack is poppin’ caps and making the world right…again.
Living in a commuter town, I spend a reasonable amount of time, well, commuting! During this time, I notice things. Some things I like, and some things I, eh, rant about. Come waste 2 minutes with me post haste!
While I can fully appreciate the role that knitting played in olden times, namely to pass the time before your house was lucky enough to get a goggle box, or to keep your hands occupied until you finally decided to condemn yourself to eternal damnation and start masterbating like a motherfucker, I feel that it is largely unecessary today (and tomorrow too, for that matter)!
To see a woman rhythmically knit away like she was fighting frostbite of the fingers, I was transfixed. Not by the movement, but by the thought that when she had finally run out of that spidey-web stuff, that she would look at it with great admiration and convince herself that the resultant clump actually resembled something of value, and even more unbelievebly, something that could be worn.
While those clumps that even the creator knows resemble fuck all will fall into the “scarf” category and be handed off to someone as such, the truly touched among the knitter community will place themselves firmly in the running for the “crazier than a tin shit house rat” prize by attempting to pass off their waste of time as a jumper, obviously forgetting that jumpers must exhibit some sort of symmetry. Oh, and 2 arms of equal length is always a bonus!
Passing this onto someone under the guise of a present not only saves the knittererer having to spend money on an actual gift, but leaves the recipient with the most horrid of horrors. To summarise my position on this, in reference to my good friend Harry Enfield: “Oi! Knitting! No!”.
Taking the locomotive (choo-choo) home one afternoon, I dismounted to face something quite disturbing. Some brainiac had obviously tired of wearing their school bag in the traditional “straps over the shoulders” manner. While I agree that it’s akin to the missionary position in its lack of imagination, it works (just ask your parents)! This person was obviously getting all adventurous and was in the process of penning the karma sutra of bag wearing, and was exhibiting the position 69.
The fucking bag was upside down, with all types of writing instruments spewing out at a rate of knots which could only lead me to believe that they had just carried out the world’s largest stationary heist. Perhaps their post heist haste may have prompted the bag positioning.
Let’s assume for one minute that this Kris Kross esque way of carrying a bag was in some way functional, this was completely negated by the fact that the straps weren’t even over the shoulder. Instead they were down by the elbows, effectively acting as a straight jacket around the arms.
Realizing at this stage that this person was obviously not going to do anything themselves to rectify the situation, I did what any person with half a brain would do, and promptly pushed Señor dipshit over with an enthusiasm and vigour that I hadn’t felt in years. Job done!
