People who do virtuous things are always mentioning that they do these things.
For instance, if someone is a regular attendee of a gymnasium, where he or she exercises, then he or she may choose to, when partaking in a conversation about the magical forest of grapefruit, mention that there is at the gym a fellow gym-goer who has a towel emblazoned with pictures of grapefruit. Sure, this towel owner may be wholly imaginary, and they may not even go to the gym, but the point is the gym mentioned at every possible moment, often when it is a superfluous detail.
(Of course, many would say that going to the gym is not a virtuous thing at all – it’s a stupid waste of money and you might as well just go for a sodding walk. I certainly would say that. But that’s irrelevant. Although you’re free to discuss it in the comments without being fearful that I will order my flock of horny potatoes to beat you up.)
I’m about to do that right now – no, not the thing involving violent spuds. I’m about to mention something that I did yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that too. To wit: bicycling. You lazy couch potatoes were festering lazily on your long-suffering leather sofas, gorging yourselves on deep-fried egg sandwiches, whilst I was aboard my trusty blue bicycle, wrapped in a coat and scarf, wearing a silly tacky crash helmet that makes me look like even more of a twerp than usual.
When doing this on Friday, I noticed a big crowd of people outside the village hall. Very strange. Why the devil would people be congregating outside the village hall? Occasionally, this may be due to some sort of “Crafts In Action” event – but when that’s on, there’s always a bunch of blue flags dangling outside, with the abbreviation CIA written on them. And I always initially assume that this refers to some sort of Central Intelligence Agency, and that there’s some sort of investigation into a giant horny potato killing innocent badgers using machetes made from stuck-together ants.
Maybe that’s what was happening on Friday. Because after all, the non-glue-and-knitting-based CIA wouldn’t advertise their presence with blue posters.
Also, I seem to find myself getting ludicrously itchy when bicycling. At first I’m as smooth and itch-free as a baby’s buttocks, but soon that metaphor changes and the infant who owns the posterior of in question develops the condition known by dermatologists everywhere as “nappy rash”.
(This write-every-day-for-a-month thing is really taking its toll, now I’m re-using bad analogies. Soon it’ll be over, thank God.)
I don’t know why this is. Perhaps there’s an nest of ants living inside my saddle. In fact, that’s the definite explanation. Anyone know of any nice, humane ways to kill ants so that they scream and bleed and wriggle about in pain before joining Mr Beelzebub in Argos Extra?
It could be sweat. But obviously I am such a fit superhuman that I don’t do that. How dare you suggest such a thing? How dare you? What a preposterous suggestion! You’ll be suggesting that I write unfunny and dull and overly-rambling blog posts next.
Phew! Ever I wrote that monolith of dismalness yesterday, guilt has been gurgling in my stomach like a bad case of indigestion. Now it looks like that gurgling will get even louder. But it’ll be more down to the elderly tangerine I scoffed this afternoon, rather than any guilt, because that was brilliant wasn’t it?
If you disagree, I was being sarcastic and ironic and post-modern when I proclaimed it to be “brilliant”. If you are enough of a lunatic to have thought that was a ripping wheeze, please pat me on the back – it’s quite itchy just there, just like it is when I’m doing my virtuous exercise and you, you lazy pilchards, aren’t.
Oh, pilchards. We were talking about them in the gym the other day…