Exciting times. Stuff has happened, and as I’m sure you can imagine I thought it might be a bit of a ripping idea to use the medium of blogging to bleat about the stuff, just to make you readers feel slightly miserable about not getting to enjoy any of the incredible things that I’ve got to enjoy lately.
Now that I’ve managed, machete in hand, to battle my way through the jungle of impossible-sounding tasks, it’s time for me to lower you into a heaving pit of incredible japes until you’re blubbing with uncontrollable misery, wishing you were as lucky as I am.
On Saturday, I had to go to the dentist and woke up ridiculously early. Then I went back to sleep, until the earliness’s ridiculousness had turned into nice, sensible sensibleness. I did not read any of the exciting magazines, because for some reason I had momentarily lost interest in Gary Rhodes’s favourite hair product, or whatever it is that people are talking about these days. By the time my funny spell of insanity was over, and I was once again gagging to read about the English restaurateur’s technique (which I rather hope involves butter and mustard; remember, if you don’t like it, use just a little), I was reclining in the silly leather chair having my eye occasionally poked (he muttered something along the lines of “shurreh”, perhaps in apology), and being mildly cheesed-off by all sorts of other things which it is unreasonable to be even mildly cheesed-off by. For the first time ever, I sort understood why people seem to regard dentists as tremendous menaces, like little Jeremy Clarksons wearing disposable squidgy plastic gloves.
Then I went to buy some bacon. On my bicycle, because I’m an incredible health oxymoron like that. Hardly very exciting, but I rather want to gloat about how, on the way back, I managed to keep up with a motorized tractor for a not inconsiderable distance. It was pulling a big blue tanker full of poo. Oh, yes. After a while, perhaps when the driver spotted me, the tractor stormed off, but the important thing is that I kept up with it for a good few metres. I’m so incredible.
And that was just the morning. I don’t want to mention the afternoon, because I am a highly conscientious person who would hate like to make you feel that unsuccessful. Already you must be kicking yourselves, longing for the chance to large it up in the style of a famous celebrity blogger like me. I am a productivity god.
On Sunday, I can’t remember what I did, such was the brain-sizzling nature of whatever it was. Oh, yes, it’s coming back to me now – among other things, like cycling somewhere again (this time over rough terrain, with both musical accompaniment and a generous helping of sweat), I attended a performance of classical music performed by my grandmother and a man so incredibly immaculate that he may well iron his underpants. I’m not going to be pretentious and suggest that the music did anything for me – indeed, I’m ashamed to confess that I hid away for a lot of the time, working on my top-secret new project, only emerging to eat a few crumbs of melting-in-the-sun – but it was jolly, and I was in awe at Immaculate Underpants Man’s jacket. It was a phenomenal jacket. Blue in colour, and just phenomenal. Awesome. Really. Really awesome. A fine specimen of a jacket. Also, his sunglasses. And an argument about whether Jonathan Ross’s hair is greasy or not.
I don’t like Mondays. Actually, they’re often OK – don’t want to be prejudiced – but I still don’t want to talk about Monday. It rained, you see, and I can think of little worse than giving plants an chance to grow – so sleazy.
Today I spent lunchtime in the company of a chap with corrector fluid in his hair, and lots of other people. “What a twazzock,” I thought of another twazzock, who did some kind of ridiculous “I’m an incredibly ‘hard man’ sort of man” routine involving deliberately spilling water all over the place. I also got my shoes wet, thanks to idiot toilet users’ inability to pee in the toilet – instead they use the floor, which in terms of doing the mopping is an admirable effort, but really.
This afternoon I bicycled again. Like on Sunday. I sweated rather a lot – I like to imagine that this is due to the tremendous effort I put in, rather than the fact that cycling has become so infrequent that every time it happens I can blog about it without this becoming a blog about whenever Josh Goodwin goes for a pedal. That means that I had better start shutting up about it, and you had better start taking it for granted. Right-oh.
Mighty Bite. (That’s a rather obscure ice cream, which I once ate in Liverpool. It’s thoroughly disgusting, especially when stored in a broken fridge. I appear to be scraping the bottom of the ice cream brands barrel, so clearly need some ideas for a new category from which to pluck things mention at the end of these blog post. Harness all the usual modes of communication, please.)