I Ruin then Ultimately Save Christmas

Well, I agreed to mind a friend’s cat for a few days. To avoid the wife experiencing unnecessary worry, I just had it arrive as a surprise. Because I care about her wellbeing. The integration with our own cats is currently going exactly how I expected; clusterfuck of magnificent proportions. I decided to wait until later to acknowledge ‘a few days’ is a liberal and probably condensed understanding of the ‘visit’ period.

The scenario has allowed me to reach a few logical conclusions though. Namely: male cat just wants to sniff and make friends. Girl cats both want to hiss and cause problems. With a sample size of three, logically, all female cats are bitches. I’d like to up the sample size a few more before I can safely jump to all females (generally) being bitches. But yet here we are. Awkward silence.

Also I have needed to point out that reportedly Steve Jobs only slept like 12 minutes in total a night and he got shit done. Which of course does nothing to placate angry wife’s mean sleep-deprived antagonism. Although maybe Steve just owned a few cats that didn’t get along, did you ever think about that? No. Only thinking about yourself and your dream of three hours a night sleep.

As I said though, here we are. It’s funny isn’t it, the old saying of a happy wife leading to a happy life. I always thought the saying was missing something important, you know, like what happens when you don’t have a happy wife.

I know now.

In any case, I am sandwiched in the middle of a home life of moods which alternative between passive-aggressive and aggressive-aggressive and a work life dealing with a new outsource team which, coincidently, can also be described as a clusterfuck of magnificent proportions. Strangely enough the background melody of furious cat hissing is present in both locations.

It being Christmas, I needed to pick myself up and ignore the sarcastic little voice in my head

whispering, “Most of this is your fault”. So I am currently doing what a normal person would be in my circumstance, using Gizoogle to translate all internal office emails into street slang before sending. Or as Gizoogle puts it:

It bein Chrizzle, I needed ta pick mah dirty ass up n' ignore tha sarcastic lil voice up in mah head whispering, "Most of dis is yo' fault". Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So I be currently bustin what tha fuck a aiiight thug would be up in mah circumstance, rockin Gizoogle ta translate all internal crib emails tha fuck into street slang before sending.

Someone stopped and asked me why I was crying at my desk and I told them a ‘normal person’ is known as an ‘aiight thug’ in street talk. That poetry moved me. Although as they started walking away I clarified that I wasn’t getting any sex at home either. For reasons outside my own control. Then I told them it was “mysterious” while waving my arms around mysteriously.

My current policy on emails may need some revisions as I just called one of the senior partners a “biatch”. I am pretty sure I am going to get in trouble for sending that one, or in street:

I be pretty shizzle I be goin ta git up in shiznit fo' bustin  dat one.

No need to worry, I placated the situation by putting my Outlook out-of-office on a few days early. Then putting an Outlook rule so I don’t see any emails coming in – they are a problem to deal with next year. But as equally as I am someone who hates conflict and confrontation, I am also someone who thrives on contradiction and seemingly, confusion. So my out-of-office message was also translated into street:

Nuff props fo' yo' email.

I personally wish you n' yo' crew all tha dopest fo' tha festizzle season. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy, Dog. May tha egg-nogg be tha noggiest.

I'ma be returnin on 8 January n' is ghon be round dat time, dependin on tha hangover thang.

Try mah mobile beeper first if you urgently need mah crazy ass fo' anythang but will also be checkin emails.

Walk wit Jizzy

Merry Xmas!

Pictured: Die Hard, A Christmas Story

Read More

A call to Parent

The perfect storm of karma hit me today when my wife’s work Xmas function coincided with the girl’s Xmas dance recital. As a parent who supports his family through various positive affirmations and encouragements I was honoured to be the caregiver chosen to represent us. I cheerfully packed my outing-with-children supply bag which was pretty much the laptop, a six-pack of Daniels cans and a scarf (in case I got cold). Long ago I learned to do this when the wife wasn’t around, so it was done immediately after she left for her drunken night of debauchery. I was set and as a bonus I could document the night AND catch up on new memes. I hope they had good internet.

Initial findings

They do not have good internet.

First 2 dances

I’m not an expert, but these six year old’s on stage are pretty bad or maybe it’s just some expressionist stuff I can’t understand or maybe the first few dances were bottom rung. My wife was all about the girl’s tutu this week, it had to be laid out perfectly on the bed to find form or some shit and we had to shut the door to the room because the cats love eating the tutu for some reason. Anyway, these girls must have had parents who don’t understand that the tutus need to be shaped as they were poking out in weird directions. One little girl had the thing flung up and she could barely see over it. Also, the guy beside me keeps sighing which is making it harder to type. He sighed even louder when I offer him a can of Jack and then whispered something to his wife (I assume she was being a bitch about the whole thing).

I'm not sure Google got this

one right.

Roughly half an hour in

The girl had her first dance number, ballet, and she wasn’t terrible. Don’t get me wrong, she was terrible, but compared to the others she was Sergei fuckin Borishnikov. I think I understand now, when you send your kid for five or six hours of lessons each week there is a separation of result

between them and the kids who turn up for a half hour lesson. I started smugly looking around at everyone else in the theatre, my little munchkin was marginally better than theirs. Then I remembered that these classes cost money. Now I’m just sad.

A little bit after the last entry

The guy besides me has hairy legs. I know, because he shifted in his seat and now his leg is touching my leg. Feels weird and he wasn’t moving it either. Was this a play? I’m bad at defining social cues but whether he is making a move on me or whether he has no fucking comprehension of personal boundaries, this wasn’t appropriate. If I was normal I would I have told him to stop, instead I am just scared.

39 minutes in

I fucking love tap dancing. Tappety tap tap, and then they do this shuffle thing and it goes faster tip-tappety and they were almost in unison this time as well. I’m glad someone else’s parents dealt with all that practice though. That would end me at home.

42 minutes in

The seniors jazz troop started with a voice-over saying the piece did have choreography but most of it will be free form by the dancers. I vocalised my displeasure by groaning which helpfully made the guy beside me shift his leg away for the first time in five minutes. Two thoughts on the dance; firstly they did pretty good. I expected shitty improv but got instead OK improv that was well coordinated with the music. Secondly, I couldn’t help noticing the sheer level of makeup each was wearing. If it was meant to make them all look alike, well, working as intended I suppose.

1 hour in

I’ve finished three cans and I think I need to begin rationing the rest. Who knows how long this thing will go for. Also, the bear beside me keeps shifting his leg away and then slowly it begins falling back against mine. Each time, I freeze and just sit there, wide-eyed and staring at the stage where, admittedly, something is happening but pretending this hairy contact thing wasn’t happening to me. Sexual harassment is obviously a useful tool for making people focus on something I suppose.

But can he rock this shirt?

27 minutes later

Well the last three acts were terrible, not adorably terrible, that had been most of it so far, but more a “they are enjoying themselves so fuck it” level of terrible. Of course I added this sentence for a little drama. I really hadn’t been paying attention to the dancing as I was trying to get circulation back into my legs. The boy had told me a while ago that birds were pecking his feet which my wife translated

as the pins-and-needles feeling. He was right, it did feel like birds pecking my feet. Poetic little muppet.

Intermission

Everyone mingled around outside. I noticed there was a lot of hugging, people using real names with confidence, like they weren’t just guessing, and probably because of all the harassment that had been going on I really didn’t want to get involved in that. So, I found something important on my phone and went off by myself. Admission: I was just staring at the home screen and moving the windows around without making eye-contact with anyone.

The next bit

I don’t think it unfair of me to admit that I was running out of patience with this whole thing. More to do with the fact I was finishing my last can of Jack. In good news though the air-conditioning was getting cold so I put on my scarf – always be prepared. My bitterness was probably more to do with the fact the theatre had haemorrhaged half the people during intermission as the husbands who had seen their kid dance were released back into the wild. The guy beside me had gone as well and I was miffed, after what I had gone through a goodbye was probably in order.

Two hours in? Something close

Honesty first, Tree-cat.

Time really has lost meaning. The girls second dance, a razzle dazzle jazz affair, came and went. Being a parent makes my independence questionable, but I can confirm without bias that they 

weren’t terrible. There was a huge talent/practice gap between some of the dancers and like everything in life it sadly turned out to be money. Money was that difference. However, looking down at her happy, smiling little cherubic face I could honestly say I would give that all up in an instant for the dance tuition fees back.

17 Hours In

I had my phone balancing on my lap and then suddenly it was on the floor, somehow I had lost minutes, maybe (hopefully) even hours. I initially thought it was a glitch in the matrix and began looking around for escape points but then I yawned and figured it was more likely I had briefly fallen asleep. Also, there were tappers back on the stage, which was probably why I woke up, so I am focussing again. Tip tappety, *jazz hands*, tap tap. Fucking marvellous.

Four billion years in

The girls last dance just finished, which means second last dance of the night according to an uncanny voiceover in my mind that sounds suspiciously like my wife. Either I am hallucinating or she has learned ESP. As I am sure that we are mere seconds from the heat death of the earth, because we had been sitting here for 4 billion years, both options are plausible. In any case I got to see a horde of little midgets capering around on the stage, hip-hopping with attitude. Again, more or less the timing was spot on, everything about the routine suggested ‘practice’ and each one of them was trying their ass off. Trying and achieving. Who the hell had taught her to try?

Within purgatory

You remember when your Mum had a conversation with another Mum and you were totally bored but it sounded like it was winding up? Then they started up a new conversation and it just wrecked you? Well that’s how I felt when they began presenting awards once the whole dancing thing finished. Inwardly I groaned and in my mind I heard my Mum say the same thing she always did, “be patient”. Then I remembered my parents had come as well and I must have groaned out loud and she had given that response from a couple of rows down. Also, when I got bored earlier and begun throwing bits of paper at the bald spot on the head of the guy in front of me it all made sense his retort of ‘grow up, you are 40 years old’. Thanks Dad, but you are going bald.

As of now, it is an hour or so after the event, and the wife just messaged me from her Xmas party, she is ready to be picked up. So now I need to drive her home, which normally resolves into a wrestling match in the car as I try and stay on the road and fend off her drunken physical attacks on my man-parts. I’ve been molested enough for one night, woman.

No, Woman, I wont relax.

Read More

State of things and Xmas!

The diet is going well. Stage one revolves around being hungry all the time, angry that the process isn’t happening faster and then after all that, using any excuse in the world to fuck up whatever good work you supposedly did for that week by eating a God damned pizza. Stage two and onwards is exactly the same but the excuses get worse until it morphs into not even bothering with the excuses anymore and suddenly you are just you again. It’s as if the process is a metamorphosis, you enter as giant fat caterpillar and then exit as giant fat butterfly but with gossamer wings made of bitterness and regret.

Also, I am aware of the health stigma at the moment about referring to the process as ‘dieting’. Health professionals are all about reinforcing that it is OK to sit around on the lounge, booze up and eat fried food until I am more regret than man, as long as it is done in moderation. That is the point though, I want to do it all the time and limiting the things I like to an acceptable level is the written definition of a diet you fucking arseholes. Of course I know how childish that sounds, I’m not blind to my own faults, just hungry. And really lazy.

This is how my Xmas will play out.
Now I know it exists.

Since this started off on a dark note, I’ll finish on something positive. People have been complaining about Xmas for the last few months. “Why are they advertising Xmas already?”, “Why are they playing Xmas carols in November” – you know what? Fuck ‘em. This weekend I am putting up the tree, then all the lights and finishing up with the most festive batch of eggnog that has ever been made. My wife will sit there and complain that this shit shouldn’t be done until December and then probably argue that eggnog should contain something else besides bourbon. I just can’t listen to all this negativity anymore, it is Xmas time and come Saturday the kids will the decking the halls and Bon Jovi will be singing carols in the background while I fortify myself with my ‘noggy jug of Xmas spirit.

We’ll also probably order pizza.

Read More

Status update: Everything is just swell

I wouldn't say everything is great, I lied in the recounting of events below, but right now I am sober so I suppose headway is being made. 

Colleague to me: “So, how’s the diet going?”

Me (recalling going out for breakfast)…..

Me to waitress: I’ll have a strawberry thickshake.

Wife: No.

Me: Milkshake.

Wife: No.

Me: Cappuccino, three sugars.

Wife: No.

Me: Fine. Coffee, black, no sugar, just bland as fuck. But could you please serve it in a milkshake container? *winking at waitress and making universal gesture to hook up a brother*

Wife: I can see you, and no.

Me: Why can’t I have nice things?

Wife: *pokes my fat stomach*

Me to waitress: A glass of water and a side of shame, please.

 Me responding to Colleague’s original question: Great! Motivation is buoyant and the wife is really supportive.

#7: How to order Getta Burger from UberEats

Read More

Office Badgers

Hold my calls, Sue. Shit

is getting real.

People know I’m not going to send a routine “Stephanie is sick today” email around the office yet they persist in calling me directly or bafflingly, asking to be transferred to me from reception. In that instance, they are actively bypassing someone who is helpful and cheerful by nature to reach a point of reference who defends their right not to be bothered like a honey badger woken up from hibernation. With a foghorn. Right in its furry little ear. A bet that little bastard wouldn’t take it with good grace or aplomb either. He would write the shit out of an office wide email.

Good morning, beautiful people

Stephanie will not be in the office today. She wouldn’t expand on the reasons why she is unable to perform her duties but as she sounded a little vague and stilted in her speech I can only assume she is on some really good gear. I know when I am tripping balls the last thing I want to do is come into work. Everyone should take a page from the book of Stephanie and follow these simple rules:

If you are physically ill, stay at home. Your lack of productivity and the potential you will pass what you have on to someone else is almost certain. Additionally, the sound of you coughing and hacking up lungs rings around the office and is really disturbing. Most people are too polite to point this out but really shouldn’t be, you need to be more self-conscious of the disgusting sounds your body makes.

If you are mentally ill, stay at home, or alternatively bottle it up and show to the world a happy, pleasant exterior. Nobody likes a sad-sack.

If you are on the gear, make a decision. If you are going to stare at the screen for three hours, or interrupt other staff members with relentless giggling because you found how hilarious honey badgers are on Youtube, stay at home. Most businesses are pretty progressive nowadays; being gay is awesome, work medical insurance can help you with ‘plan B’ and woman literally wear pants now. We aren’t all there yet though, bosses still tend to get all judgy about midmorning hallucinatory incentives – bear that in mind.

I’m sure Stephanie will be in tomorrow.

He probably wouldn't have a meeting

with HR on Monday.

I am actively working towards a goal where it becomes substantially harder to have a phone conversation with me than to call in sick. Partially because I don’t want to be bothered, partially because I want to encourage participation and productivity but mostly because I don’t want to hear about their problems.

In closing, fuck you Stephanie.

Read More

Zen and the Art of Cursing

Well the morning started out terribly. Mostly because I went to bed at 1am and then was woken up by my wife (who went to the gym) and then by someone passing on a moped who had inexplicably set their throttle to a devil-whine that rattled the windows. Many years ago, I grew up on a farm and there was some shrubbery outside my room. These shrubs were home to a whole flock of shrieking devil-birds who only made noise at 6am, a time of day I tried to reserve for sleeping.

I love nature!

I used to lie in bed and mentally roleplay getting out a tennis racket and going man-on-fire on their feathered asses. Don’t get me wrong, I am a morning person but only when I choose to get up early. When my choice is taken away it makes me irrationally furious. Let’s call it what it is: sleep-rape.

So I laid in bed for half an hour, visualising getting a tennis racket and going man-on-fire on the devil-moped sleep-rapist. I’m not sure whether it was my ultra-realistic visualisation techniques or just being hungover but I really needed my wife at that point. For every gym-junkie there is a partner, left alone, who really needs certain attention. I feel for them. (Spoiler: She made up for it later).

Well I can get those at Bunnings. I'm

not stopping the masturbation though.

In any case, there has been rain and storms and neglect so the grass was really high at home. Hindsight would suggest the prior two months of neglect were probably a larger factor but I hate that guy and after 38 years I mentally block his bitching. So I needed to mow, but the mower blades needed replacing because that is what my Dad told me. Don’t get worried, I’m not going to step out the mundane aspects of my day – I hate that sort of thing as much of you. What it does is set the tone: mechanical maintenance and a lack of zen.

Quite often I get the impression my wife really would appreciate a husband who is more useful around the home. She often points out that her friends’ husbands have all built something with their bare hands. They have sweated and manned the shit out of whatever manly thing they were manning. Is husband envy a thing?

Today I used the spanner on the mower a few times and the both of us were pleasantly surprised it started. Neither of us were surprised when a part of the mower fell off half way through the yard though. I trudged around looking for the bolt that held the muffler to the mower and you wouldn’t believe it, right there in my path – this was indeed my lucky day!

Was a little hot. Good point.

“Don’t pick it up”, I should have said,
“It’s from the muffler”, I should have followed up with,
“Probably hot”, I should not have needed to clarify to myself.

“Shit cunt, damn!”, is what I ended up screaming to the neighbourhood as I burned my fingers (I used other words as well, it seems creativity is stirred by immense physical pain). My wife, watching the whole thing, just sighed and went back to her tinder app.

Fuck nature. Fuck the mower and just fuck everything.

Read More

House Hunt

That's right! We're moving into

the laundry!

“The owners are very interested in taking offers at this time.” The agent told me, quite obviously ignoring the fact my attention was fixated on the air-conditioning vent in the laundry. “There is a vent in the laundry” I pointed out to her. We both looked at it for a moment before she made a joke about how it would make my wife happy. This was wrong on many levels, firstly being sexist but also because my wife would just turn it off rather than basking in the cold windy glory. It takes a true visionary to recognise brilliance in this simple vent. Of course though, mostly because it is sexist.

Thank you, Inspirational Quote.

She repeated the comment about offer and owners again so I looked quickly around for my friends who I had come with on this inspection. Because they were the prospective buyers, not me. However I realised at this point they had gone outside and left me to have this awesome conversation I found myself having. Also, there was a second agent and he started asking me new questions. Right then I should have just told them I was with friends, they were kicking tyres and I had no intention of ever buying this house. Yet I was like a socially inept deer caught in headlights and for some reason I continued the conversation by talking about prices. Because I am an idiot.

Inexplicably, I'm still relevant!

If you wondered how much a house with A/C in the laundry would set you back, wonder no more: $1.4 million. Keep in mind though, I was reassured by the agent, this was the current market value for this area. “Interesting,” I nodded to them while thinking to myself, “No it bloody well fucking isn’t”. “Sure, please show me this particular feature of the kitchen again”, I answered to their next question, thinking how I would love to be doing anything else except that. “The outdoor area is lovely” I further agreed to their statement, continuing the conversation but really not wanting to.

Now I’ve read that word ‘lovely’ before but I don’t think I’ve ever typed it myself, and certainly never said it in conversation. That is when I had an epiphany; normal me doesn’t want to talk to real estate agents, doesn’t call a BBQ area “lovely” and certainly can’t afford a $1.4 million house. I needed to pick a different persona to handle that, someone who was comfortable in all the situations I am not mentally capable of handling.

Going to miss the

swapping though.

Next weekend I will be Dr Myles Willard, on the prowl for a house suitable for his trophy wife and kids. A rocket scientist, he obtained his PhD in the physics of spaceship grease and routinely uses words like “lovely” while discussing Japanese architectural influences. The wife will need to get a new outfit, something slutty yet tasteful. Dr Willard also has an earring so I’m going to have to look at getting that this week. Or, you know, I could just not go looking at houses with them again.

Ever.

Read More

Relationship Counselling

I gave some marriage advice to someone a little earlier. What that advice was isn’t relevant as the intent was to insinuate that he was doing something wrong in marriage and so to in life in general and so to in everything he was doing at work. Which is kind of passive aggressive when I think about it and something I’m trying to avoid. I just went and apologised to him about that. If I wanted to call him fucking incompetent I should have just come out and said it.

To then reaffirm my new direct approach to management I called him fucking incompetent.

However, upon recollection of the many years that have passed since I originally made my vow to my wife to be faithful (which I have never broken) and she made her vow honour and obey (probably an oversight on her part) I thought I probably could give some useful insight into this whole marriage thing. The very fact I have been married for 15 years makes me overqualified to give advice on this subject in the internet environment anyway. On the other side of the divide exists internet topical experts who only need an inflated sense of worth, a misplaced level of confidence and several hundred ways to begin an article with “I know this isn’t going to make me popular but…”.

So why bother with marriage?

Like looking into a fucking mirror.

Good point, don’t know. In this day and age by the time marriage comes along there shouldn’t be any secrets. Every nook and cranny of your partners physical, intellectual and spiritual being would by now be an open book. Taking a rational and entirely logical approach there is no reason to a continue a relationship at that point. The only rational and logical thing to do as a couple would be to divide and move onto another nook. Then after closing the book there to divide again and move onto another cranny.

And that is the key point about marriage. It makes absolutely no fucking sense but we continue to do it anyway.

Now I admit that is ultimately a guy point of view. I’m not female and I know this comment isn’t going to make me popular but from a female perspective marriage is entirely about rank. I have nothing to reference or back that up with.

How do you make a marriage last?

I alluded to it earlier but after you are married you already know everything about your partner. Should. I stand corrected for anyone rushing into it without that prior knowledge. Spontaneity is great and all but should be reserved for questions like “should or shouldn’t we fuck in the Myer change room while you are trying on that blue dress? No, the one with the light blue stripes on the arm.” as opposed to “Lets sign these legally binding forms!”. I can’t stress the hassle of forms enough.

Later, things got messy.

So after marriage there isn’t much more to learn about your partner and the only rational evolutionary response is to make things freaky. I still find it funny when a couple appears shocked to learn about the sexual habits of another married couple. Of course they do it all as well but they thought they were the only ones. It shouldn’t be a secret. It is a solid truth that every married couple (even your parents) are able to continue through the long years purely because of sexual deviancy. A wedding anniversary isn’t about acknowledging a past date, but serves as a reminder that level of deviancy needs to be turned up again. Kind of like a steam valve but instead of steam there are bodily fluids.

I have nothing but respect and awe for couples who have been married for 50 years. This is nothing to do with the passage of years and everything to do with the amazing things they have done and will continue to do to maintain their relationship. Sexual freaky things. Old people.

So we got married and what we are doing in the bedroom would make a pornstar blush, any pro tips to keep things interesting?

Not really, as it turns out I went about this with gusto but after the first sentence I lost focus and to some extent forgot what I was meant to be talking about. So while I am experienced enough to talk about this I’m just not particular good at it.

He knows. Always time.

Having said that, there are two pieces of advice that will make things easier for you. They likely won’t work for you but again, I’m not trying to be helpful.

• Nobody in history has seriously thought sex would be better with longer pubic hair
• There is always time for more lube.

Read More

My Choice

What is best in life?

Conan: To crush your enemies, to see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentations of their women.

Some guy: Surprise blowjob.

Me: Kraft peanut butter. Wait…..did he just say surprise blowjob? Can I have two answers? No? Well. The peanut butter then.

Some regrets.

Read More

Casting Vote

Idea’s for the twins 8th birthday sleepover that got vetoed:

• Mocktail making demonstration and tasting which, if we were being pedantic, wouldn’t strictly speaking be mocktails
• Watching Deadpool
• Ouija board ritual communing with the spirit world

• Prank calling the poison information line and making choking noises
• Why can’t they watch Deadpool? It has so much value for children!
• A game called “What can I shove up my nose?”

At this point I am out of ideas and if we can’t lead them on any of those things we may as well sit there and stare at a wall.

I suppose that is why my wife can’t have friends.

Read More

I Miss Them

My brain is wired badly. I can have a conversation about cats, I can talk about computer games for hours and if threatened with firing I can convince a client I know something about taxation. However if I tried to tell my kids that they bring me so much happiness I stammer for a moment and then tell them to go clean up their room. Something there seems really unhealthy.

When my wife is away I can’t tell her that it feels like something is missing. And that isn’t just about her awesome boobs. I’m just not built in a way that I can vocalise that I miss talking to her, I miss sitting on the couch and listening to music together and I certainly miss the sleep I’m not getting without her beside me at night. During our last phone conversation, I’m pretty sure I called her ‘mate’ out of habit.

I shouldn’t be allowed near a fucking phone.

A long time ago I did the Myers-Briggs personality test and it was quite startling. Now I know this method has been debunked and nobody uses that particular test anymore but the result from it really isn’t the issue anyway. What was important was that I manufactured the result. You see people were split into groups based on the findings and one group was right beside the table that had a huge fucking bowl of M&Ms. It just happened that this group was the socially inept one, it was like a self-fulfilling prophecy! Go eat a god-dammed dick, Mars Corporation – you made me what I am.

It should also be mentioned that right now I am missing the fact my wife normally denies me the total awesomeness of a pie-burger. For the uninitiated it’s when you put a meat pie in a sandwich, add cheese, sour cream and sauce. The post meal bliss is what sets it apart from other culinary treats…until the regret sets in.

So much remorse.

So fucking delicious.

Read More

Supporting Efforts

The wife was wondering earlier if she should go to the Park Run tomorrow morning. ‘Sure, why not’ I counselled, ‘Why not get up at 6am on a Saturday morning and go running through the winter morning. Sounds like a fucking awesome idea!’ I added (but probably shouldn’t have).

In all seriousness, I support all of my wife’s various misguided and deluded ideas but couldn’t these Park Run people make it like at 10? Or after lunch? Is it the ideal I’m missing?

Healthy people DON’T drink like a monk on Friday nights, bone until early morning and then expect a decent sleep in. Fuck no. They go to bed early and then brave the elements in spandex, apparently.

As I said, I’m totally supportive. Though my support takes the form of well wishes in nice warm bed.

Read More