Absolutely sod all seems to be going right at the moment. For instance, about a month or so ago I decided that I've been a fat bastard now for long enough and that it was about high time that I got my lardy arse off the sofa and did something about it. My first step was one of immense, even though I do say so myself, sensibleness with me going to the local nurse and getting myself MOT'd, so to speak. Well I am approaching the half century in years next birthday so I thought it would be a damned fine idea to ensure my aging body could cope with trying to regain a small modicom of fitness. So I allow myself to be prodded and pulled, weighed and measured and God knows how many blood samples taken and then, when my results returned, told that yep you're a fat bastard and your cholesterol is mucho higho, bugger! Oh alright the charming nurse didn't exactly put it across in those terms but that was the general gist of the conversation. But I remained positive as things could have been a damn sight worse m'thinks, so armed with a plethora of diet sheets and a referral to the local gym I set off with enthusiasm in my quest for the fountain of youth, or the dribble of reasonable healthy middle age at least.
Did I mention my Knees and how they have started to hurt like hell of late? Probably brought on by years of crawling under broken machinery and now exaggerated by the fact that I am a fat bastard! No? oh well never mind, perhaps I will later, anyways back to the plot, well as close to a plot as this whinging, rambling and moaning post could be that is. Anyways, did I mention that I hate gyms? The whole idea of been stuck in a sweaty room full of ' the beautiful people' whilst gasping for any spare molecule of oxygen my decrepit body screams out for as I pound away at the monotony of fixed bikes, treadmills, waterless rowing machines and cross trainers appeals to me less than being tarred and feathered and placed upon a medieval rack whilst having hot needles pushed under my fingernails and being forced to listen to Barry bloody Manilow! No? well thats how I felt when told to get my fat arse down there, the damn thing is though after the first few sessions I started feeling a buzz after the hours torture and actually found myself looking forward to it, especially as scales and the fit of my clothes began to tell me that progress indeed was being made. No longer did I consider my jeans as a set of cheese slicers awaiting to leave a red welt around my midriff, oh indeed not they were fast becoming something that fit and felt comfortable once more. Did I mention my knees? yes? well the bastards have rebelled and now I'm having to give the gym a miss because of them, the selfish bastards! Don't they realise that if they didn't have to carry so much lard they would feel so much better? selfish bastards!
Then there's the diet sheets, cheese is out, white bread? nope, and just about everything else that gives me the pleasure of mastication has been suspended for the time being, bollocks! And yes I did say mastication although I'm beginning to get the feeling that even the simple pleasure of masterbation may well be taken away from me at this rate!
Ah but there's always gentle walks with the Bear across gentile hills or smooth forest trails I hear you say, though then again I get so many bloody voices in my head these days it is difficult to know which ones are telling the truth. Thing is about said trails is that I love walking them whilst Bear zig zags away, quartering the area ahead as her deep down instincts compel her to do so, but the miserable little bitch has now come into season so I dare not risk her being impregnated by some shell suit wearing scouser's Pit Bull called 'Axe' whilst they're out on their Bear Grylls inspired yearly pilgrimage to the undiscovered wilderness that is the Welsh hills. Don't get me wrong, at least they do take their dog out once a year whilst braving the outdoors in the most unsuitable clothing ever imaginable, for Christ's sake I've even seen their 'moll' dressed up to the nines in high effing heels walking up Moel Famau! So yes they are at least trying to get 'out there', (very bloody trying indeed). Oh and did I mention my knees and the excruciating agony they subject me too if I even dare think about a gradient of more than one in a thousand? selfish bastards that they are, so now I'm subjected to dreary short walks on tarred paths around the local village. Oh and have you seen the bleedin state of the footpaths around here? there are more holes in them than a sieve that has been riddled by a tommy gun! Everytime I drag the Bear out, she hates the lead by the way, I end up jarring my knees countless times in these craters or having them twisted against their normal action of operation as Bear surges off at stupid angles just because she thinks something smells nice on that lamp post we passed ten yards back, the bitch.
So I thinks to myself I'll put some bird feeders up, after all if my knees won't let me get to nature I'll get nature to come to me. So now, at no small expense might I say, there is an assortment of tempting feeders there awaiting a myriad of feathered visitors to lighten my mood and lift my spirits, yes? No, all I've had so far is two Jackdaws and a bloody rat hanging on for grim life to my luxury sun flower heart feeder which now sports the latest in rodent improvements because that the furry little bastard has chewed a effing big hole in it, bollocks!
So this morning, on my second day recovery from the grind, I really could not be arsed in getting up to face the world. So I fed n watered Bear, made a brew and then preceded to feel sorry for myself and deliberate as to whether I could face another bloody bowl of