Train, eat, sleep. Train, eat, sleep. It is a selfish and ultimately pointless pursuit, no doubt, but it makes me slightly happier, I believe. I believe as I face first my late night steamed fish and brown rice. Protein, complex carbs. Protein, complex carbs. It's not like I owe you cunts anything, you know. And I'd rather not sully my many moments of endorphin induced ecstasy by scribbling them down for your slobbering.
We'll talk when I'm 67 kilos. Or when I break 30 minutes for five miles. Or when I don't die in the Wicklow mountains.
One of these events is surely relatively imminent.
I would be a shitty paraplegic. The mere fact of being unable to move my right arm above shoulder height for 48 hours due not to a dramatic and exciting smashed collar bone bicycle crash but to the deeply unimpressive ailment commonly known as 'sleeping funny on it' turned me decisively into a immobile, chocolate stuffing, Simpsons Hit and Run playing, hot water bottle demanding, Cormac McCarthy's 'The Road' reading in one sitting, miserable cunt.
I hate not being able to do stuff with my limbs. Limb stuff doing seems to me to be a Gimme birthright and having to submit to 45 minutes of charmingly named, turns out I have met a nice South African Reetha inflicted agony to get said right right again was a heavy price to pay.
Gladness will no doubt reign with the knowledge that I have my full range of motion back with just the minor inconvenience of a sickening shoulder click on full extension. I am therefore off the Playstation and once again talking to the internet. Lucky fucking you guys.
And while I admire the rhyming of 'beaches' and 'leeches' (France has jungles?), I think you might have done better than 'shoulder' and 'forward'. I seem to remember McCartney having the same problem, but at least he had the self-possession to blame it on John.
I can think of few things more irritating than lifestyle pieces about cunts who are attempting to commute by bicycle for the first time. I'm pretty sure even that sexy bitch Ingle did one once. They're always jolly and 'Oooh look at all the potholes!' and 'My, don't the buses come awfully close!' and 'Didn't I feel wonderfully smug as I passed by the lines of cars!'. These pieces always conclude with the acceptance of the fact that cycling is quicker, healthier and cheaper but that the writer won't ever be doing it again. They have a car!!! Who are they, Eamon Ryan??!! Hahahaha!!!!!
But this one takes the week old cheap Super Valu yellow pack custard cream. An electric bike is not a bike, you fat lazy pig, it's a shitty little scooter. You're not commuting by bike, you're commuting by cunt. You're a fucking menace to both real cyclists and on the upside, to cars. You will have burnt more calories performing your daily out-licking of Geraldine Kennedy on your return to the offices of The Irish Toss. And you did what? You fucking 'paused for a cappuccino'? How did you write that, read it back and not go 'Jesus H. Christ on a rich child's toy, how fucking pompous and cuntish do I sound? A million. A million pompous and cuntish I sound.'
Did diddums's feety weety get wetty betty? When you were outdoors? Moving through the rain? Who the fuck would have seen that coming? If you'd done any sort of research you would have realised how easy this is to remedy, you twat.
And just so you know, 'Tim', the reason you got a puncture is that you went into one of your beloved potholes, like the idiot prick that you are. I guess you were too busy not exercising to pay any attention to what was happening on the road ahead of you. And what kind of coat is that? And have you seen your fucking hair recently?
Should have got a proper bike, 'Tim'. Cheaper, and exactly the fucking same when sat in the garage as you drive to work because cycling an electric bike in the rain is just too hard. But at least you used an ill-thought out and pointless scheme to dick the taxpayer out of a bit of cash, huh?
Bull Island, Friday, April 10, 2009. A light drizzle falls on a sombrely dressed group who stand listening as a tall, middle-aged woman performs yet another oratory for her recently deceased sister. Some of the group shift uncomfortably, some listen intently, others, not being English speakers, concentrate on looking Mediterraneanly sad. There are wet eyes among each contingent. The speaker holds a large silver urn.
The drone of helicopter is heard, faint at first, but quickly becoming louder, nearer. Its whirr is answered by the violent screech of tyres. Instantly it seems, the helicopter is overhead, drowning out the persistent eulogy. A voice is megaphoned from the chopper as four police cars fly over the sand dunes and skid to a stop twenty feet from the mourners.
'Put down the urn! Put down the urn and step away!'
My oldest aunt stands paralysed, the most senior now of the Zealot sisters. The police captain speaks into his walkie talkie from a crouched position behind a car. 'Let her have the warning.' A shot rings out. A puff of sand an inch from my mother's sister's foot. She drops the urn, the lid falls and the ashes spill out onto the nature preserve.
'That's it,' intones the captain with a hint of regret. 'That's a scattering. Open fire.'
A rain of bullets cuts through the breezy spring morning. Screams. Moans. Death all around. Hans Brinker, shot through the shoulder, shrieks 'I told you so! I told you filthy Catholic hippies so!'
I stepped out of double spin to discover a wild and windy downpour. No Purple in which to cower as I stick strongly to my new 'no more than one commute a day by car' meaningless rule. And I though not:
'Motherfucking, cunting, bastarding, fucking cunt bastard.'
'Perhaps I should fake a puncture and get a cab.'
'This last ten kilometres of the night is going to increase both my fitness and my mental strength.'
A single race, that briefest of competition tastes, has transformed me straight back into a smug, non-smoking, goal-driven go getter who actually relishes half an hour in the battering wind and rain. All the way home I looked forward not to a big fat doobie and a double Caucasian in a pint glass, but to the waiting broccoli salad, with the refreshing accompaniment of lashings of tap water. My latest goal is the Wicklow 200, and by all accounts mental strength is something that I will be needing in abundance. Dear reader, you are going to fucking hate it around here until, in a moment of weakness, I take up crystal meth with the same enthusiasm that I am currently applying to my training regime. And that could be a while. Or, you know, tomorrow.
But in the meantime there remains hope and sustenance for the car crash rubber neckers of my sick psyche. I had a dream last night. It was a sexy dream. Roisin Ingle was in it. Being sexy.
You'll be wanting to tell me what that means now. Though I think I'd prefer it if you were to just kill me dead.
Riker's report came in the post today. It's great the way they write 'em up and ship 'em out in April, thus providing my child and her friends with tacit permission to do what the fuck they want for the next three months. Go for it, girls. Burn the fucking school down. None of it's going on your permanent record.
The report runs as follows: in each subject one can be very good, good, fair or has difficulties. Fair as Riker is, she got no fairs. Difficult as her prematurely launched adolescence is, she got no has difficulties. And so I scrutinise every little good as if it said useless little bitch. There were only two. One was in 'English Spelling Ability'. Remember that for me folks, tuck it in the back of your very good minds for the conclusion of the post.
Then we have a section entitled 'General Comments'. Here's how that one panned out:
'Riker is a friendly, diligent pupil. She applies herself well in all areas of the curriculum, particularly the arts.'
Sic, folks. Fucking sic.
What the fuck am I talking about? This may upset, so you might want to get a drink or light a smoke or cook up a hit. Gimme was going to write hilariously about how the teacher misspelled the word 'diligent.' Except that she didn't. Gimme misspelled it in his head. Gimme didn't realise this until the internal spell checker pointed it out. Gimme the fucking pedantic spelling scold fucked up a spelling. Call the social services people, and have these children taken from me before I pass on any more of this good stuff.
Bock hates women, Medbh hates Bock, Twenty loves a good dust up.
You don't need to concern yourself with all this shit. All you need to concern yourself with is Gimme and how close he is to giving it all up, to walking the Earth, to car gassing himself now that he finally has a car.
There is no self-knowledge like the self -knowledge doled out in a road race. I reached the point this afternoon where I could do no more and hideously recognised that feeling. I am, in my everyday life, at the point where I can do no more. And there is so much more to do.
This is why I am a feminist. I am living in the world of women. I cook and clean and it is never enough. Sure, I walk through life with all the privileges of a man, but I come home to the oppression of a woman. So, I know. But I won't walk the Earth and I won't gas the car, because, weirdly, of this:
If this little goal can inspire in my Riker even a millisecond of the perfect agony I felt with 200m to go, then my work is just about done. Apart from the whole being alive and succeeding in her eyes bit. I guess I'll be going for that shit too.
There exists a picture of me, standing shivering in the early Canadian morning sun, socks pulled up to a ridiculous height in accidental homage to Paula and her squeezy tights, looking scared. Scared, scared, scared.
Shifting from foot to foot on a starting line bears some comparison to standing by the side of a stage, waiting for a cue. The sick sinking stomach feeling, the slight tremble, the mixed result attempts to control one's heart rate and bowels. But there is a single big fucking difference. Unless the play in which one is performing is 'The Real Life Beating of That Effeminate Guy Off Of Glenroe' then one can be fairly confident that one is not stepping into anything from seventeen minutes to an hour and a half of reasonably intense pain. Nerves before a show. Fear, fabulous fatalistic fear, before a race.
So a little 10k jaunt on the morrow, a brief lope about the park. Except that it won't be. I just sent a mail to the lady who conned me into partaking in this first race in five years saying that I am not after all, going to pace her around, hurling abuse like the abuse hurling pro that I am. No, I'm going to race the motherfucker, and attempt to break a pathetic 45 mins. And with two weeks training, I know how even this snail like 7'12 pace is going to feel. Really fucking sore. Super burny, in legs, arms, back and lungs. Right from the top and all the way through until about a klick to go at which point I will attempt to make it stop being sore and try to find the most sustainable agony that I have felt in half a decade. I'm looking forward to it.
Riker was off early today for the Easter holidays, and I was running calmly late from my morning's class. My route home takes me past the school and I spotted her from a good way off, walking by herself and struggling mightily under the weight of the school bag that she had forgotten, once again, to empty. I was about to proceed with a little shock and awe demonstration of my new skid stop skill, but something gave me pause.
It's an unoriginal sentiment which gels nicely with my cliché-ridden opening paragraph, but there are few things more heart-wrenching that watching your child merely be, while you yourself remain unobserved. Even from behind there was much to be read, in her loping Gimme gate, the kicking and dragging of her feet, the turgid pace of her walk. Why so slow, Riker? Don't you want to be home with us? You think you're fucking Luka or something? Your back looks sad, my daughter. Why does your back look so sad?
I skidded up. She looked up, seemingly unsurprised, certainly unimpressed.
'What are you doing here?'
'Coming home from work. What are you doing here?'
'Coming home from school.'
'Take your bag?'
And then she was off, skipping along with me, doing her babbling brook bit, goading me into more SUV scaring super skids. And so it must have been the weight, not of the world, but of her bag that was bearing down upon my beloved Riker. It surely must have been.
I get the papers, get the papers just once a week, on my Thursday, post 7am spin, drive home. As a rule I can't take current affairs too early in the morning, but when one or two (am I still doing the we thing, nah, I guess I've let that shit go) have been up since 5.30, Morning Ireland's 8.15 newspaper round-up seems positively afternoony. So here's the only item that managed to take my attention from abusing cunts in tanks through the closed window of my dearest Purple:
I haven't read the article. Why would I? It'll only get me down. But allow me point out that if it was a lovely, sunny day and I wasn't doing anything else due to, I don't know, unemployment or some shit, and I had my iPhone with me and if I could be reasonably confident that my parcel would contain a Snickers or two, I would be quite happy to spend an afternoon standing in a free stuff queue.
The most important aspect of Monday's throwaway post about the difficulty and pointlessness of debating with morons has been lost in the mists of rage that descended upon Gimme for daring to offer a three word critique of a 'faux-naive rage bait' presentation by the most widely read guy in the history of the world. Move the fuck over Old Testament author guy (Dan Brown? I can never remember) there's a new buck in town.
To be Krystle: Gimme stands by his 'incitement to misogyny' remark and thinks people need to either chill the fuck or be less fucking stupid. Either or. They both work for the G man.
So to the aforementioned aspect of importance. It's the title, folks. Did you catch the title.? So very, very many levels. If you're new to the wonders of Stranded on Gaia, and I know there's plenty of you still dropping by today, you may be unaware that all of my titles are taken from the lyrics of songs. And they are always multi-faceted and worthy of your research. But deep as these daily headlines doubtless are, they be a piss puddle on the bathroom floor compared to that last one.
'Just like that robbery in '62'
Get it? You think you get it, but you don't. Yes, it is from a song by the name of 'You Keep It All In' which includes the line 'the conversation we had last night when all I wanted to do was knife you in the heart'. So there's your first connection. But the name of the song too, folks! The post is about keeping it all in rather than engaging with twats! So far so fucking brilliant, right?
But if you can fucking Adam and Eve it, there is even more. I might have used the line 'Just like that murder in '73'. But I chose to not. Instead, I used the one with the word 'robbery'. Why? Because the comment that I quoted to prove my point came from a website written by this bunch of people called 'Bock the....' Oh yeah. That's post titling shit that you can take to the bank, baby.
Save your applause until you have read some of the others: