I wanna be the one to walk in the sun

I'm sleepy and somewhat loved up on endorphins and my feet hurt more than my shoulder which hurts quite a lot and tomorrow I will most likely have to walk backwards down the stairs which will not lend itself to the teaching of two yoga classes but what are you going to do? I'll tell you. You're going to listen to what I have to say.

A girl's night in. A boy's night out. Concepts of complete cuntitude, of comprehensive cockness. Why must we be divided so? Why must we be so divided? Yeah, yeah, yeah, we're familiar with Gimme's fake feminist schtick. But I have more. Check this shit out. They're getting "the girls 'round." Not the women, despite the fact that this all appears to be aimed at grown ups. The girls. And just so's you know, there's nothing better than not having to worry about bad chat up lines. Personally I can think of one or two things better than that and none of them involve worry or women and no me. But yes, it's a girl's night in. Yes, it's for the kind of people who like "baking up a storm", who love "gossiping all night long", who like to "dress down in PJs and watch the X-Factor". Who bitch about their best friend when they go to the toilet. Who cry when they hear their best friend bitching about them through the toilet door. Who wake up on a Sunday with traces of their farting, belching still drunk boyfriend's vomit on their PJs from when he came in arseholed after a lad's night out and tried to rape them, but lacking an erection, threw up on them instead.

Drop the fucking pink. Lose the gender norms. And the word is "around". Around. Get the girls around. Spelling it "'round" in every sentence in every fucking paragraph on every fucking page of your hideously pink website changes nothing.

Look, I'm sorry. I'm in a lot of pain. Go ahead. Give your money to cancer. I'm all for cancer. Go cancer! But please, find a way to do it that doesn't belittle us all and make me want to throw up on my girlfriend's PJs. Thank you.

Though your commitment to most would offend

I'm really scared. Everyone's all like "Ease back into it, be careful, don't do too much." And I mean everyone. Common Law. My mother in common law. Random people on and off the internet. But it's not like I have a choice. If I don't teach a full schedule then I don't get the sweet, sweet sugar, or I get about the same amount of sweet, sweet sugar that I'd get by continuing to dip into the threadbare pockets of the state. And the longer I don't do it, the more it's going to hurt. Had me a little crunching practise this morning to see how resting my shoulder blade on the floor is going to feel. I did maybe a third of the track I'll do tomorrow morning. Now, all of eight hours later I feel like someone has been knitting a scarf inside my upper abdominals. And not in a good way. I'm not all that worried about the shoulder. The shoulder will be fine. Probably. I'm worried about my poor, poor legs. Already suffering under an extra stone of weight, tomorrow they must perform three spin classes in addition to ten bizillion squats and lunges. I am going to die of achy legs.

Yes, that's right. Thought I might slip that by unnoticed but no. Yes. A fucking stone. 14 pounds. 6.35 kilograms. 111 Snickereses. Stop laughing. Stop. You bastards. Everyone, except my mother in common law, keeps telling me I look great. The bit of extra weight suits me. I look much healthier. So fucking there. But of course I don't. Naturally, it doesn't. I disgust my fat-arsed Winnie the Pooh self. Give me another two weeks and I'll be sending search parties out for my cock. So now I crave the pain. The pain that will make me not a porker. I crave yet I fear.

I really am very, very scared.

Oh my agony, know that I will never marry

So I finally got the truth. To achieve this I had to hold down my charmingly Northern (first in my new Oxymoron of the Week series) physiotherapist Aileen and threaten to punch her lights out. Metaphorically speaking. Even able-bodied, I'm not one for the punching and such are the knock on effects of my tip-tapping on the door of the big red van that I can barely punch dots, let alone trim and toned healthcare professionals from Donegal. But metaphorically I hurled her to the floor, and with my eyes I threatened a good beating should she continue her withholding ways and thus eventually the truth it did emerge. Six more weeks. At least. Before I get near normal. And I'm back to work on Tuesday agonizing pain or no agonising pain.

So the upshot is I wish I had cancer. Sweet sympathy giving cancer. Don't get me wrong, having an injury which most commonly occurs in conjunction with fatal chest trauma has been great too. Lots of lying around, a good dent made in Red Dead Redemption, and I even read almost all of a book! But I was up and making one-armed dinners within ten days and truth be told, people didn't really seem to appreciate just how badly I had fucked myself up. If you say you have cancer, even in a text message, you can feel people's awed sympathy hurtling back through the air before they can type so much as 'I'm going to start believing in god again just so you can be in my prayers'. Say 'I have a compound fracture of the scapula' and they're all 'LOL! That's like, in your toes, right?' Combine this staggering anatomical ignorance with the not unfounded assumption that it was all my fault and you have a sumptuous Nigel Slater recipe for who gives a fuck.

Cancer, though. All the good shit comes with cancer. Effortless weight loss. A lot more than six weeks off work should you want it. Hero status beyond even that of Floppy should you prefer to keep busy. That hushed sympathy heroin I mentioned before. Carte blanche to cheat your way to seven Tour wins, fuck up an economy with a best mate banker bail out, do pretty much anything you want. And most importantly of all, it's not your fault. Even if you're a fifty a day sunbed Sally, absolution is yours. Because it's cancer, because you're going to die. Well, we're all going to fucking die. Thank fuck. So the sooner I catch me some Big C and start absorbing those rays of sympathy and forgiveness the better. Karma being what it is, I can probably expect a diagnosis at my next session with Aileen.

Tommy thinks the crazies are back in my mind

We get 'Alive!' in the door every month now. Usen't to. I don't know what's changed. Maybe that red-faced tub of bully-producing cunt-rot next door signed us up, suspecting that her consistent rudeness and brazen Gerry Breen blowing wasn't fulfilling her converting the Gimme clan to Christianity goals. Or maybe they just give it to everyone around here because people around here all easily deluded tossers. Each is as likely as the other.

It will come as no surprise to you, given my opening paragraph, that I will not stand to be converted. Nor, my love of Janelle Monae notwithstanding, do I count my self among those who embrace delusion with ease. Any yet my big learning from this month's Alive! (fuck but I love that exclamation mark, it's so...cannibally) is that I have one big fat selfish cock of a vocation going on. Check out these cheerful chappies from right out there on the front cover:

It's not the first time I have found myself unable to tear my gaze away from an image of smiling potential pederasts, far from it, but never so gleeful a group, never so varied a vaticana.They're not quite priests yet, a quick hop, skip and jump to page nine informs me, but give them a mere seven years folks and and they'll be preaching with the most decrepit of them. And look at them. Jesus, but they're all so happy. Sure, at least one of them looks like he's not going to make it seven weeks without meeting his made up maker. Indeed yes, I'm pretty sure the guy at the front is Richard Cook, whose marry for power plan appears to have gone awry. And wait, isn't that the co-creator of Father Ted lurking at the back? Nevertheless, happy, perhaps even joyous they all certainly appear to be.

And happy I am not.

We know that to achieve this happiness I need to walk the Earth. This need has deepened of late, what with the self-inflicted Sunday injury and the injurious Sundays of affliction but I'm all grown up these days and realise that, in these Taoiseach in a cupboard times, being a hobo is just not an affordable fourth career path. So how about the priesthood? I get to sit around reading for seven years. Then I get to go somewhere far away where people think I'm great. Someone buys me clothes, brings me food, pays my rent. Assuming I keep my nose and penis reasonably clean I'm assured of a long and comfortable retirement with lots of serious boozing thrown in. I'm not seeing a drawback. And that drawback that you think you're seeing, why that's not a drawback at all.

My only concern is that my chosen order might have some slight issues with my atheism, hatred of the Poop, and somewhat salty speech patterns. Cunt them though, if they are reduced to recruiting the ribald yet humourless Graham Linehan, then they must be way past desperate.

So I guess I just leave a comment on the blog or something, right? Fuck, but I love making these big decisions. It makes me feel so Alive!