Sunday, June 10, 2012

2012 - 39

The Clear Out Begins

That'll be 'junk' as in the junk that's been in my head and on my chest all week. As forecast, everything seems to be moving now that I'm mentally preparing myself for what is possibly a tough six week stretch or will probably be a one week damp squib followed by anxiety and despair. Stay tuned, because if things go the way of the pear then I'm going to blow some of your minds...

No Complaints

The desire was to have a week doing... what? I'm not totally sure I had a plan. Had the weather been remotely summer-like then I might have got a tan, done some writing in the garden, but I probably wouldn't have done much more than I have. If I get a summer holiday, I have essentially two of the six weeks accounted for - one is a week of remodelling and the other might be a week in Scotland, the other four? Probably wasting my time, procrastinating and complaining about the weather and getting depressed about how good September is going to be and I will be at work.

Also, the last couple of days I've been mentally railing against the gods at the prospect of next week defying the odds and becoming warm and sunny. It seems my fears were unfounded; next week is going to be worse than the one just gone. The gods are still pissed off with someone.


Despite having the expectations of a Cobblers fan, I've been drawn to the Euro football competition and with the Danes beating Holland, it seems that we shouldn't take this tournament for granted. But... I really can't throw myself into supporting England. I feel that what is happening now is that expectations are being built up on the back of the lack of expectations. We're so potentially awful that a couple of good results will be fillip enough for the country's flagging spirits now that we haven't got the Jubilee to worry about and the Olympics are still a couple of potential waterlogged pitches away.

Tomorrow's game could end up being a real downer - what a great way to start the week; lose to the French. I obviously don't want it to happen, but it's the most likely thing; so just remember how much we really expected to do well when we don't.


So, on Wednesday, with a chest that felt weighted down with lead and the conviction that if I didn't have some horrible C word, then I was probably on my way to having the same thing that killed my mum, I decided that I had to knock tobacco on the head again. Obviously this was greeted by the usual scepticism and justifiably so. But by Thursday, I'd talked myself into it, figuring that all I needed was a hobby and something to stop me from eating everything within a five yard radius.

But yesterday, when the aforementioned junk started to move and my tubes opened up again, allowing me to breath and not feel suffocated after walking ten feet the idea of packing up smoking had rather receded. However, I'm looking at two rolls up maximum left and the planning for the next attempt has gone exactly how I planned it. I expect a week of frayed tempers, no sleep and extreme RAHHHHH. It's going to be like visiting an old acquaintance you really don't like but can't avoid.

I will obviously fail, but let's pretend for a while that I have a chance, eh?

  • The last few days have been a mixture of the Forth Verve album; a selection of Husker Du albums and a selection of various artist compilation discs I've accrued over the last five years.
  • Watched the first two in the Punk Britannia series and kind of understand why I didn't have the same enthusiastic punk spirit that some of my peers had. I also, for the life of me, can't understand why The Clash are considered so ... iconic/brilliant/essential. But I feel the same way about The Smiths and quite a few other critically acclaimed artists.
  • Chatted with my godmother for a while yesterday; we came to the conclusion that madness is rife in our family.
  • Lager with the great taste of fish.


  1. Every time I see anybody going on about how brilliant The Clash were, I think of Pulp's 'Common People'. Strummer only ever played at being a man of the people.

    Same with Tim Westwood, who not only is the son of a bishop, he is a basher of the same.

  2. Well, I hope you succeed at giving up anyway.