Batman was not a Fatman

Sometimes timing is everything.  Or rather, all times, timing is everything.  To reach a specific point in time and be able to approach a task in the right way requires a certain attitude, a mind-set.  It's now been three weeks in which I have managed to do some form or physical exercise every second day.  Usually going to the gym, but at weekends going for a run in the park.  It is hard work being a fatman and running.  Batman wasn't called Fatman because he was overweight.  Then, he wasn't overweight.  He couldn't be, especially if he was climbing up the sides of buildings and taking on the baddies.  Although the Penguin now he was rotund, but it didn't stop him from being a baddy.  So, part of me asks how come Batman wasn't fat either?  It's strange how you see things differently when in a different situation.  As I was saying.  Timing and the right time to do something and sustain it only comes about from having all the other things in place and wearing the right head.  Like a children's character scarecrow who would put a different head on depending what he wanted to do. I had to put the right head on, and have it at this moment. I have lost a couple of pounds and have found it a lot easier breathing, so it's got to be worth it. 

I saw little Monster Boy yesterday, we went for a walk and played his version of football.  This often involves him kicking me in the ankles rather than tackling me.  We make one goal post with my jacket being one of the  a stick or boulder.  He then counts goals to his advantage in accordance to his rules, which means he must win every time.  It was great fun.  We both laughed a lot and I got pretty tired even with my exercise regime.  As the TV series Misfits is being filmed locally we had hoped to see some of the trailers or the actors from the series, however they must of just stopped filming.  They had been parked in a large car park for quite a few weeks.  So it was my own fault I should of had an earlier look.  Misfits is probably the most exciting thing which has happened locally for many years.  I expect it will probably be the most exciting thing for years to come.  But the actors kept themselves to themselves, and stayed hidden away in their trailers.  So although the series in part reflects what it is like living in the area, you can't help feel a little disappointed in the people, they could of been maybe a little community active and done something significant.

Oh well, there's nothing to it, I'll just have to go and put my cape, mask and stockings on and have a run.  I'm sure it will cheer someone up.

Sunday run

It’s been a quiet day. I had one thing in mind to actually do, which was have a run. The thought occurred to hit the road in the morning, but reluctantly getting up from bed to the sound of clattering roof tiles as pigeons greeted the day pushed any notion of physical exertion away. Yet, it has been about two weeks where every second day I’ve somehow managed to get to the gym. Except going to the gym today would of meant spending over an hour in bus ride time there and back, not to mention packing my kit bag and paying fare. So instead, I had an inkling of motivation and put on shorts, socks and t-shirt to go jogging. There was one rule, no rather two rules to obey on such an occasion. First to take it easy, allow myself to stop and walk where necessary and second was to spend longer running than I would at the gym. After a few stretching exercises I got some water and left by the front door.

Once I had closed the door I wondered if anyone I knew would see me. This was because a middle aged getting-fatter-man who one knows, is always worth a laugh. Fortunately I have few friends nowadays and only had to think about neighbours. As most of these are new and of multi cultural origin and still strangers to me, they wouldn’t be much of a problem unless they decided today was the day to talk to the fattish man who lives in the corner house. I was fortunate, none did. They were probably doing all day sessions at their respective religious establishments dancing, singing, and speaking in tongues. Although I must confess one tongue has been perfectly adequate for me.

The run, or rather fat-man-jog, walk, pant-like-about-to-have-a-asthma-attack event went as smoothly as it could. There was only one doggy threat, and he seemed quite happy chained to his steak although I hopped over his lead and flashed an enticing chicken-like-leg in his direction, he was having nothing of it. Maybe he thought there was too much fat on it and liked his meat a bit leaner. He was quite a nice dog as well, he was a young husky-like affair. Perhaps the heat of the day had taken a toll on him. But good as gold, he just sat and showed no interest. I was happy for him, just as I was happy for myself, not having to think about a tetanus injection. I saw families out walking, kids playing football and even another jogger, an older man who didn’t acknowledge me as we passed in opposite directions. Bastard, I panted quietly as I laboured an exhale. Obviously someone who doesn’t know the joggers rule, which is to always smile, wave or say “hi” to another jogger. Saying this, it did give me some impetus to move my little leggies a little faster, well, a little.

In getting home I then washed and sat down, to enjoy a quite moment as my brain chemistry kicks in with some of those buzzing chemicals which make you feel at peace. Oh running shoes, running shoes, bear my weight, last for another circuit, help me lift my knees when I need it most and never let your laces dangle so I fall over and land on my face, arse or nose. Yep, sometimes a little divine intervention is just what the personal trainer ordered.

A bit of mind reading

Sometimes it is like I don’t exist. I know I do exist, because each day I get up, eat breakfast go to the Fish Factory, hit the gym, interact with people, but it’s still like I am non existent. It comes down to Sparkling, because I try to communicate with her by MSN but to my chagrin she is shown as offline. Then when I do send a message I get a reply. She isn’t really offline, it’s just the way she signs in, always offline. Which leads me to wonder when she is truly offline but online and when offline does actually mean offline. It can get pretty confusing. I try to reason, but I’m out of my depth here because I’m using logic and logic really is not the logically thing to use. For a simple reason, it’s man logic and not woman logic.

Sparkling then tells me in a few words not to push any buttons because it is the time of the month when men become objects worth of decapitation by any means possible by women. If I say something without due care and attention I am then accused of being insensitive and being an arse hole. Which is of course the natural state of any man nearly 100 per cent of the time according to any woman. It’s like walking on rice paper. I then ask does this mean if I were in Sparkling’s presence I’d be dead, the answer is affirmative, several times over. Probably with a chop stick or a whisk, or worse still the woman glare. The very special look reserved when extreme irritation has now been reached. It can then be followed by the pointed finger. Or the stabbing pointing finger which darts through the air and hits you squarely in the chest. Like some mystic Chinese martial art this move is meant to immobilise a man. And it does. It’s the move which says “don’t carry on because the next thing you say will be written on your grave stone.” It really does mean now deadly force will be used.

Mostly being a coward, or wise I then shut up. However, as this came to me by telepathy in an MSN message, it took a moment to sink in. Yes, I was just reading the words and using my man-logic. Clearly my skin has been temporarily saved. I’m happy because I need it. I think I’ll just pretend not to be here and to be a figment of imagination.

Thing is, whose imagination?

Chat with a porker

While in the gym this evening, I got chatting to a porker. It turned out to be one of those situations when you get the feeling your fat only to find someone who is fatter. Well I did. He seemed a pleasant enough fellow, we groaned about how hard it was getting to the gym, it's not easy at our age, though he might of been a couple of years older, I couldn't tell. Then he told me how a year and a half ago he had weighed 24 stone and now he was 16 stone. I could barely believe it. He had lost an entire person in body weight. But he still looked fat, but hell 18 months ago he looked real fat. He said he was stuck now at 16 stone and had been yoyoing up and down at this weight for a while. Considering it had taken me two weeks to lose four pound and I was groaning, this bloke was a walking miracle. He gave details of how arthritis in one of his knees had stopped him from coming at one point, but he now went three times a week. This individual had completely flabergasted me. I thought here was someone who had will power and more sustained determination than very many people I knew. Yet he was an ordinary bloke although a bit tubby. My only error was to ask him how much he thought I weighted, or rather he told me in a range of about two and a half stone. He got it right, but the worse thing was the top end of his guess was two and a half stone heavier than what I am. It didn't do much for my self esteem, but I'll try not to let it bother me.

Bloody porker.

Scales which tell the truth are redundant

I hit the gym this evening. It was a truely eventful moment, twice in three days. Again it hurt. I'm now a fat man who can't program his weight into the running machine because he's afraid of standing on scales to see what it is. Big Moma summed it up when she refused to stand on a set. I said there was nothing wrong with them they were new and function perfectly. Her reply was this was the reason she wouldn't stand on them.

Why does getting old mean getting fat, grumpy and unfit? Not to mention the necessity to purchase more clothes as you climb through the sizes like a mountaineer on speed. Tomorrow I think I'll go for a light meal and watch the calories. Or did I mean watch the cookies?

Three days of sausage aversion therapy

On leaving Sparkling Eyes and heading towards London I wasn't feeling on top of the world. I put this down to an over indulgence of alcohol over the last few days, no lets rephrase, the last two weeks and my body beginning to fight back. Though I wish it wouldn't and just accept the hundred sausage rolls or copious fried breakfasts I plied pass these lips. I could tell something was up because I felt a chill and my head was fuzzy. However, it's always difficult because I'm from England and it's always a little colder in Scotland, so I put it down to climatization. The train hit London and I felt a mild urge to use the loo. But thought seeing as I only had another hour it would pass and I'd be back at my London base.

From Kings Cross I got a tube to London Bridge. In the City the weather was quite different, it was hot perhaps in the mid 80s, communters were in shirts and no one had a coat, yet I felt my chill still. When on the tube it's usually even hotter than it is outside, maybe even the 90s on the carriage. So I sat in a crowded carriage with bodies swaying around me, they were hot and swetty some giving an odourous pong. The seat I sat on must of been near some mechanical engine part because there was extra heat eminating from it. Rather than be dismayed this was perfect, but it still didn't warm me up, the chill persisted. Things were not adding up, it was hot around me and I felt cold, maybe my moron head was put on when I woke up in the morning, because it really wasn't registering.

I got off the tube and then went to the barrier at London Bridge. As my ticket doesn't automatically work I have to show it to an attendant at this point, but being the peak of rush hour with thousands of people going throught the turnstyles this is not so easy, especially if the attendants are not standing in an accessible place for people who have issues getting through turnstyles. I showed him, he looked at the ticket. Great, I had chosen the novice attendant/learner who didn't know the different ticket types or understand with gate pass tickets you should always ask for the second rail ticket. I held up a second ticket quite clearly waiting for him to glance at it and began to get annoyed Except the idiot must of been wearing blinkers, he just looked at the one gate pass ticket. He then let me through and said "follow me". he went to another attnedant to show them my gate pass. Two seconds later he said it wasn't valid. I had an outburst and said "it is! look at this other one I got in my hand." He rapidly changed his mind and then let me through. I was going to show him my ugly side at this moment. I then found the expected platform form my final train. At this moment I felt a rumbling.

The earlier urge to hit the loo had now reoccured. It took me five minutes to establish on which platform the gents were located. I headed over to it. Got there and just as I was about to direct myself towards a cubical someone else got there instead. Now I felt like clutching my guts. I knew this could be an embarressing moment the shivers had caught up with me. I stood outside the gents and spied the cubical door hoping it would open. Eventually it did and then I rushed in. The toilet seat was up, there was toilet roll brilliant. I dropped the seat down only to find it was covered in piss all over it. WHAT THE HELL IS IT WITH MEN WHO PISS ON TOILET SEATS? So gave it a good wipe down before I could use it. What a relief it was when I did. I had got to the point now where I didn't even care if there was no loo paper I was going to have a dumb and it was going to happen. I thought of an incident L & B man had told me he had when in Poland on a holiday. Now he really does have bowel problems. I sympathised now through my own experience.

Getting back home, I went to bed in early evening, with the occasional tremble, both hot and cold at the same time. A few hours later, when the sun had eventually decided to go down and the sky got a somewhat darker, my body lifted itself out of bed as though some mysterious alien force was levitating me. My reactions were instantaneous even to the extent of beautiful. I had now began my bid for the 2012 Olympic Games in a little know event called Projectile Vommitting. My cheeks blew out like the distorted jowls of a great jazz trumpeter as I tried to hold back the onrush. Clasping my hand daintily to my mouth like a shy teenager trying to suppress a giggle I then did a Linford Christie start from bedroom to toilet to hurl vomit at a greater quantity than water from a fire hose.

It's taken me now three days to recover, I'm sure the fuzzy head was a migraine as well. Somehow I managed to drag myself into the Fish Factory to do my time. I could not face food for two off those days and now I am so much the better. I have abstained from two things, alcohol and sausages since. Be they sausages in a roll or sausage rolls, anything related to a sausage has been off the menu. For the time being if I don't see another sausage for a year it will be too soon. I hope this aversion lasts. But I will be thankful for one very important thing, the inventor of the toilet roll. Maybe I'll have a drink on it tomorrow to.

An 18th and 21st, don't mind me said the little boy

At Rock Chick's 18th party I saw an event which was witnessed by about 100 people. It was something which caught the eye, it could of easily been overseen, but once one or two people began starring and pointing. There was an almost hush moment. Then turning my head I saw a little boy. On the dance floor during early evening with flashing disco lights, he dropped his trousers and had a pee. This moment was jaw dropping, spectators saw, they were amazed then they laughed. A little boy had done what little boys do, he had an urge and his call of nature was quite natural.

The event was a great success. University Girl was 21 as well so it was a combined party. I must admit although there were a lot of people I recognised by face I had forgotten their names. Not to mention how alcohol effects my ability to interpret the Scottish accent. Which was probably to my advantage being a sassenach. Sparkling has taught me a new phrase which I must remember "I'm gonna rap your pus" in English this means I am going to punch you in the face. I have to find a moment next week and say it to someone. I have also been considering doing some running, I could use the opportunity to rap a pus and run at the same time. In this way hitting two pigeons with one stone. Losing weight and using this new founded phrase. All I can think is it sure is a lot easier eating chocolate and being fat.

Murray at Wimbledon and a lack of sleep

I sit in sparkling's front room watching the semi-final at Wimbledon, Andy Murray versus the Spaniard Rafael Nadal. I'm told Andy is a Scott, a Scott with emphasis and England only won the would cup in 1966 so "get over it." Nadal has a look about him which raises the heckles on my neck. He reminds me of the Portuguese footballer who had Beckham booked. Ronaldo, who is probably one of the highest paid self opinionated arrogant players there has ever been. Sparkles says "Murray" in a disappointed tone as he has missed another court shot, oops and there goes a "tut, for god's sake." Yep looks like Murray is making a sours ear out of it. He's got to pick himself up and stop being dour-faced. It's the determination of the second set. Come on Murray, beat the arrogant puffed up cockerel called Nadal. It's all about confidence. Yes a shot has slipped passed Nadal, brilliant.

Sparkling, has plugged the laptop in, I say thanks and she reminds me "see the things I do for you." Mind I could of said the same here to this morning, after getting up about 3:00 a.m. to let the screaming cat in. Only hitting the hay at 1:30 a.m., not to mention, pulling the garden waste bin out on the street, of course I couldn't do this in my pyjamas so had to put my clothes. I looked a little bedraggled to say the least. Fortunately nobody I knew saw me. Then there was opening the door to Mr L & B man just after 9:00 a.m., who had been working all night long. He said I looked bad, I looked like shit, he was right. I hadn't had a decent night sleep no wonder I felt like crap as well. I glance up at the telly continuously and Murray has thrown his racket down at the court. It bounces up about 8 feet and drops down dead again. He's lost it. He needs to focus. He needs a sports psychologist, it's all in his head, he can do it but he reminds me of the England football team when they went on the pitch to play Algeria, a third rate football nation they should of beaten with both arms tied behind their back. It's all about mental ability. I lost mine at about 2 p.m. and had to lay on the bed with the cat as company while my head went dizzy and I allowed my body to become a leadened sack of bones. The cat didn't say anything, well he couldn't, I'd let him in early he owes me.

Rock Chick is in the kitchen making cakes, tomorrow is a big party. It's her official 18th birthday party, though her real birthday was a few days earlier. I'm getting it constantly in the ear because the laptop I ordered has not been sent by a third party seller on Amazon. I've sent them three emails and had no reply to any. In the ten days which have passed since I ordered it, it still has not been dispatched. I've never had this happen to me before. But as I said to Rock "all comes to those who wait." I look at the centre court and see the odd famous personality and a lot of rich middle and upper class people. Some even with children. I wonder if their child really understands and appreciates as they eat their ice cream. Wimbledon history in the making. How come some of these well to do people don't go and find some less wealthy tennis fanatic who would really appreciate the event. Something which would be a life time memory rather than a little brat being dragged along and in all reality would rather be be playing their X-box. Then again it's variety of experience which helps make us what we are, not the same repeated depressing ones. Spinning an optimistic light on it, any individual who has come through a less privileged background in growing up will be made of stronger stuff than those snotty nosed and otherwise inclined. Murray is showing a small balding patch on his crown as he bounces the ball then lean down to catch it as it returns from the ground. The crowd shout for Murray, he needs any support he can get, hell if there's a doctor in the crowd and you have a trust please step forward. Third set and 4:4, I'm damn glad I didn't put a bet on the Scotsman. Better not let Sparkles hear me say it. No I should say, I'm damn glad I didn't put a bet on the British-man. O.K. it is through adversity true character rises to the surface, come on Murray. Shite he's lost the game. Well, I'll just go and make a cup of coffee and eat some chocolate, the world is always a lot better after some chocolate.

Nadal has won, he throws his swet bands into the crowd. I bet they will pong. Oh well Murry, give me a ring, I got a packet of Chocolate Flakes, come and share one with me, unless Rock had got her hands on them.