I was driving along the other day and I saw this car with a blue, diamond-shaped card hanging in the back window saying “Cheeky Monkey on board”. Now, I’m sorry, but just what on earth is that all about. Who, I mean who???, would put a sign up in the back of their car saying “Cheeky Monkey on board” and … why? For the love of mike, why?
I mean someone actually spent good money on buying that and then went to the effort of putting it into their car. Why?
No, I’m not going to go into the old cliché about signs that say “Caution! Baby on board!” Obviously they are pointless – but I presume that the parents involved seem to think that other people might pay the blindest bit of notice to them. But, if this is the case, then surely the sensible thing would be for the parents involved to take the sign out when the baby isn’t in the car – boy that cried “Wolf!” and all that sort of thing – but they never, ever do. Those poxy, stupid signs just hang there for years.
Don’t they realise that even if these signs could work in theory, they invalidate them in practice by their own idleness. If emergency service vehicles had the blues-and-twos going the whole time, people would pay far less attention to them. It’s the same principle.
The only thing I can imagine is that it’s some sort of self-aggrandisement thing. “Oh, look, we’re responsible parents. We care enough about our child to hang some crappy piece of tat in the back of our car. Bow down, oh ye unworthy mortals!”
(Oddly enough and as an aside, someone did tell me the other day that “Caution! Show Dogs in transit” signs do serve a useful purpose because people with show dogs on board will drive more slowly and more carefully than “normal” drivers and therefore when you see a “Caution! Show Dogs in transit” you know to expect that that car might act a bit unusually.
Ok, well that’s fair enough, but the flaw in the plan is that the only people – apart, now, from you, dear readers – who know this are other show dog owners. The rest of the world remain blissfully ignorant. Surely it would be far more sensible and effective to have a sign that says “Caution! I am liable to drive erratically and irritate the fuck out of other road users!” Then we would all know where we stood.)
But, where the heck did “Cheeky Monkey on board” come from? It’s not a warning. It’s not a joke. It’s just some sort of advertisement that the owner of the vehicle is really, really, really sad. I mean, what do they think other road users are going to do? Put on that face and tone of voice one does when looking at a bunch of baby baa-lambs bouncing about in a meadow and say “Awwww! How sweet. Oh, look, she calls her child a ‘cheeky monkey’! What an endearing way of referring to the little darling’s spirit of adventure and individuality. Ah, she must be a super mum. Bless!”
Give me strength!
And this brings me on to the whole subject of joke stickers in cars. Listen, if you have a so-called joke sticker in or on your car, then unless you invented it yourself, it simply labels you as a sad-act. Ok. This is a rule.
Joke stickers on your car say one of two things about you, and neither of them are good.
Option A is that you have the sticker on your car because you personally still find it hilariously funny. Every morning you come out of your house, see the “love thy neighbour – but don’t get caught” sign and burst once again into fits of uncontrollable giggles over the unrestrained hilarity of it all. Ok, this is not good. Jokes are funny once, or maybe a couple of times, but once you’ve heard them, they stop being funny – unless you are seriously devoid of intelligence, humour or both – in which case don’t advertise it by putting a damned stupid joke sticker on your bumper.
Option B is that, deep-down, you know that your are seriously devoid of your own wit and humour and you are trying to cover it up by putting a joke sticker on your car in the desperately vain hope that people will somehow assume that you invented the joke and that therefore you must be a really funny and interesting person whom they would really like to get to know.
Look, it’s a mass-produced bumper sticker, ok? Unless you have a vinyl printing press in your house, we know you didn’t make it up, ok. Give it up. It’s someone else’s joke, not yours. You aren’t funny. Live with it.
The exception to this rule are the people who do make up their own bumper stickers (it does happen) or who adapt bumper stickers or use them in new ways that put a different – and original – slant on the humour.
A case in point was a bumper sticker that was popular way back when that you used to see on old bangers that said “My other car is a Porsche”. Simply hilarious. However, I did give a wry smile when I saw someone driving around with that sticker on a Porsche. That person had taken the old “joke” and inverted it –giving it a bit of originality.
However then a year or so later, I saw someone driving around in a Porsche with a professionally made sticker that say “My other car is also a Porsche”. Totally failing to understand that by adding the “also” they had completely killed any originality that might have been in the idea and turned it into a straight “The owner of this vehicle is a self-satisfied, smug, humourless wanker” notice.
Joke bumper sticker are crap. Don’t do it.
Here endeth the rant.
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Thursday, February 05, 2009
It's perfectly natural...
I do get slightly narked at young women who get all righteously outraged at older men for finding them attractive.
You know the sort of thing:
20 year old girl: “Eww! Yuk! This old guy started hitting on me in a bar. Jeez! He must have been, like, you know, over forty or something! He’s old enough to be my dad! What a pervert! People like him should be locked up! Freak!”
Look, it’s perfectly natural for you not to fancy old people.
BUT, it’s also perfectly natural for old people not to fancy old people either.
You don’t have some switch in your head that clicks on automatically when you are thirty five and suddenly changes the way your libido has worked for the previous two decades.
You do not suddenly go: “Wrinkles? Phwoar! Saggy boobs? Wow! Cellulite? Give me more of that stodgy, dimpled goodness, baby!”
It just doesn’t happen. (Ok, there may be a small proportion of people who get off on “old” as a concept, but they are very much in the minority.)
This is why page three girls, and indeed most porn stars, are not in their thirties, forties and fifties – even though most of the people who look at them are. So, why aren’t they? Because young, toned and pert that is what (nearly) everyone fancies – no matter how old they are.
Yes, as you get older, you start to appreciate that older people can also be attractive and stimulating in ways that you cannot appreciate when you are younger. You also start to realise that many young people are incredibly shallow, vacuous, inexperienced, naive and downright boring to talk to.
You also start to realise that if older is all you are going to be able to get, then you might need to lower your standards a bit.
But you don’t stop fancying younger people.
“Ooo—er. Look at her. 34-26-34? Perfect complexion? Toned body? How disgusting! Who could possibly want to shag that? Why doesn’t she let herself go, eat a bunch of cream cakes and grow some facial hair? Then she’d look like a real woman…”
I don’t think so.
So, whilst it may indeed be a bit odd if young girls want to sleep with some old codger, there is nothing unusual about old codgers wanting to sleep with young girls. Fifty year old multi-millionaires do not hire fifty year old bunny-girls and this is not because there is some law of the world that means that only perverts can get rich.
So, there is nothing perverted, freaky or gross whatsoever about old guys fancying young chicks. That is perfectly normal. Everyone does it. There is only something a bit sad about the ones that still think that young chicks would actually want to be pulled by them.
And, I can guarantee you this, girlies. You may think that beer bellies, hairy ears and baldness are not attractive now – and you will still feel the same way in 20 years’ time. And you’ll look back and say “M.A.D. knew what he was talking about”.
Count on it…
You know the sort of thing:
20 year old girl: “Eww! Yuk! This old guy started hitting on me in a bar. Jeez! He must have been, like, you know, over forty or something! He’s old enough to be my dad! What a pervert! People like him should be locked up! Freak!”
Look, it’s perfectly natural for you not to fancy old people.
BUT, it’s also perfectly natural for old people not to fancy old people either.
You don’t have some switch in your head that clicks on automatically when you are thirty five and suddenly changes the way your libido has worked for the previous two decades.
You do not suddenly go: “Wrinkles? Phwoar! Saggy boobs? Wow! Cellulite? Give me more of that stodgy, dimpled goodness, baby!”
It just doesn’t happen. (Ok, there may be a small proportion of people who get off on “old” as a concept, but they are very much in the minority.)
This is why page three girls, and indeed most porn stars, are not in their thirties, forties and fifties – even though most of the people who look at them are. So, why aren’t they? Because young, toned and pert that is what (nearly) everyone fancies – no matter how old they are.
Yes, as you get older, you start to appreciate that older people can also be attractive and stimulating in ways that you cannot appreciate when you are younger. You also start to realise that many young people are incredibly shallow, vacuous, inexperienced, naive and downright boring to talk to.
You also start to realise that if older is all you are going to be able to get, then you might need to lower your standards a bit.
But you don’t stop fancying younger people.
“Ooo—er. Look at her. 34-26-34? Perfect complexion? Toned body? How disgusting! Who could possibly want to shag that? Why doesn’t she let herself go, eat a bunch of cream cakes and grow some facial hair? Then she’d look like a real woman…”
I don’t think so.
So, whilst it may indeed be a bit odd if young girls want to sleep with some old codger, there is nothing unusual about old codgers wanting to sleep with young girls. Fifty year old multi-millionaires do not hire fifty year old bunny-girls and this is not because there is some law of the world that means that only perverts can get rich.
So, there is nothing perverted, freaky or gross whatsoever about old guys fancying young chicks. That is perfectly normal. Everyone does it. There is only something a bit sad about the ones that still think that young chicks would actually want to be pulled by them.
And, I can guarantee you this, girlies. You may think that beer bellies, hairy ears and baldness are not attractive now – and you will still feel the same way in 20 years’ time. And you’ll look back and say “M.A.D. knew what he was talking about”.
Count on it…
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Does this make me racist?
Now, I have always been pretty sure that I am not racist. I have genuinely to my knowledge never once found myself looking down on anyone because of race, creed or colour.
I think this goes back to my school days. I went to an expensive fee-paying school that had a high proportion of students from other countries, other creeds and other cultures.
However, this school also had an entrance examination, a school uniform and a strict set of rules. The upshot of this was that everyone looked the same, acted the same, and, because we had a pretty good standard of basic education already, we all talked the same. Of course there were minor differences in religious practices and accent, but, pretty much, the school system homogenised us all.
As I say, there was a huge cultural and ethnic mix at that school, but in my five years there, I was never once aware of a single act of racist behaviour. I never heard of anyone being disparaged purely on the grounds of race, creed or colour. Mind you, there was no inverse-racism either; the foreigners were in for just as much stick as the locals when they deserved it.
Now, I have found that the same thing has followed me into adult life. Of course, I notice what skin colouration people have, or if they are exhibiting some overt sign of their religion, but I have never found myself taking that into any form of consideration, apart from “general interest”.
However, I have now found myself making value judgements about people based purely on innate characteristics that they cannot help and that can in no way affect who they are as people.
Does this make me racist?
I am talking, here, about call-centre operators. When I am struggling with some technical problem with the latest bit of hardware or software, eventually I get around to calling the dreaded help-line.
Swerving aside for a nanosecond, what is it with people and manuals? Whenever I buy a new computer, phone, car, gizmo, I have a read through the manual to find out what it can do and how it works (likewise, when I buy a new computer game, I read through the whole manual first, so that can get at least some sort of grip on the best way to use it.)
Oddly enough, I have noticed a distinct element of sexism sneaking into this subject. It may be something that is peculiar to this side of the pond, but I have noticed a definite and significant anti-masculine bias here. It always seems to be women complaining and generalising that men refuse to read instruction manuals. It is, according to the XX crowd, something that “men” do. Personally, I would say that my experience leads to the exact opposite conclusion, but who am I to notice?
But, anyway, back to the subject in hand: racism and call centres. The hypothesis is that I have bought said computer programme (note the spelling of the word programme there, Yankee people…) and, even though I have read the manual, I cannot get it to work.
(Oh, yes, and note how the word colour is also spelled.)
So, as said, I have this hypothetical problem for which I need technical support and therefore, gritting my teeth, I dial the number.
The meat behind the original question is this. When the call is answered at the call centre, and I hear a voice that is clearly belonging to someone from another country, my heart sinks. Why, I scream silently, cannot I have someone from a British call-centre who will be able to understand my question and whose answer I will, in turn, be able to comprehend.
I realise that it is probably wrong, but when I get someone on the other end of the line, for whom English is clearly not their first language, whose accent makes it difficult for me to understand and who is patently reading pre-determined answers from a screen; I find myself just wanting to scream. “Will you go away and let me talk to someone with whom I can actually have a rational conversation.”
Does this make me racist?
The other day, I had to take a fiend into hospital. We were seen by a doctor who appeared to be of Indian or Pakistani origin. His accent was incredibly thick, and we had to get him to repeat himself several times.
Again, I found myself, thinking “Please, go away and send me a doctor with whom I can talk”.
The important thing here, however, is the communication. I got ticked off of by the fact that I could not get answers to the questions that I was asking, It wasn’t actually that I couldn’t get them, it was that couldn’t understand them when I did.
Does that make me racist?
Oddly enough, however, it never even occurred to me to question anything else about the doctor in question. Whatever, he told me, I accepted as fact – once I had managed to get it translated. I never assumed that because he was from an ethnic minority then he must be incompetent, or that his degree was not as good as an English equivalent, or whatever.
Personally, I think that the latter means that I am not racist – and this is backed up by the fact that if my call-centred was answered by someone with an impenetrably geordie or scouser accent, I would feel much the same about them.
But what do I know...
I think this goes back to my school days. I went to an expensive fee-paying school that had a high proportion of students from other countries, other creeds and other cultures.
However, this school also had an entrance examination, a school uniform and a strict set of rules. The upshot of this was that everyone looked the same, acted the same, and, because we had a pretty good standard of basic education already, we all talked the same. Of course there were minor differences in religious practices and accent, but, pretty much, the school system homogenised us all.
As I say, there was a huge cultural and ethnic mix at that school, but in my five years there, I was never once aware of a single act of racist behaviour. I never heard of anyone being disparaged purely on the grounds of race, creed or colour. Mind you, there was no inverse-racism either; the foreigners were in for just as much stick as the locals when they deserved it.
Now, I have found that the same thing has followed me into adult life. Of course, I notice what skin colouration people have, or if they are exhibiting some overt sign of their religion, but I have never found myself taking that into any form of consideration, apart from “general interest”.
However, I have now found myself making value judgements about people based purely on innate characteristics that they cannot help and that can in no way affect who they are as people.
Does this make me racist?
I am talking, here, about call-centre operators. When I am struggling with some technical problem with the latest bit of hardware or software, eventually I get around to calling the dreaded help-line.
Swerving aside for a nanosecond, what is it with people and manuals? Whenever I buy a new computer, phone, car, gizmo, I have a read through the manual to find out what it can do and how it works (likewise, when I buy a new computer game, I read through the whole manual first, so that can get at least some sort of grip on the best way to use it.)
Oddly enough, I have noticed a distinct element of sexism sneaking into this subject. It may be something that is peculiar to this side of the pond, but I have noticed a definite and significant anti-masculine bias here. It always seems to be women complaining and generalising that men refuse to read instruction manuals. It is, according to the XX crowd, something that “men” do. Personally, I would say that my experience leads to the exact opposite conclusion, but who am I to notice?
But, anyway, back to the subject in hand: racism and call centres. The hypothesis is that I have bought said computer programme (note the spelling of the word programme there, Yankee people…) and, even though I have read the manual, I cannot get it to work.
(Oh, yes, and note how the word colour is also spelled.)
So, as said, I have this hypothetical problem for which I need technical support and therefore, gritting my teeth, I dial the number.
The meat behind the original question is this. When the call is answered at the call centre, and I hear a voice that is clearly belonging to someone from another country, my heart sinks. Why, I scream silently, cannot I have someone from a British call-centre who will be able to understand my question and whose answer I will, in turn, be able to comprehend.
I realise that it is probably wrong, but when I get someone on the other end of the line, for whom English is clearly not their first language, whose accent makes it difficult for me to understand and who is patently reading pre-determined answers from a screen; I find myself just wanting to scream. “Will you go away and let me talk to someone with whom I can actually have a rational conversation.”
Does this make me racist?
The other day, I had to take a fiend into hospital. We were seen by a doctor who appeared to be of Indian or Pakistani origin. His accent was incredibly thick, and we had to get him to repeat himself several times.
Again, I found myself, thinking “Please, go away and send me a doctor with whom I can talk”.
The important thing here, however, is the communication. I got ticked off of by the fact that I could not get answers to the questions that I was asking, It wasn’t actually that I couldn’t get them, it was that couldn’t understand them when I did.
Does that make me racist?
Oddly enough, however, it never even occurred to me to question anything else about the doctor in question. Whatever, he told me, I accepted as fact – once I had managed to get it translated. I never assumed that because he was from an ethnic minority then he must be incompetent, or that his degree was not as good as an English equivalent, or whatever.
Personally, I think that the latter means that I am not racist – and this is backed up by the fact that if my call-centred was answered by someone with an impenetrably geordie or scouser accent, I would feel much the same about them.
But what do I know...
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Hello, blog, I'd forgotten all about you...
Still still-alive almost a year later. Coincidentally enough, just got back from another trip to Scotland, too.
Went up to stay with my folks, with the same two friends as last time. Another good time had by all. Again, ate too much and drank too much. Didn't smoke any ciggies this time, though. Haven't had one since Christmas. As I said in the last post, having the old type-2 means that things have had to change.
Do I miss smoking? Yes, every now and then; especially when I'm stressed. I also quite fancy one occasionally when I have had a few drinkies and am with a group of friends who are smoking. It's easy enough to resist though, as was quitting itself. No patches, no hypnosis, no acupuncture (God, no acupuncture! Never!). You just decide not to do it any more and don't. Simple as that.
It seems amazing to me that it has been nearly a year since I made an entry here. I read one or two blogs every day, yet, somehow, I never seemed to be able to get into the habit of writing one. Odd that. Maybe it seems, subconsciously, to be a chore, so I put it to the back of my mind - and the bottom of the priorities list.
However, I suppose also that it's probably because it's not in my nature to vent in public. When I am having one of my rare "down" times, I withdraw into my shell and sulk about it. I don't burden other people with my problems; in fact, I couldn't burden other people with my problems. It's not the way we brits do things, don'tchaknow? Stiff upper lip and all that.
I know lots of bloggers talk about blogging being a cathartic experience, but to me it isn't. It can be quite fun, sometimes, but a release of stress in and of itself? Sadly, no.
Ooo! I've just spotted a button at the top that says "Add image". Let's see if it works:
...lots of clicking later... Ok, so I finally worked out that the button opened a new window, rather than doing something in this window...
...more clicking ... but having uploaded my piccy, I can't find it. The other window says "once you have clicked "done", you can change your post and publish to your blog". Fine... except... What bloody "done"? There is no button called "done". Not in this window, not in that window, not even on my microwave. I looked. God, I hate IT technicians. They are the most evil, vindictive, malicious bastards ever to pollute God's green earth. Aaaagh!
Where is it? This is driving me crazy! Give me my damned picture, you sadists!
Went up to stay with my folks, with the same two friends as last time. Another good time had by all. Again, ate too much and drank too much. Didn't smoke any ciggies this time, though. Haven't had one since Christmas. As I said in the last post, having the old type-2 means that things have had to change.
Do I miss smoking? Yes, every now and then; especially when I'm stressed. I also quite fancy one occasionally when I have had a few drinkies and am with a group of friends who are smoking. It's easy enough to resist though, as was quitting itself. No patches, no hypnosis, no acupuncture (God, no acupuncture! Never!). You just decide not to do it any more and don't. Simple as that.
It seems amazing to me that it has been nearly a year since I made an entry here. I read one or two blogs every day, yet, somehow, I never seemed to be able to get into the habit of writing one. Odd that. Maybe it seems, subconsciously, to be a chore, so I put it to the back of my mind - and the bottom of the priorities list.
However, I suppose also that it's probably because it's not in my nature to vent in public. When I am having one of my rare "down" times, I withdraw into my shell and sulk about it. I don't burden other people with my problems; in fact, I couldn't burden other people with my problems. It's not the way we brits do things, don'tchaknow? Stiff upper lip and all that.
I know lots of bloggers talk about blogging being a cathartic experience, but to me it isn't. It can be quite fun, sometimes, but a release of stress in and of itself? Sadly, no.
Ooo! I've just spotted a button at the top that says "Add image". Let's see if it works:
...lots of clicking later... Ok, so I finally worked out that the button opened a new window, rather than doing something in this window...
...more clicking ... but having uploaded my piccy, I can't find it. The other window says "once you have clicked "done", you can change your post and publish to your blog". Fine... except... What bloody "done"? There is no button called "done". Not in this window, not in that window, not even on my microwave. I looked. God, I hate IT technicians. They are the most evil, vindictive, malicious bastards ever to pollute God's green earth. Aaaagh!
Where is it? This is driving me crazy! Give me my damned picture, you sadists!
clicketty, clicketty, clicketty, clicketty, clicketty, clicketty etc...,
Oh, sod it, I give up. It was a nice picture of the family farm in Scotland, too
Friday, October 05, 2007
Woot!!!
Still alive - still outrageously busy as I always am in September and October.
Weight now 14st, 11lbs.
I have lost a whole stone.
Yay! Go me!!!!!
Weight now 14st, 11lbs.
I have lost a whole stone.
Yay! Go me!!!!!
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
What happened to my immortality? Give it back, you bastards...!
Been away in Scotland for a week, hence the lack of anything said.
Had another blood test before I went, got the results yesterday. Fasting blood sugar was lower than last time, but some other result (you can see how excited I am by this whole thing) was still borderline. Also, my cholesterol was a bit high – not massive, but high all the same. Hardly surprising, I suppose for someone who lives on red meat…
So now I’m on pills. And I’m on pills for the rest of my life… WTF, how the fuck did that happen? I am supposed to be immortal. Other people are supposed to be ill and I am supposed to be indestructible and live for ever.
I never go to the Doctors. I have never had a day off sick in my life. I have missed a day in the office owing to food-poisoning and the resultant desire to be close to certain facilities, but I still worked from home.
I am disgustingly healthy. I don’t do being ill.
Yeah, right. Not no more, sunshine. Live with it.
Actually, no, don’t “live with it”. That is a sort of quitter-ish attitude. I’ve got to live with the (pretty obvious, anyway, when I come to think of it) fact that I am not immortal, but I don’t have to live with the idea that diabetes is something that I can do nothing about.
I can and will change my lifestyle yet further to ensure that it makes the minimum amount of difference to the life that I want to lead.
Some of the “I must change my lifestyle” is altruism, but some of it is also fear. I have a known a number of people in older age who have lost toes, legs and their lives because they didn’t look after their diabetes properly. That really doesn’t appeal to me. I’d rather lose out on a few treats now than my toes in 10 years time. That would really suck.
Learning to ride a horse with only one leg in my fifties would be by no means impossible, but all-in-all, I’d rather pass on the necessity altogether.
Scotland was good. I ate too much, drank too much and smoked a shit-load of cigarettes. All of these things are soon going to be denied to me. Alas and alack. Well, not denied, necessarily, but seriously restricted, so at the moment I am making whoopee before the dietician and the Diabetes Nurse get their hands on me (curse you, September 3rd!!).
This weekend is the last battle re-enactment of the season, to I will probably have my last gaspers there. I already started moderating my drinking seriously at the last one two weeks ago, because I was finding that it played havoc with my energy levels.
It’s quite odd to discover that you can have a good time without getting pissed. Not that I ever get completely hammered – well, not very often at all – but getting pleasantly pissed has been a part of a jovial social occasion for the last 25 years.
Still won’t be able to dance though. The only way that I could ever get round to dancing was by getting pretty wrecked, so it looks like dancing will now be off the menu for ever. That’s going to take come coming to terms with….
Ok, I’ve come to terms with it now. No more dancing, ever. That’s cool. Every cloud has a silver lining.
So, bugger all exercise, bugger all self control and bugger all something else (I just felt that the structure of the sentence required a third “bugger all”) until September 3rd. Then reality and responsibility kicks in.
(Well, ok, you know as well as I do that I’m going to fall by the wayside on occasion as much as the next man, but I shall try to be responsible and sensible, and, in all likelihood, something else ending in –ible, too.)
Had another blood test before I went, got the results yesterday. Fasting blood sugar was lower than last time, but some other result (you can see how excited I am by this whole thing) was still borderline. Also, my cholesterol was a bit high – not massive, but high all the same. Hardly surprising, I suppose for someone who lives on red meat…
So now I’m on pills. And I’m on pills for the rest of my life… WTF, how the fuck did that happen? I am supposed to be immortal. Other people are supposed to be ill and I am supposed to be indestructible and live for ever.
I never go to the Doctors. I have never had a day off sick in my life. I have missed a day in the office owing to food-poisoning and the resultant desire to be close to certain facilities, but I still worked from home.
I am disgustingly healthy. I don’t do being ill.
Yeah, right. Not no more, sunshine. Live with it.
Actually, no, don’t “live with it”. That is a sort of quitter-ish attitude. I’ve got to live with the (pretty obvious, anyway, when I come to think of it) fact that I am not immortal, but I don’t have to live with the idea that diabetes is something that I can do nothing about.
I can and will change my lifestyle yet further to ensure that it makes the minimum amount of difference to the life that I want to lead.
Some of the “I must change my lifestyle” is altruism, but some of it is also fear. I have a known a number of people in older age who have lost toes, legs and their lives because they didn’t look after their diabetes properly. That really doesn’t appeal to me. I’d rather lose out on a few treats now than my toes in 10 years time. That would really suck.
Learning to ride a horse with only one leg in my fifties would be by no means impossible, but all-in-all, I’d rather pass on the necessity altogether.
Scotland was good. I ate too much, drank too much and smoked a shit-load of cigarettes. All of these things are soon going to be denied to me. Alas and alack. Well, not denied, necessarily, but seriously restricted, so at the moment I am making whoopee before the dietician and the Diabetes Nurse get their hands on me (curse you, September 3rd!!).
This weekend is the last battle re-enactment of the season, to I will probably have my last gaspers there. I already started moderating my drinking seriously at the last one two weeks ago, because I was finding that it played havoc with my energy levels.
It’s quite odd to discover that you can have a good time without getting pissed. Not that I ever get completely hammered – well, not very often at all – but getting pleasantly pissed has been a part of a jovial social occasion for the last 25 years.
Still won’t be able to dance though. The only way that I could ever get round to dancing was by getting pretty wrecked, so it looks like dancing will now be off the menu for ever. That’s going to take come coming to terms with….
Ok, I’ve come to terms with it now. No more dancing, ever. That’s cool. Every cloud has a silver lining.
So, bugger all exercise, bugger all self control and bugger all something else (I just felt that the structure of the sentence required a third “bugger all”) until September 3rd. Then reality and responsibility kicks in.
(Well, ok, you know as well as I do that I’m going to fall by the wayside on occasion as much as the next man, but I shall try to be responsible and sensible, and, in all likelihood, something else ending in –ible, too.)
Monday, August 06, 2007
What joy...
Had a call from the Doctor's surgery. I have "mild diabetes", whatever the heck that means. Woot!
I have ana appointment tomorrow at 10.20, so I will learn more then.
15st 7lbs this lunchtime. However, I have eaten a big boiwl of porrige and several cups of coffee first, whereas normally I weigh myself "empty" first thing in the morning.
More tomorrow.
I have ana appointment tomorrow at 10.20, so I will learn more then.
15st 7lbs this lunchtime. However, I have eaten a big boiwl of porrige and several cups of coffee first, whereas normally I weigh myself "empty" first thing in the morning.
More tomorrow.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Blood Test
Had the blood test yesterday.
Was I big and brave about it? Was I heck...?
I was very surprised by how restrained I was on the way there. Normally I start shaking like a leaf when I know I am on my way to a needle, but this time I retained my calm until I was actually in the nurse's cell.
Then the cold sweats started...
I shamefacedly admitted my phobia to the nurse, who suggested that I lie down on the bed thingie rather than try to have it done sitting in the chair. It's easier not to look like that.
So, like the incredibly brave little soldier I am, I lay on the couch, bravely holding out my paw. Until she tied the strap thingie on to make the vein stand up, that is, whereupon my brave little arm disappeared under my yellow, trembling body like a rat down a hole.
This happened two or three times before she had even had a chance to pick up the syringe. Then she started to play dirty...
"Shall I go and get the other nurses to hold you down?" says she.
Ouch, Pride versus Phobia. A battle of the titans.
I could just picture it. A shouted summons across a crowded waiting room "Girls - can you come and help me hold down this patient. He's too scared to have his blood test..." A squadron of nurses troop in, sounds of screams and struggling ensue, then the door opens and the queue of waiting patients, ready to be sympathetic to the sobbing ten-year-old who has been subdued, are flabbergasted to see a hulking forty-two year old six-footer slink shame-facedly out of the torture chamber.
It wasn't much of a contest, actually. Pride won with a knock-down and submission in pretty short order. Lie down, paw out, other arm over eyes, think of England...
But nurses always have a way of getting revenge….
“You are sure that you won’t move, aren’t you? Because if you move at the wrong moment, it could be really serious…”
Oh great, thanks a bundle. That is bound to relax one….
So there I am, lying so rigid that a fakir would have no problem suspending me between two stools at head and foot, arm pressed so hard on my eyes that I am seeing stars and then it happens – the tiniest, most pathetic little spark of pain in the history of medicine.
So, that hardly hurt at all. Don’t know what I was worrying about. It was all fine…
Was it bollocks! It mattered not one jot that the pain was insignificant. I was still lying there stiff as a board whilst she faffed around.
I suppose it took, what, less than 10 seconds from start top finish, and it felt like had it taken three seconds longer then I have gone into physiological melt-down.
I wouldn’t, of course. When it comes down to it, one copes when one has to, and one endures what one has to when one has to – but phobias are weird things. They are incomprehensible to those who are lucky enough not to suffer from any.
My fear of needles is utterly inexplicable. If I get a splinter or a thorn in me, I am quite happy to dig it out with a needle. The pain, which is usually much longer and greater than an injection, bothers me not one jot.
But, injections? Injections which I know aren’t going to hurt that much. They scare the shit out of me.
Go figure…
(At present, I am not even entertaining the worries over what happens if this blood test does reveal diabetes. I can lose sleep over that if and when it happens…)
Was I big and brave about it? Was I heck...?
I was very surprised by how restrained I was on the way there. Normally I start shaking like a leaf when I know I am on my way to a needle, but this time I retained my calm until I was actually in the nurse's cell.
Then the cold sweats started...
I shamefacedly admitted my phobia to the nurse, who suggested that I lie down on the bed thingie rather than try to have it done sitting in the chair. It's easier not to look like that.
So, like the incredibly brave little soldier I am, I lay on the couch, bravely holding out my paw. Until she tied the strap thingie on to make the vein stand up, that is, whereupon my brave little arm disappeared under my yellow, trembling body like a rat down a hole.
This happened two or three times before she had even had a chance to pick up the syringe. Then she started to play dirty...
"Shall I go and get the other nurses to hold you down?" says she.
Ouch, Pride versus Phobia. A battle of the titans.
I could just picture it. A shouted summons across a crowded waiting room "Girls - can you come and help me hold down this patient. He's too scared to have his blood test..." A squadron of nurses troop in, sounds of screams and struggling ensue, then the door opens and the queue of waiting patients, ready to be sympathetic to the sobbing ten-year-old who has been subdued, are flabbergasted to see a hulking forty-two year old six-footer slink shame-facedly out of the torture chamber.
It wasn't much of a contest, actually. Pride won with a knock-down and submission in pretty short order. Lie down, paw out, other arm over eyes, think of England...
But nurses always have a way of getting revenge….
“You are sure that you won’t move, aren’t you? Because if you move at the wrong moment, it could be really serious…”
Oh great, thanks a bundle. That is bound to relax one….
So there I am, lying so rigid that a fakir would have no problem suspending me between two stools at head and foot, arm pressed so hard on my eyes that I am seeing stars and then it happens – the tiniest, most pathetic little spark of pain in the history of medicine.
So, that hardly hurt at all. Don’t know what I was worrying about. It was all fine…
Was it bollocks! It mattered not one jot that the pain was insignificant. I was still lying there stiff as a board whilst she faffed around.
I suppose it took, what, less than 10 seconds from start top finish, and it felt like had it taken three seconds longer then I have gone into physiological melt-down.
I wouldn’t, of course. When it comes down to it, one copes when one has to, and one endures what one has to when one has to – but phobias are weird things. They are incomprehensible to those who are lucky enough not to suffer from any.
My fear of needles is utterly inexplicable. If I get a splinter or a thorn in me, I am quite happy to dig it out with a needle. The pain, which is usually much longer and greater than an injection, bothers me not one jot.
But, injections? Injections which I know aren’t going to hurt that much. They scare the shit out of me.
Go figure…
(At present, I am not even entertaining the worries over what happens if this blood test does reveal diabetes. I can lose sleep over that if and when it happens…)
Refund
Well, well, well.
I have recieved a letter from the company saying that a cheque for £4.99 in respect of ProductX is on its way.
How nice - and how suprising....
Actually, I feel a bit guilty now... I didn't really want a refund. I mean the product was crap, but I wrote the letter because I like being pompous and verbose, not because I actually needed my £4.99 back.
I'm terribly English, don'tchaknow, I hate making a fuss...
Mind you, I saw a version of the ad on telly the other day and it had the words "May need frequent scrubbing" superimposed on the bottom, and I'm sure that they weren't there when I first saw it...
I have recieved a letter from the company saying that a cheque for £4.99 in respect of ProductX is on its way.
How nice - and how suprising....
Actually, I feel a bit guilty now... I didn't really want a refund. I mean the product was crap, but I wrote the letter because I like being pompous and verbose, not because I actually needed my £4.99 back.
I'm terribly English, don'tchaknow, I hate making a fuss...
Mind you, I saw a version of the ad on telly the other day and it had the words "May need frequent scrubbing" superimposed on the bottom, and I'm sure that they weren't there when I first saw it...
Monday, July 30, 2007
Get what you ask for...
Ok, so last week I complained about my body being boring and alsways losing exactly two pounds, no more, no less.
This week I lost one pound.
Yip - bloody - pee.
(Although, it's better than putting one on, I suppose...)
This week I lost one pound.
Yip - bloody - pee.
(Although, it's better than putting one on, I suppose...)
Thursday, July 26, 2007
To the management...
Dear Sirs,
Whilst passing through the Focus hardware store in LocalTown the other day, my eye was caught by one of your advertising screens extolling the semi-miraculous cleansing properties of “Product X”. On the strength of this advertisement and with a feeling of ”Oh, well, it’s only five quid, what the heck, it’s worth a shot…” I added a pot of “Product X” to my trolley and proceeded to the checkout.
On arriving at my home, I took said pot of “Product X” into my kitchen and, with a mounting feeling of excitement, set to work upon eliminating the cooked-on food stains from the top of my batchelor-belaboured cooker.
I have to say that your achievement with this product is truly astounding. I do not think I have ever encountered a product that has so completely, so unreservedly, so perfectly failed to live up to any of the claims made for it. This stuff could not clean a bar of soap in a disinfectant factory.
Not only could it not clean off the cooked-on food stains on my cooker, it could not even lift the fat-splashes that had resulted from my most recent fry-up. Quite frankly, I could not have achieved less successful results had I tried to lick the cooker clean with my tongue.
Not wishing to admit defeat, however, I then moved on to attempt to clean those rather bizarre, sticky marks that randomly appear on the bottom of one’s steam iron from time to time for no readily discernible reason. Indeed, the ease with which the miracle-worker in the “Product X” advertisement had cleansed the bottom of their steam-iron was one of the major factors in influencing me in my impulse purchase. Sadly, however, a prolonged period of vigorous scouring achieved no discernible result, beyond the comprehensive clogging of the little steam holes with fine, white powder.
Undeterred, I moved onto the bottom of my extremely expensive, heavy-bottomed frying pan. A few quick swirls of the sponge by the Hogwarts-trained thespian in the advert, a quick scoosh of water, and the bottom of their pan was restored to pristine virginity. Several minutes of determined scrubbing on my part, however, merely served to demonstrate the sad truth that a scrubber and virginity are seldom re-united in the real world.
I must confess that I did then get a certain amount of enjoyment, although not, I feel, a fiver’s-worth, from running around my house to see what else “Product X” would be entirely unable to clean. Certainly my bathroom presented no barrier to its inexhaustible appetite for failure. Gold I do not possess, but I decided to avoid letting it near my silverware just in case an insatiable capacity for completely dissolving silver turned out to be the final twist-in-the-tale added to the mix by the sadistic genius who compounded this Machiavellian product. I only wish that my car had alloy wheels, in order that I could have obtained a more complete set.
In short, Sirs, whilst I am not usually one to complain; whilst I hold to the principle of “caveat emptor”; and whilst I have sympathy with the idea that anyone expecting to be able to buy a product capable of producing super-natural results for less than five pounds really does deserve to be fleeced, I have to say that this particular product is so wholly, so comprehensively and so utterly useless that I really would be grateful to receive your cheque for £4.99 in respect of a refund for my purchase.
Under such circumstances, you would, naturally, be entitled to request that I should return to you the unused portion of my tub of “Product X” which I would be happy to do, although what conceivable reason you should have to do so, or to what earthly use you could put it if I did, is entirely beyond me.
Alternatively, on the other hand, if you feel my criticisms to be unjustified, you would be most welcome to send a member of your staff around to my address to demonstrate exactly where I was going wrong with the utilisation of the product. I suspect, however, that sending a cheque would be cheaper.
I remain, Sir, your obedient servant,
M.A.D.
Whilst passing through the Focus hardware store in LocalTown the other day, my eye was caught by one of your advertising screens extolling the semi-miraculous cleansing properties of “Product X”. On the strength of this advertisement and with a feeling of ”Oh, well, it’s only five quid, what the heck, it’s worth a shot…” I added a pot of “Product X” to my trolley and proceeded to the checkout.
On arriving at my home, I took said pot of “Product X” into my kitchen and, with a mounting feeling of excitement, set to work upon eliminating the cooked-on food stains from the top of my batchelor-belaboured cooker.
I have to say that your achievement with this product is truly astounding. I do not think I have ever encountered a product that has so completely, so unreservedly, so perfectly failed to live up to any of the claims made for it. This stuff could not clean a bar of soap in a disinfectant factory.
Not only could it not clean off the cooked-on food stains on my cooker, it could not even lift the fat-splashes that had resulted from my most recent fry-up. Quite frankly, I could not have achieved less successful results had I tried to lick the cooker clean with my tongue.
Not wishing to admit defeat, however, I then moved on to attempt to clean those rather bizarre, sticky marks that randomly appear on the bottom of one’s steam iron from time to time for no readily discernible reason. Indeed, the ease with which the miracle-worker in the “Product X” advertisement had cleansed the bottom of their steam-iron was one of the major factors in influencing me in my impulse purchase. Sadly, however, a prolonged period of vigorous scouring achieved no discernible result, beyond the comprehensive clogging of the little steam holes with fine, white powder.
Undeterred, I moved onto the bottom of my extremely expensive, heavy-bottomed frying pan. A few quick swirls of the sponge by the Hogwarts-trained thespian in the advert, a quick scoosh of water, and the bottom of their pan was restored to pristine virginity. Several minutes of determined scrubbing on my part, however, merely served to demonstrate the sad truth that a scrubber and virginity are seldom re-united in the real world.
I must confess that I did then get a certain amount of enjoyment, although not, I feel, a fiver’s-worth, from running around my house to see what else “Product X” would be entirely unable to clean. Certainly my bathroom presented no barrier to its inexhaustible appetite for failure. Gold I do not possess, but I decided to avoid letting it near my silverware just in case an insatiable capacity for completely dissolving silver turned out to be the final twist-in-the-tale added to the mix by the sadistic genius who compounded this Machiavellian product. I only wish that my car had alloy wheels, in order that I could have obtained a more complete set.
In short, Sirs, whilst I am not usually one to complain; whilst I hold to the principle of “caveat emptor”; and whilst I have sympathy with the idea that anyone expecting to be able to buy a product capable of producing super-natural results for less than five pounds really does deserve to be fleeced, I have to say that this particular product is so wholly, so comprehensively and so utterly useless that I really would be grateful to receive your cheque for £4.99 in respect of a refund for my purchase.
Under such circumstances, you would, naturally, be entitled to request that I should return to you the unused portion of my tub of “Product X” which I would be happy to do, although what conceivable reason you should have to do so, or to what earthly use you could put it if I did, is entirely beyond me.
Alternatively, on the other hand, if you feel my criticisms to be unjustified, you would be most welcome to send a member of your staff around to my address to demonstrate exactly where I was going wrong with the utilisation of the product. I suspect, however, that sending a cheque would be cheaper.
I remain, Sir, your obedient servant,
M.A.D.
Monday, July 23, 2007
I've been here before...
Well, I've been pretty good this last week, and guess what, I lost 2 pounds.
My body is a dull sort of creature. It has no originality. 2 pounds on, 2 pounds off. You might think that it might try a bit harder to entertain us. It would not be difficult, one week lose five pounds, next week gain three, the week after, grow an extra leg... The possibilities are endless.
This upping and downing by two pounds each time is a tad on the dull side. It's also a bit unfair, because everyone else seems to lose a load really quickly when they start trying to lose weight. Why can’t I? It would be a bit more encouraging if nothing else.
My other exciting news is that I had a urine sample tested the other week and it had traces of glucose in it. Yippee. Now I’ve got to go and have a blood test next week to see if I might have diabetes.
I can’t remember if I have mentioned before, but I have a pathological – and totally irrational – fear of needles. The Blood Test is going to be bad enough. If I have to go onto a regime of injecting insulin, then I will probably have a nervous breakdown…
Deep joy. Oh well, the blood test is a week on Wednesday, so I shall pretend that it isn’t happening. Positive thinking, that’s what the sheila with the irritating voice told me on The Secret. Think thoughts of wellness and good-health and wellness and good-health shall be delivered unto you. Sounds good to me.
My body is a dull sort of creature. It has no originality. 2 pounds on, 2 pounds off. You might think that it might try a bit harder to entertain us. It would not be difficult, one week lose five pounds, next week gain three, the week after, grow an extra leg... The possibilities are endless.
This upping and downing by two pounds each time is a tad on the dull side. It's also a bit unfair, because everyone else seems to lose a load really quickly when they start trying to lose weight. Why can’t I? It would be a bit more encouraging if nothing else.
My other exciting news is that I had a urine sample tested the other week and it had traces of glucose in it. Yippee. Now I’ve got to go and have a blood test next week to see if I might have diabetes.
I can’t remember if I have mentioned before, but I have a pathological – and totally irrational – fear of needles. The Blood Test is going to be bad enough. If I have to go onto a regime of injecting insulin, then I will probably have a nervous breakdown…
Deep joy. Oh well, the blood test is a week on Wednesday, so I shall pretend that it isn’t happening. Positive thinking, that’s what the sheila with the irritating voice told me on The Secret. Think thoughts of wellness and good-health and wellness and good-health shall be delivered unto you. Sounds good to me.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Hmm...
Well, I've been pretty good for the last week, I've done my cross-training and I've done my new multi-gym sessions -and I've not been going mad on the food.
And the result?
Fuck all.
I still weighed in at 15st 10lbs (that's 220 lbs to you yanks) which stilll equates to fat bastard.
Sigh. It's very demoralising.
But I shall stick at it and see whether things improve....
And the result?
Fuck all.
I still weighed in at 15st 10lbs (that's 220 lbs to you yanks) which stilll equates to fat bastard.
Sigh. It's very demoralising.
But I shall stick at it and see whether things improve....
Monday, July 09, 2007
Back to where we started
Sigh. Weighed in this morning at 15st 10lbs. Bummer. Right back where I stared this blog.
Ho hum. Well, the main point is not to get dispirited and give up altogether. Keeping to the exercise schedule at the moment, so this should go down, rapidly, I hope. Onwards and upwards - well, downwards, as far as weight is concerned, I hope.
Went to visit my friends in Wales this weekend. Decided on the spur of the moment at 7.00pm on Friday night and by a quarter past midnight I was there. Marvellous. A friend said to me the other day "you are lucky just to be able to drive off all over the country and have places to stay" and she is right. I am very lucky. Sometimes I loose sight of that.
On my way down, I bought a copy of "The Secret" by Rhonda Byrne, and read by the Author. It's a but full of hype and "California Woo-Woo" and she does have a irritating tendency to read in a overly done "drop-my-voice-in-tones-of-awe" manner that, for a stiff-upper-lip English type can be a bit wearing. However, that said, it does seem to make a lot of sense.
They make some pretty outrageous claims about what "The Secret" can achieve for you (pretty much, anything at all). Now if it were me, I would have toned that down a bit. If the secret can achieve anything at all, let that be a nice surprise, or reveal it to more advanced initiates or let them work it out for themselves.
However, I suspect that claiming that from the outset is going to give a lot of people credibility problems, and as the system is pretty much built on self-belief, that’s not necessarily a good start.
However, that said, it still makes an awful lot of sense, and I have already started including it in my life.
Watch this space.
Ho hum. Well, the main point is not to get dispirited and give up altogether. Keeping to the exercise schedule at the moment, so this should go down, rapidly, I hope. Onwards and upwards - well, downwards, as far as weight is concerned, I hope.
Went to visit my friends in Wales this weekend. Decided on the spur of the moment at 7.00pm on Friday night and by a quarter past midnight I was there. Marvellous. A friend said to me the other day "you are lucky just to be able to drive off all over the country and have places to stay" and she is right. I am very lucky. Sometimes I loose sight of that.
On my way down, I bought a copy of "The Secret" by Rhonda Byrne, and read by the Author. It's a but full of hype and "California Woo-Woo" and she does have a irritating tendency to read in a overly done "drop-my-voice-in-tones-of-awe" manner that, for a stiff-upper-lip English type can be a bit wearing. However, that said, it does seem to make a lot of sense.
They make some pretty outrageous claims about what "The Secret" can achieve for you (pretty much, anything at all). Now if it were me, I would have toned that down a bit. If the secret can achieve anything at all, let that be a nice surprise, or reveal it to more advanced initiates or let them work it out for themselves.
However, I suspect that claiming that from the outset is going to give a lot of people credibility problems, and as the system is pretty much built on self-belief, that’s not necessarily a good start.
However, that said, it still makes an awful lot of sense, and I have already started including it in my life.
Watch this space.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Still around, starting going again
I started exercising on the cross-trainers again last week. Been going well with regular morning sessions.
Took delivery of a new multi-trainer yesterday, and spent a happy couple of hours putting it all together. I did have a TotalGym1000 which I really liked and which I thought was effective, but I found it too much of a faff changing it around to do the different exercises.
Also, one of the main reasons that I don't exercise is that I find it bloody boring. Running, riding, cycling out in the countryside just makes me feel like I'm in prison. Apart from the fact that I don't particularly enjoy the feeling of a work-out (I've never been a relish-the-burn sort) I just find it dull, dull, dull.
I work in the countryside anyway, so going out into it for a run or whatever is not a bonus. Lots of people say that they do lots of thinking whilst they are running. That doesn't work for me. I love to spend time alone in my head. I can plan and plot and think about all sorts of things that need cogitating. Unfortunately, however, I find that my brain does not work well whilst exercising. I am a man - I can't multi-task.
Like the cross trainer, this new toy can be used in front of the telly, which the TotalGym was not very well designed for. This way, my mind can be diverted whilst my body slaves away. I have a digital TV recorder which means that I can record stuff that I fancy at any time (I hardly watch any real-time TV) and watch it whilst I work out.
My game plan for the next couple of months is to use the Cross-Trainer for half an hour every morning (or as many as I can) and to use the Multi-trainer three times a week, for half an hour or so on Tuesdays, Fridays and Sundays. This schedule will fit in with the work regime riding, when it changes in September.
Weight-wise, I haven't weighed myself in a while, but I know that I will be back up at the top end of the 15st range (all my good work last year piddled away... sigh...)
Having done a bit of training, I shall weigh myself Monday morning to see where I am starting from this time.
I think that I shall also take some measurements, as weight doesn't really bother me; it's more shape that counts. I don't want to "get ripped", as they say in fitness-geek-speak, I just want to get a bit more definition and lose some more of that flab - the eponymous Middle Aged Spread.
On other matters, I'm still not smoking. I have had a couple since February and that's it. I had a drag on someone's fag a few days ago, just out of curiosity more than anything else, and I really didn't enjoy it. A real case of "why on earth did I like that?" As I've said before, I think I will always be an occasional puffer, but I’m not sure that I will go back to being a regular, this time. We shall, however, see.
I'm also trying to psyche myself up into doing a "before" photograph for a before-and-after set, but we shall have to see about that one.
Took delivery of a new multi-trainer yesterday, and spent a happy couple of hours putting it all together. I did have a TotalGym1000 which I really liked and which I thought was effective, but I found it too much of a faff changing it around to do the different exercises.
Also, one of the main reasons that I don't exercise is that I find it bloody boring. Running, riding, cycling out in the countryside just makes me feel like I'm in prison. Apart from the fact that I don't particularly enjoy the feeling of a work-out (I've never been a relish-the-burn sort) I just find it dull, dull, dull.
I work in the countryside anyway, so going out into it for a run or whatever is not a bonus. Lots of people say that they do lots of thinking whilst they are running. That doesn't work for me. I love to spend time alone in my head. I can plan and plot and think about all sorts of things that need cogitating. Unfortunately, however, I find that my brain does not work well whilst exercising. I am a man - I can't multi-task.
Like the cross trainer, this new toy can be used in front of the telly, which the TotalGym was not very well designed for. This way, my mind can be diverted whilst my body slaves away. I have a digital TV recorder which means that I can record stuff that I fancy at any time (I hardly watch any real-time TV) and watch it whilst I work out.
My game plan for the next couple of months is to use the Cross-Trainer for half an hour every morning (or as many as I can) and to use the Multi-trainer three times a week, for half an hour or so on Tuesdays, Fridays and Sundays. This schedule will fit in with the work regime riding, when it changes in September.
Weight-wise, I haven't weighed myself in a while, but I know that I will be back up at the top end of the 15st range (all my good work last year piddled away... sigh...)
Having done a bit of training, I shall weigh myself Monday morning to see where I am starting from this time.
I think that I shall also take some measurements, as weight doesn't really bother me; it's more shape that counts. I don't want to "get ripped", as they say in fitness-geek-speak, I just want to get a bit more definition and lose some more of that flab - the eponymous Middle Aged Spread.
On other matters, I'm still not smoking. I have had a couple since February and that's it. I had a drag on someone's fag a few days ago, just out of curiosity more than anything else, and I really didn't enjoy it. A real case of "why on earth did I like that?" As I've said before, I think I will always be an occasional puffer, but I’m not sure that I will go back to being a regular, this time. We shall, however, see.
I'm also trying to psyche myself up into doing a "before" photograph for a before-and-after set, but we shall have to see about that one.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Still alive, still hovering
Well, the weight remains around 15' 2 / 15' 3.
Lent has just begun and I have given up alcohol, cigarettes, sweets (candy to you yanks) and caffiene.
Unfortunately (for those of you who would like to think of me suffering), this is a doddle. I have no problems with it whatsoever (I do it most years)
Why do I take these varuious noxious substances up again? Because I enjoy them and because I am stupid.
Ho hum.
Come mid march, my winter silly season ends and I will go back to the cross-trainer and the diet.
The diet is going to yhave to change, though, because I have been finding that some of the things I have been eating have been playing hell with my digestive system. Say no more.
Lent has just begun and I have given up alcohol, cigarettes, sweets (candy to you yanks) and caffiene.
Unfortunately (for those of you who would like to think of me suffering), this is a doddle. I have no problems with it whatsoever (I do it most years)
Why do I take these varuious noxious substances up again? Because I enjoy them and because I am stupid.
Ho hum.
Come mid march, my winter silly season ends and I will go back to the cross-trainer and the diet.
The diet is going to yhave to change, though, because I have been finding that some of the things I have been eating have been playing hell with my digestive system. Say no more.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Happy New Year
Welcome to 2007.
I am still alive and still worrying about my weight - although, that said, I have not been weighing myself recently. I am somewhat nervous about what Mr Scales will say to me after the festive season. I hope he will be my friend...
Life is till manic, although not as manic as it was before Christmas. Hopefully in a week or so, I will be able to get back into a much more managed and sensible routine.
Who knows, I might even get back into blogging regularly here.
My favourite blogger has just committed bloggicide (Vale, TWG, you will be missed. If I were ... well, someone completely different to who I am, really ... I would zoom over to Boston and whisk you off your feet. The fact that no one has just proves my long held belief that Americans (with one or two rare exceptions) are basically stoopid), so I should have more time.
(WARNING: having me read your blog is bad for its health. Every blog I get into reading dies. Dooomed, I tell you, you are all doomed!)
I am still alive and still worrying about my weight - although, that said, I have not been weighing myself recently. I am somewhat nervous about what Mr Scales will say to me after the festive season. I hope he will be my friend...
Life is till manic, although not as manic as it was before Christmas. Hopefully in a week or so, I will be able to get back into a much more managed and sensible routine.
Who knows, I might even get back into blogging regularly here.
My favourite blogger has just committed bloggicide (Vale, TWG, you will be missed. If I were ... well, someone completely different to who I am, really ... I would zoom over to Boston and whisk you off your feet. The fact that no one has just proves my long held belief that Americans (with one or two rare exceptions) are basically stoopid), so I should have more time.
(WARNING: having me read your blog is bad for its health. Every blog I get into reading dies. Dooomed, I tell you, you are all doomed!)
Monday, October 16, 2006
Progress progresses...
Well another week, another Post.
Only a couple more weeks until November and a return to sanity. Well, ok, maybe not, but perhaps a bit further away from insanity.
The good news? Well, there's lots of good news. My friends whose shit I was anxst-ing about a few posts below have managed to get said shit back together, for a start (yay, small feeling of inner glow for part played), but, nay, that wasn't the good news of which I was a-thinkin'.
Nope. The good news hereforeto alluded is that I have lost yet another two pounds, making me now 15st, 2lbs. Now, this was still in "silly season", whereby I am eating mostly crap. I suspect the weight loss is because I am doing a lot of exercise - mostly riding - at the moment. It does, however, motivate me greatly to get back into proper diet mode, because that elusive status of being "under 15st" is now well within my sights. From under-15st, under-14st-hood is surely only a hop and a skip away...
The bad news? Well the bad news is that I have just ended up volunteering to organise something else. Why, oh why, Oh Why, can't I get involved with anything at all without bloody well ending up running the damned thing? Why? Because I'm a damned fool idiot, that's why! It wouldn't be so bad if I actually had time to do everything that I volunteered to do, but when it comes down to it, I don't always have it. It's all very well saying "If you want something doing, give it to a busy man to do", but sometimes the busy man is just too busy.
That said, I think that this particular little event I should have time to run, as I have over a year to plan and execute it, and a committee - of sorts - to assist me, but still, I must make a mental note to slam my head in the fridge door at some point in order to chastise myself for yet another piece of damn-fool volunteering...
Only a couple more weeks until November and a return to sanity. Well, ok, maybe not, but perhaps a bit further away from insanity.
The good news? Well, there's lots of good news. My friends whose shit I was anxst-ing about a few posts below have managed to get said shit back together, for a start (yay, small feeling of inner glow for part played), but, nay, that wasn't the good news of which I was a-thinkin'.
Nope. The good news hereforeto alluded is that I have lost yet another two pounds, making me now 15st, 2lbs. Now, this was still in "silly season", whereby I am eating mostly crap. I suspect the weight loss is because I am doing a lot of exercise - mostly riding - at the moment. It does, however, motivate me greatly to get back into proper diet mode, because that elusive status of being "under 15st" is now well within my sights. From under-15st, under-14st-hood is surely only a hop and a skip away...
The bad news? Well the bad news is that I have just ended up volunteering to organise something else. Why, oh why, Oh Why, can't I get involved with anything at all without bloody well ending up running the damned thing? Why? Because I'm a damned fool idiot, that's why! It wouldn't be so bad if I actually had time to do everything that I volunteered to do, but when it comes down to it, I don't always have it. It's all very well saying "If you want something doing, give it to a busy man to do", but sometimes the busy man is just too busy.
That said, I think that this particular little event I should have time to run, as I have over a year to plan and execute it, and a committee - of sorts - to assist me, but still, I must make a mental note to slam my head in the fridge door at some point in order to chastise myself for yet another piece of damn-fool volunteering...
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Well, I did say that September and October were my crazy months.
Haven't had a lot of time for anything recently, let alone writing here. My bad.
So what has happened? Well, I have stayed constant at 15st 4lbs for the past two Monday mornings, which isn't too bad as the diet has not been good. To give you an example, I haven't been groceries shopping for over two weeks.
Also I have been smoking rather a lot, just recently. Now I gave up smoking some time ago, but always used to smoke for enjoyment rather than addiction and every now and then I have a little relapse and have a small smokeathon binge. However, this last couple of weeks I have been a stress monkey, and when I am stressed I tend to smoke. Smoking, as we know, is a bad thing to do, so I must get myself back into control and stop.
If I am being totally honest with myself, I only really do it because it is "naughty" anyway. It's bizarre, but if I really analyse it deep down, that's why I do it - because I know that I shouldn't. I never did rebel as a teenager, so maybe this is my teen rebellion finally seeking its self expression.
My teen rebellion is an idiot.
Haven't had a lot of time for anything recently, let alone writing here. My bad.
So what has happened? Well, I have stayed constant at 15st 4lbs for the past two Monday mornings, which isn't too bad as the diet has not been good. To give you an example, I haven't been groceries shopping for over two weeks.
Also I have been smoking rather a lot, just recently. Now I gave up smoking some time ago, but always used to smoke for enjoyment rather than addiction and every now and then I have a little relapse and have a small smokeathon binge. However, this last couple of weeks I have been a stress monkey, and when I am stressed I tend to smoke. Smoking, as we know, is a bad thing to do, so I must get myself back into control and stop.
If I am being totally honest with myself, I only really do it because it is "naughty" anyway. It's bizarre, but if I really analyse it deep down, that's why I do it - because I know that I shouldn't. I never did rebel as a teenager, so maybe this is my teen rebellion finally seeking its self expression.
My teen rebellion is an idiot.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Bad times...
The following was written in two stages. The latter stage is not in the same vein as the former.
Well, I must apologise for the sparse performance here. September and October are incredibly hectic months for me, work-wise, also involving a lot of late nights and early starts. Ay present I am too knackered to think very straight and also so busy that I just don’t have time to sit down and compose my thoughts.
In addition, I am on the move a lot, and regular healthy eating is very difficult. On the upside, however, I am getting a lot of exercise done in work, so yay to that.
On Monday morning, I weighed in at 15st, 4lbs, which is another pound closer to elusive under-15-stone target. Good, good, good.
I have decided that that I am going to stop being a good listener and an all-round good egg. It’s bloody hard work. As well as everything else I have to contend with, I am also having to try to help my friends sort out their shit. Now, in reality, I don’t begrudge them this one little bit, but on top of everything else it’s wearing. What’s worse, I don’t know if I can actually help. My magic wand is running out of zap, and it’s not good.
Makes losing a pound seem a bit trivial really…
Well, I must apologise for the sparse performance here. September and October are incredibly hectic months for me, work-wise, also involving a lot of late nights and early starts. Ay present I am too knackered to think very straight and also so busy that I just don’t have time to sit down and compose my thoughts.
In addition, I am on the move a lot, and regular healthy eating is very difficult. On the upside, however, I am getting a lot of exercise done in work, so yay to that.
On Monday morning, I weighed in at 15st, 4lbs, which is another pound closer to elusive under-15-stone target. Good, good, good.
I have decided that that I am going to stop being a good listener and an all-round good egg. It’s bloody hard work. As well as everything else I have to contend with, I am also having to try to help my friends sort out their shit. Now, in reality, I don’t begrudge them this one little bit, but on top of everything else it’s wearing. What’s worse, I don’t know if I can actually help. My magic wand is running out of zap, and it’s not good.
Makes losing a pound seem a bit trivial really…
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