Oh, look, i've finally written something.

I thought i'd write a few thoughts down first. Yes i know this isn't my diary, but bear with me, i have a point to make and stuff. And no, i don't actually have a bear with me.


As i've gotten progressively older, more wiser, more manly and having a good shave every month or so to prove said increasing manliness, i've come to look upon the holidays with an increasing air of quiet desparation, the type not unknown to John Prescott's bedsprings.

Gone are the days when the summer basically consisted of continuous piss ups on strongbow in the local park. No more are the great continuous days on end replaying of classic games like GTA San Andreas. Tidings of regretful passing must be shown to the epic, midsummer gigs at the local town hall and the pubs that snuck drink to underagers at the bar, who'd go and get so drunk after a few jaegerbombs and then try and piss right in front of all the smokers in their courtyard. Adios, Sayonara and Farewell to laughing at all the wankers sweltering and turning beetroot red in their dark business suits.

And that's where my current chip on the shoulder is coming from; i am now one of those wankers. There's aI suppose i have to grow up and accept the responsibility, and i can't just have things handed to me on a plate anymore, but the crux of it all is that i can't bear to think that within a few years my life might be nothing but a world of P45s, personal fucking targets, and false enthusiasm that is drilled into us by team leaders spawned from Midas' wife's golden vagina.

I suppose the money is good though, and when you think about it nostalgia is a dangerous rose tinted lense and not to be trusted. It was bloody Pol Pot's love for Cambodia's medieval age of nothing but paddy fields that led that mad fucker to kill thousands (I say that though, but i'm just a speccy eejit, and he hated lads like me, so i've got a biased. I'm always interested in meeting the fine person who rises to the Saviour of the Cambodian Proletariat's defense though!)

Anyway, to take my mind off a potential late teens crisis or whatever my convoluted neuroses is fretting over next, i have recently joined a gym, which is an entertaining experience to say the least. There is something almost sacred about the gym - not just in the way people make it the focus of their life, but in their behaviour their too. Now, i cannot say the same for every gym everywhere, as that would mean i have been to every one in our fair isle, akin to a enraged feline who must simply destroy the whole nest of birds for the fun of it. But There is little to no chatter at all going on there, even when it is busy. It's almost churchlike in the way it is unheard of - as if everyone is devoting themselves, mind and soul, to Apollo, Hercules or some other effeminate metaphor. The machines are your pews, the mirrors are the altar, as your reflection will gradually change into what popular culture desires for men to look like. It can even be said that the blaring loop of happy hardcore music which doesn't strike a chord with 99% of people there are the Temple's hymns. The loop of 8 songs adds further credence, as these mangled trancey versions of 'Bridge over Troubled Water' (OH GOD NO.) and Put a Donk On It seem to be some sort of proscribed set for our beliefs, namely that of dancing like morons once the work out is over, and holding the extremist belief that God commanded Isaac to put a donk on the Sodomites.

I may seem to be making some sort of spiritual link here, but after you get over the initial thought of 'ohgodhowdidigetherewhyamidoingthistomyselfiamnotgoodwithcomputer'. You do end up feeling really good afterwards, at the least. TBH, it certainly isn't spiritual really. It's just the place for those trapped by soceities' expectations and sneers go to give in, give up, and redeem themselves.


Plus they also have Put a Donk on It playing, which is well sik bruv.




--PP

--Afternote: Goodnight MJ. Hope the dude's found some peace.