Thursday, 28 January 2010

Piercing wit

Ok, I’m sorry. I received a rollicking today. Nothing serious, it was just that one of the lorry drivers I spoke about a while back had noticed that my rate of blogging had fallen off a bit. I am grateful that someone is actually following the blog. And I’m not worried that it is someone who lives in a tin box on wheels thru’ the week with their only companion: the internet and a CB radio. I’m not proud, God knows I can’t afford to be, I’ll accept anyone as a follower of my blog. As long as they don’t start to stalk me, that would be just creepy.

By the way, Ralph, the little white pills really hit the spot, thanks.

So now I have to think of something to say.

I see in the paper this week that someone has been complaining about scruffy people in the media. I don’t really care what people look like, to an extent. Jeremy Clarkson in jeans doesn’t bother me. The weird girl who served me in Tesco cafĂ© the other day did bother me. She had piercings in a strange place. In her wrist. Surely, as someone who works with food, she shouldn’t have been allowed near the hot food server, let alone the caffe latte maker. I work in a company that makes food. I am not allowed to wear my piercings at work in case they fall into the product, I haven’t told the boss about the Prince Albert as I’m scared he might want to inspect it, but apparently you can be pierced and serve food. Strange.

Quite often as I walk round the shops I will see some pierced freak with more metalwork than the Eiffel tower hanging out of their face, ears and God knows where else. These are the same people that, when sat at the checkout, refer to me as “mate” At this point the red mist starts to rise before my eyes. I want to be called “Sir” or “Mr…” I certainly don’t want to be called “mate” by someone who is least likely to be my mate.

Mate is a slang term for friend, or a term for a procreational partner. I cannot see myself becoming friends with the lank haired victim of a deranged blacksmith. Nor can I see myself procreating with this missing link. I have been known to explain this in a loud voice, to deaf ears. Probably the piercings are weighing down the lobes so much that the ear canal is closed. I waste my time. Why do I bother?

I’m all for a little individuality, but please don’t call me “mate” unless you have known me for some time or I have slept with you.

Friday, 8 January 2010

Hello Sweetness!

Went to the doctor yesterday. Just to go over the results of some blood tests I had before Christmas. He told me what I already knew, I’m sweet. Really sweet. I’m diabetic.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, I’m mid-forties, a tad overweight and probably don’t look after myself as well as I should. I used to be quite healthy. I cycled everywhere and was whippet thin and then I discovered the joys of alcohol, women and eventually marriage. I was lucky in that I married a woman who was a good cook, boy, was she a good cook. So really it is her fault that I am now a shambling wreck of a man instead of the athlete I was twenty years ago. I’m only joking, dear, honestly.

Life now presents me with some problems to overcome. I have to change a lifestyle that I have settled into, probably a little too easily. If you read my blogs you will know that I am a confirmed salad dodger, but now I have to try and get five portions of fruit and veg into this knackered body of mine. I also have to cut down on the sugary stuff. This won’t be too hard because I have always been a savoury rather than sweet man. I prefer the cheese board to the dessert. But I do like a bit of sugar in the coffee that keeps me going through the day. I guess I will have to learn to take it without or find an artificial sweetener that actually tastes sweet. I will have to be more careful over what I eat, get the balance of carbs and fats and proteins right. Lose a little weight, do a little more exercise…

Life will be fun again, eventually.

I thought that of the two main types of diabetes type 2 was minor irritation rather than anything serious. But I have now read the diabetes UK website and I am sobered by what I have read. If you think you may be diabetic, or you want to take preventative measures so that you don’t become diabetic read it. I can see that these changes must be made. I will make these changes; after all, I gave up smoking without any help and without too much of a problem, so hard can it be?

I expect Mrs Giant68 will find me whimpering in a corner somewhere in about a weeks’ time.

Tuesday, 5 January 2010

My Arse!

For one week in six I spend my days at work directing traffic. No, I’m not a copper. I just tell the drivers of trucks where to tip their load. I sit in an office and look out the window at a lorry either side of me, trailer tipped up and cab facing out into the road. I listen to the radio; do the relevant paperwork, tidy up, whatever.

Now, don’t get me wrong, most of the drivers that come in are nice chaps. Very friendly, although they do tend to take the mick at times, but, I guess, they get as good as they give.

The towns are full of chavs with their trousers ½ way down their arse, showing the colour of their underwear. It really annoys me and makes me feel like telling them to pull the bloody things up! But they are nowhere near as bad as some truck drivers. At least the chavs just show their underwear. Sometimes I look out of the office window and wonder if I can hold onto my lunch as another driver reverses out of his cab with trousers at ½ mast and most of his arse on show! Why do they have to do it? Do they feel that this is a good look for a knight of the road? Surely they should be able to hoik their trousers up inside the cab? Or maybe someone could design a pair of strides that come further up the back and, therefore, don’t expose the rectum to fresh air. Then the poor afflicted driver can spend more of his time worrying about where he can obtain a Yorkie bar.

And as for Tyrone and his reversing…