hitting the ground running...

I'm the kinda guy who is full of great ideas - some more abstract or feasible than others. As times gone on, some of them have been scarring my life for almost 20 years now...

Enthusiastically, in my teens, I thought it would be a great way to commemorate that annual celebration of the 'breath of life' which we all hold onto so dearly, and to go for a run on each of my birthdays. Fantastic idea indeed - full of merit, commendable spirit and a great innovation... and now, many years later, a massive pain in the arse.

Well into my 2nd decade of this hare-brained scheme, it truly has become tiresome. No matter how enthused one may be to get up early on their birthday - and every following birthday - to go for a run, eventually it becomes somewhat annoying. Now I've done the bloody thing for so long, I don't know how to stop it (one year I almost forgot about it until a 'helpful' flatmate offered to come with me on 'the run'. Bastard - even failing memory couldn't help me.). At some point in life i'll eventually be too infirm to do it - and so it will finally end (at which point I'll be dribbling into my tea, reminiscing on all those youthful runs).

I don't really believe in making 'new years' resolutions in the sense that I believe you can make a resolution on any day of the year or, at the least, your own birthday is be a better date to launch into it. But I do have an inspiration to get this year off to a 'flyer'.

In a similar train of thought, was my concern over what to do for this New Years Eve - I had the choice of a party at a mates (with 5 kids under the age of 8), an invite to an unknown party full of over-achievers & snobbery (I suspected anyway, perhaps incorrectly) or a street party of 180.000 (which I've done a tonne of times). Alternatively, I was thinking - how cool to work! Not 'cool', per se, but what a stirling effort for my business and a dedicated start to the new year.

As the time drew closer the situation evolved yet again. With this latest update, 4 of the 5 children have been executed (well, shipped of to various Grannies), the snobby party is now a dinner party and an 'on the guest list' setup for a nightclub and it is now raining outside, hence the street party will be 180,000 wet / cold / drunk people)...

Earlier this morning though...

With all these thoughts in mind I had devised a cunning way to get the year off to a good start but still manage to sneak a few 100 drinks in as well. Having been born on the other side of the planet, I have regular occasion to celebrate certain events twice in one day or to extend celebrations over a 2-day period (it's a very flexible and convenient system that I use).

So I figured that if I got up early today (new years eve) I could be out there running as the bells tolled in the Antipodes. Good plan, except that I have only managed 2 other runs in the last 3 months (and am pretty staggeringly unfit). Like I said, you cannae beat a good idea - so I signed the dotted line last night and made my preparations.

I was awoken by txt msg's from around the planet this morning and then crawled out to get on with this latest charade. It had been so long, I could not find my running gear but finally, through blurry eyes and shivering bones, I got it all together. Minutes later and I'm double-tying my running shoes and, then, looking for my MiniDisc player.

As I leaned over for the shelf for my walkman I feel my pants were a bit tight and ill-fitting at the hem, to which I naturally thought "I know its been a while since I have been for a run, but I haven't put on that much weight - have I?". Looking down to assess the situation I begin to pull at the front of my pants, only to discover the manufacturing tag proudly looking at me. Nice one - they're on back to front and I've got fully double-knotted shoes on...

For a minute, I must admit, I thought 'bugger it - just go anyway' and then I thought what a great start to the year that is - going for the Herculian run on New Years Eve with my pants on back to front (if that doesn't set the pattern for the year nothing can)!

3 minutes later and the problem was resolved, next on the schedule was a pee. Deciding to sit down for the effort (I was fiddling with my stopwatch at the time and needed more limbs), after a moment or two I realised that I could see the floor of the bathroom through the crotch seam of my running pants. For gawd's sake, now I've blown my pants with my fat arse. Nice one...

I really considered going back to bed but I'd come this far and decided to press on with it... at least I can certainly say I hit the ground running for 2006...

Quality customer relations...

Ye cannae beat the Medieval institution that is the British Banking System. Steeped in mystery & tradition, they proudly turn any minor administrative task into an ordeal that would be worthy of a mention in Homer's Odyssey.

I recently got some mail through my door from those kindly folk up the road, providing me with the finer details of a charge that was to be debited from my account. Fair enough you may say, except that the charge had already been taken out my account about 3 weeks prior and a good 10 days before the letter was written (which almost leads me onto a diatribe about 'Royal Mail' who, in this case, took 10 days to get the delivery 400 metres along the road - and it was downhill).

Anyway, I knew the bill was coming so I was in no particular concern about it. What did catch my eye though was the accompanying statement of 'Principal Terms'. As I quickly scanned it, my eyes fell upon point 3C, which you can see below (or, almost see):



So, if you don't take the time to read it properly and you just happen to catch that particular line (like I did) it states: "If you are a Sole Trader, you die."

Well, actually, I am a Sole Trader and, therefore, is this some kind of a threat from my bank..?

I mean, in its full context, it's a valid point but, it must be said, there are a million nicer ways in which they could have made it. At the least though, they could have made it with a hint of empathy or even humanity in the statement, vice the clinical methodology of a surgeon 'removing' a cancerous tumor...

surely, there must be one?

I was chatting to a mate the other day and had brought up a certain subject that I had been pondering... 

This friend of mine is quite a well-read and knowledgeable, Australian chap. I had enquired of him "Tell me, can you think of anything positive to say about Rupert Murdoch?" (the media tycoon). 

His eyes glazed over slightly as he stared off into the distance and started to mull this over in his head. Finally, after a very long pause, he said "ummmm..." and, then, after some further determined thought "he does allow the 'Simpsons' to take the piss out of him...". 

And that was about that, we couldn't find a single good other thing to say about him...

The conversation continued and during it I mentioned that even after actively researching the matter (Wikipedia entry), I could not find mention of a charity that he works with, donates money to, nor a single decent cause that he has any involvement with, at any level (the Cato Institute sounds a bit self serving).

"Surely" I thought "there must be one?" - but, for the life of us, we couldn't identify one. 

C'mon Rupert, pull your socks up...

p.s. quirky afternote: this conversation happened on 22 Dec and then, today (after this blog was written), I caught a late breaking news item announcing that Kerry Packer, the other Aussie Media Tycoon, had passed away today...

p.s.s. my friend obviously caught it too - in an e-mail a day later he said: "Had a thought about Murdoch and what you were asking the other day (thinking of him partly because his portly sparring partner, Kerry-ugliest-MoFo-alive Packer just died), anyways you pointed out that he's always railed against the fact he's not allowed to own free to air TV and newspapers in Australia. But at the same time ENTIRELY JUSTIFIES this situation - by ensuring that all of his newspapers carry the party line - see Bush & Iraq!"

Give me a break...

Good ol' Xmas is the time of the year when one receives those loving, albeit predictable, seasonal greetings from family & friends. Now and again in the blossoming 21st century, you actually get some wonderful surprises via cyber-post. Just yesterday I got one of the surprises in the form of an e-mail from Emma...

My relationship with Emma was effectively a brief, non-consummated, fling during my teenage years while I was working as a supermarket checkout person - for ridiculously low pay I might add (you can't beat the enthusiasm of a 16-year-old working their nuts off for a miserable pay rate which, ultimately, converts to 2-possum-shit-pellets for every hour of slave labour)...

As for all of us I'm sure, the rise of the Internet & e-mail culture has allowed us to catch up with many folk from our former years / lives. Personally, my own gaggle of friends and schoolmates seem to have adopted the 'Old Friends' website as their designated posting board. And so it is through that site that, over time, I have been nicely surprised by some old girlfriends writing to me.

Like any natural soul this is all very flattering and it is genuinely wonderful to hear how they are all getting on with life, especially as the years roll by. As a single bloke, having missed out on the first round of marriages, I figure may actually meet the girl of my dreams (well, woman - since she is obviously aging now, admittedly) as she divorces from her first failed marriage (or second I'm not fussy), via some quirky online encounter / reunion like this...

Well, during the last couple of years, without the joy of any of the 'thunderbolts & lighting' moment that is normally associated with this kind of event, 4 of these ex-girlfriends have ended up pregnant during the course of our correspondence!

Now for god's sake, it is lovely to catch up with folk, even indulging in idle fantasies of  putting to rights those missed opportunities of purile youth - but give me a break man!

The first time it happened I thought it was funny, the second was bizarre and by the 3rd I was getting pissed off, pure and simple.

The fourth in this ever fattening list was Emma. She had written to me completely out of the blue via 'Old Friends' and we had established a degree of correspondence over the following months. She was now living in Australia with her long term Aussie boyfriend of some 12 years (although they had never married nor had kids, so I was informed). Reading between the lines she seemed a bit dulled by her life and enjoying the freedom of the Internet, which enabled her to dabble into old friendships and, perhaps (I enthusiastically imagined), indulge her own fantasies…

So a few months go by and you could say the conversation became somewhat more 'personal'. Nothing serious mind, just some idle banter from a keyboard a million miles away. When, all of a sudden, one day she mentions that she feels a bit guilty - which seemed odd since our e-mails had, realistically, barely breached platonic...

Upon enquiring why she was feeling troubled, she, all of a sudden, blurted out that she was actually pregnant with twins!

Nice one!

At least this time, admittedly, it happened before I impregnated her through the keyboard. I really have given up hope on meeting up with old girlfriends / future wives, through one of these services. I feel I should change my post on the ‘Old Friends’ website to carry this disclaimer

WARNING: "Do not contact me unless you have been sterilised or want to have children"

"Watch this..."

How to make an impression at a party...

Many moons ago as a somewhat younger fella, I was at a party in a rather 'upmarket' part of city. I was there with a group of friends and we had made our way in via some tenuous association with someone who 'did' actually have a proper invite to the party.

The house of the party was on a massive property with sweeping balcony and an immaculately landscaped garden. All completed with a sturdy retaining fence that braced the distant horizon...

As we arrived at this party and looked upon the crowd, it was already well abuzz with 200+ well-heeled and good-looking people already there.

Not really knowing anyone and being from the Western part of the city - which, at the time, was more known for its brethren wearing black jumpers 24/7, with long hair and driving V8 muscle cars - we were more than happy to stand in our own little muddle, getting merrily, pished.

As the evening wore on and a drought developed, I drew the short straw and was press-ganged into going out to the car to get some more drinks. With the party even busier now, I really couldn't be bothered navigating my way back through the labyrinth of a house, or throngs of strangers... of a party that I not really been invited to in the first place anyway!

As a crow would fly, the car was probably not more than 100 feet away from where our group had gathered and pretty much directly on the other side of the fence. Being a bit rubbered by now, I had a clever idea and figured I could use some gymnastic skills to get over the fence and straight back to the car... saving 10 minutes of party navigation.

Now, I'm no gymnast to be sure, but, at the time, back in ones' halcyon '20-something' days, I was pretty competent at jumping over things of various shape and size.

My basic method for clearing something like this was to approach it at high speed and jump up & at it, aiming to hit the crest of the fence with my hips and midsection. At that contact point, I could immediately roll forward, place my hand 1/2 way down the other side, all ready to use it as a fulcrum to flick over. 

My forward momentum would continue to rotate my lower body over me and the obstacle itself. As my legs came through overhead (me now fully inverted), I could release hold of everything, begin to roll my body 180 degrees, ready to land cleanly on the other side, facing in the right direction (this was learnt from swimming with tumble turns and a life-time of ice skating / ice hockey where, amongst other things, we used to jump over waist-high walls at the rink, in order to get on / off the ice as quickly as possible).

When done correctly, it looks grands. Flipping over high walls, incorporating a roll and some 'hang time', to boot. Getting to maybe 8-10 feet in the air, completely inverted... before landing gracefully on the other side. All in a split-second and with a youthful, devil-may-care, attitude!

So, it was with this vision in mind and a couple of drinks under my belt, that I set off on the particular mission.

Without a single word to my friends, nor a moment's thought (... and 'OH!', to have that moment and a chance for thought back) I set off running towards the fence - at full speed.

As far as my group of friends knew and subsequently recalled, I was standing there normally one minute and then I was just off, running like hell at an innocent fence, all while shouting "WATCH THIS...!" at the top of my lungs.

The fence itself was about 6 1/2 high feet (2'ish metres). It had a wooden frame around each section and each panel in those sections (which measured 1.5 x 2 metres) were filled with a chipboard type material, which was about 8mm thick in itself.

In normal circumstances this whole stunt should have come off fine... well, I might have looked a youthful twat, but that is about it.

On this day however, in the middle of a VERY big party, on a VERY big lawn, with hundreds of VERY posh people watching me - it was all about to go SPECTACULARLY wrong!

Initially, everything went fine, just like it had 100 times before. I had the fence lined up perfectly and knew exactly where I needed to plant my right foot, in order to get a good launch platform...

And then, as I approached, it happened...

Just as I was about to take the penultimate step before the actual, final, 'launch step'... I caught my toe.

Not by much and, in fact, I doubt many people, if anyone, would have noticed that I tripped slightly at all.

But it was enough to lower my ever-so-imminent launch trajectory by about 3 feet, from the top of the fence, to the middle of it instead.

'Oh... shit!'
I remember nothing of the impact itself, as it was all over in a flash.

The chipboard provided little resistance and I just drilled a nice, slightly human-shaped cartoon hole, right though the middle of the wall.
On the other side of the fence, I tumbled... rolled once... and came to a halt sitting perfectly still on my arse, now facing back towards the direction that I had just come from.

From 'my' point of view - things were quite different now. I had just been inside a very busy party, with music pumping, lots of noise and people chatting away. Now, mere seconds later, I was sitting alone on the grass verge of a very quiet suburban street, looking back at a party, through a round hole in a fence, where hundreds of strangers were all, and I mean ALL, staring back at me - with absolutely incredulous looks on their faces!!!

From 'their' point of view - they had all just been enjoying a very nice summer's party when, all of a sudden, some dickhead had shouted out loudly "WATCH THIS!" and then run off madly with, seemingly, full intention, right at, and then through, a big wooden fence!

~ ~ ~

It was a humbling moment to say the least but, it must be said, I did get to meet the owners of the party... a whole lot of other folk besides... and pay for a new section to the fence!

Upon eventual return to my group of friends, I think it was Geoff who had politely and succinctly captured the moment, when he said "What the fuck did you do that for...?"

Now, even all these years later, I really don't know the exact moral of the story. In some ways there are many, but in another, I find it hard to capture a single one that captures the complete pathos...

It certainly brought my 'public' gymnastic displays to a very sudden and premature end... but not the adventures of Captain Fargon (just add booze), of course ;)

p.s. Here's a picture of Geoff at work:

Geoff - a talented craftsman & Master Builder

(although slightly prone to the odd accident)

hmmm...

...where the hell is the accelerator pedal on this little bugger anyway...?