I changed jobs recently. Off to greener thingies and joined those crazy fools who commute.

It’s fun. For now.

Sure, come crazy middle winter time when I am standing on the train platform covered in rain or snow playing the “where the hell did my testicles go…are  they now hiding in my moobs which is why my nipples are now poking through my damn coat making it look like I am smuggling lumps of coal…” game that I  expect my cheery outlook to change. But til then…I have been watching.

You.

No, not you, you close your curtains too early. But you…fellow travellers. And what a bloody strange bunch we are.

I categorised them, put them in order, put them in subsets of parent categories…and promptly left my hard work on the train. So instead…

The “duuuh….does the door open on it’s own?” type. A simple answer is “No dumbass…it doesn’t. Now press the friggin button”. But instead…this person  stands next to the big button that when the doors are unlocked will turn bright green. Start beeping louder than r2d2 being given a super strength enema and then practically raises an arm out to grab yours as it desperately wants you to push its buttons.

Much like me after 5 pints.

It’s really not difficult to work out the simple offerings of the noisy green button. Or is it? Nope, he stands staring at the door much like a 90 year old probably looks at his erection. With a “huh…I know I gotta do something here…” but then scratches his arse and then leaves his hands by his side and stands looking confused at it.  Before hanging one of his WW2 medals on it.

The “Starer“. I’m watching you! You are? Well, if you don’t stop soon you creepy freak, I am gonna come over there, rip off your foot and stab you in the damn eyes with it. Then, when blinded from excessive foot insertion, I am going to insert it excessively somewhere else. I mean geez…I saw one guy staring at a girl so hard I am pretty sure he followed through. She took his advances very well, occasionally giving him those “If my boyfriend was here, you wouldn’t be able to follow through as he would rip off your head and jam it in in a place that rhymes with plectum” eyes, but Mr Starey…he still thought he had a chance.

I decided to give this game a go.  So I stood staring menacingly at an old woman.  Probably in her 70’s.  How was I to know the young guy sitting next to her was her grandson…and local kickboxing champion?

The “My god…you animal…drinking on a train…” type. I watched a guy sit down, get comfy, get his laptop out, start surfing…probably for porn (I was trying to see coz you know, always on the lookout for new material and all that)…and then get a bottle of whisky out and pour himself a cup.

The animal. The worthless waste of humankind…having a quiet drink to himself.  GODDAMN!

The dirty degenerate of mankind ruining life for the rest of us with his gentle sipping of his whisky. Yes, the lady 2 seats away was not happy with Mr Drinky. Every sip led to her turning her head and letting out a sigh of disgust….and gradually wound me up to the point where the next time she took that big inhale ready for the over exaggerated sigh which sounded like someone trying to blow up a zeppelin in one breath, I was going to throw a bowling ball at her.

This plan did come with two problems. As a rule, I don’t carry a bowling ball around with me. Infact I haven’t been bowling for years. That and although she was certainly attempting to suck an Orange through a straw with the force of her inhale, she was just too old to manage the gravitational pull required to keep the ball there once I started jamming it in her mouth, and I was conscious that my feet were below.

The “I can’t help having a cold!” type. Sure you can’t. Having a cold is a pain that we all feel at some point in the year. I and my fellow passengers don’t have a problem with that. It’s the whole sneezing without covering up your nose and mouth and coughing so hard that by the end I looked like one of the extras on The return of Swamp Thing. 

I mean hell…look away. Cover your face…if it gets too bad, let me surgically attach your arse cheek to your face…SOMETHING to help you understand how damn annoying you are.

The “I have music on…can you tell!” type.  You know the one.  Music on so loud that the earphones are actually starting to crumble.  Keep doing it.  The sooner you go deaf, the sooner I can legally say “I did give him a verbal warning before I punched him in the face your honour!”

The “Hmm..packed train…lets make a pointless phonecall!” type.  I don’t mind people talking on the phone.  It happens.  But I see one girl who is on the phone eeeevery single night.  And I had a few days where I was MP3 player-less.  And I had to listen to her.  Last week she lost just under 1 pound…although she thinks that is because she went out on Thursday and the this week…..” AARRRGGHHH!!!  SHUT UP!!!  I DONT CARE!  It isn’t that she was on the phone.  She was on “A” phone.  Except I think that she thought that the phone was in Germany and not London where she was, so she felt that she had to talk loud enough to make sure the noise got there.  I honestly don’t care if you lost just under 1 pound as much as you will be less than happy to know that my alarm went off and I slept through it this morning so I didn’t get a chance to have my lucky dump…and it is just not the same having it at work.  The whole environment is different.  I felt dirty afterwards.  And a little emotional. It’s like drinking store brand cola.  Sure, it’s drinkable, but it is just not the same.

Well, it was good to get that lot off of my chest.  Look out for the next post coming soon though…I had a slight “incident” on Sunday and woke up in an ambulance.  No alcohol was used in the making of the waking up in said ambulance.

Excited? I wouldn’t be.

Well.  It went and happened.  Daughter number 2 bounced (not literally…the hospitals here are quite awesome) in to the world on Monday morning. Yup, the young lady decided to wait until I had just finished a load of night shifts, had very little sleep and then made me stay up for 30+ hours.  Thanks kiddo.  But Braelyn’s journey here wasn’t an easy one.  Before she could arrive, her Mum, or Mrs Sy to you, had to put up with me.  Taking the piss.  Before, during and after each contraction.

Yup, even in childbirth, I can be, for want of a better word…a bit of a git.  In a nice way, naturally.

For instance. 

Early in to the contractions, I noticed a couple of things.  A couple of useful things that happened each time.  My wife…well…she changed.  For the better?  You decide.  I noticed that:

• Every contraction, she set in to “huff huff huff” breathing patterns
• Every contraction, her hand got impressively tight and she could grip things.

So.

I nicknamed her the Swiss Army Wife.  Or SAW for short.  This is because she could do many things you wouldn’t expect.  During the “huff huff huff” stage, I mentioned that if she could maybe oscillate her head from left to right while exhaling…well…I could turn off the fan we had on.  See?  Save electricity.  Take her mind off of things. Do a good deed…so to speak.

And talking of good deeds….the impressively tight hand thing.  Wow…I mean honestly…there is me…a man…knowing that this is the end of “fun time” for quite some time as of now…and there is her…with a great grip. 

No no no….not that.  Geez…perverts.  Get your mind back up here will you.  Trying to tell a story here!  So anyway, now you are back.  Thanks for that…I went downstairs, got a load of jars and bottles I have been having trouble opening.

Once all the jars were opened, we had a little game of Tug of War too.  The girl has quite a grip. Which I found out a little later.

Moving on to the hospital….and not mentioning the steaming over speed bumps in the car which maybe didn’t help her much. *ahem*

As exciting as childbirth is…it can get a little “Are we there yet?  Are we there yet?  Are we there yet?  Are we the….NO!!!!” for a bloke.  All that sitting about watching another woman putting her hand in parts of your wife while you wonder if it would be wrong at this point to head out for a sandwich or a chocolate bar.  And a beer.  Maybe catch a movie.  So I figured I should spice it up a little more.

So mid contraction, I started taking photos of her.  I have a great set of pictures with her face with a look of “Holy bloody…what the….where the….why is that….OW…BLOODY…CH!”.

She decided it was time to get me back.  So mid “pushing” she grabbed my hand.  Squeezed.  Moved my forefinger inside the clasped hand and made it bend in a way it was just not designed to.  It took all of my might to not say “Honey…that REALLY hurts…can you stop?  Do your huff huff huff thing again….pleeeeease?!” but I figured “Broken finger vs squeezing out small person” will end in “Sy…you big frigging girl.  I mean what the hell…it’s a finger!” That would have come from my friends.  My wife would have probably said “You deserved that!” smiled, tootled off and never let me live it down.

And then….15 minutes before Braelyn was born….it got messy.  Very very messy.  You see, we had the radio on fairly loudly.  This stopped the distressed whale noises coming from the room next door.  There was my wife…no pain killers at all….just dealing with it with only the use of the odd word that rhymes with “Clucking Bell”.  There was another woman obviously giving birth to a fully grown rhino or something from the noises.  But I digress…yes, it got messy.  You see, on the radio they were having a quiz.  One of the questions was “In Sesame Street, who is Bert’s friend?”.  My wife, in her “ouchy!” state said “Big bird!” I said “Nooo…it’s Ernie.  Bert and Ernie!” “No it isn’t…” she replied.  She still had my hand in one hand and my nuts in the other.  Do I admit defeat or just go with the “Nope.  I am right.  Now…oscillate…I am getting hot standing here!” 

I don’t admit defeat.  Therefore there will be no third child because after tearing my nuts off during the next contraction, she threw them in a sharps bin and said “Effing Big Bird!!”

But anyway.  That’s that.  And on a totally serious note…YOU WOMEN ARE FRIGGIN NUTS!!!  Holy hell…sure, I know I saw daughter number 1 get born, but I had forgotten the hell you go through.  Your all insane. Take the drugs will you!

Nuff said.

Look, I know I haven’t written on here for a while.  I have been busy.  Doing stuff.  And after doing a lot of this stuff, I have realised that I seriously need to man up. 

Yes I know you have known this for a while.  No need to be pedantic now is there. It just took me a little while to realise.

To recap.  I live with….1 x wife.  1 x daughter.  2 x girl cats.  1 x boy cat who changed when I chopped off his nuts and it should now read 3 x girl cats.  the 1 wife is 9 months pregnant and about to drop daughter number 2 any day.  There just aint a lot of room for manly stuff in my life.

It’s been hell.  I have been in a pink fluffy girlie nightmare.   A list of my recent offences can be seen as:

My daughter, now 2 and has the raging 2isms going on has decided that for some inexplicable reason that I am the best person to constantly put her hair in pigtails.  Then she looks in the mirror, takes them out and asks me to do them again.  Over and over.  Rinse, repeat.  I tried using the words “Look…I am about as good at this as I am at being a man.  It’s just not working out for me.  Ask your mother to do it.  She has long hair.  Likes girl products.  Isn’t me.” but you know….she is 2.  She ain’t listening.  I know this because when she is bored of me putting her hair up, she decides to do my hair.  I am a semi-balding semi-overweight 35 year old.  And that little plastic brush fricken hurts as she scrapes 3 layers of skin off each time.  But the words “Holy CRAP!  OW!  Stop…no…Shawnee…not so hard…please….Wifey, can you go get me something for the blood?” just don’t seem to work well for me.

But you know, that isnt the reason I need to man up.  There is:

I have painted on more than 1 occassion, my wife’s toenails for her recently.  Although in my defence, she is now 9 months pregnant, going to drop with daughter number 2 any day now and I have to describe what her feet actually look like as she hasn’t seen them for a while.  She now thinks she has 6 toes and warts.  I understand her pain.   I have done some other stuff…but seriously…I cant tell you.  It isn’t something you want to relate me to.  I must admit though….my painting abilities are a little on the “Ahhhh…look….a small child drew a picture on the wall!”.  So her toes now look like a bird crapped on them from a great height.  Or I did.  I go enough recently…which we will get to shortly.

But even THAT isn’t all the reasons I need to man up.

I went to Toys ‘r Us recently.  I spent a lot of time around the aisle containing dolls.  No, it isn’t a fetish.  My daughter was turning 2, so apparently you are supposed to buy them presents.  In this case, the present we were looking for was doll related. As a side note.  I want to kill Noddy.  ALL you can hear in that goddamn shop is the Noddy song.  I hope he BURNS IN HELL!!!

But according to my wife, we need a doll that does, and is not limited to:

It has to have clothes that she can change.  That you can bath it.  That you can put a dummy in it’s mouth.  That poops.  That pee’s.  That doesn’t have those creepy eyes that stay open when you lay it down.  That you can feed.  That screams, cries and maybe even says varying words. That is a certain size so other people can buy stuff for it such as car seats, prams and the ability to drive me bloody insane with the list of things required.  IT’S A BLOODY DOLL!!!

I mean really…what the hell.  So we looked.  And looked.  And looked.  Nothing.  That one will crap for you on demand by squeezing it’s stomach (as do I…as an FYI should we ever meet and you decide to give me a big squeezy cuddle…) but it has those creepy eyes that don’t close (I had an ex like that).  And that one there has clothes you can change, but wont eat.  Nor will it take a dummy in it’s mouth.  This is mostly in part due to the fact it’s mouth is a closed rubber lump.  And no making comments relating me to being a rubber dummy thankyouverymuch.

I cant lie.  For a while, I was getting to a point where the only option for her was an adult sex doll.  Sexy Suzy looked like a goer.  By goer, I mean “Yeah look…fully functioning, you can stick your dummy in her mouth…and weirdly, she is like every woman I have ever been with.  That is eyes closed and straight to sleep the second I get them horizontal…usually just after eating all the food and drink I offer and pay for.  And won’t talk.

And then.  Then.  Out of nowhere…I found the ideal doll.  I didn’t see them restocking the shelf while walking past earlier, but there she was.  She didn’t have a name.  Actually, she was already out of the box.  So I took it and dropped it in to the trolley.  It worked…the thing cried.  Called for it’s Mum.  So at least I knew it was a worker.

How the hell was I to know that you cant take someone else’s child?  Typical.  So at this moment in time, my daughter is trying to work out what that orifice on Sexy Suzy is for.

But you know.  That isnt the one that makes me need to man up.  You know what it is?

For the last 3 weeks, I have realised that eeeeevery single time my daughter takes a crap…I go 10 minutes later.  Yes.  I am on the same goddamn pooing schedule as my 2 year old daughter.  Un-Friggin-Believable.  And the girl has days where she craps like a Great Dane…and I don’t mean Frederic Louis Norden.  I mean as in the dog.  I am pretty confident I went down a trouser size on Thursday last week.  I was practically dehydrated and felt a little weak at the knees.  She had a couple of days where she was a little constipated.  I walked around with my face in a grimace state desperately wanting her to go.  So I could.

Lets be honest…I am pretty full of shit.  You were all thinking it.  But there is a limit to the amount one man can go in a day…and I met that limit.

And any day now, daughter number 2 will be born.  What if I end up on her schedule too?  I mean really…have you seen how much they crap?  I fear for my life.

But that is enough about me.  As you may have noticed, I don’t quite post that often anymore.  This is in part due to the fact that I turned in to a woman, and in part due to some other factors such as I just turned in to a woman.  And until I turn back in to a man, I have no idea what is going to happen.  I am so confused.  I cant make my mind up, my driving ability has gone to hell and parallel parking???  Forget it!

So.  I have this for you:  http://thedementedramblingsofabaldgit.blogspot.com I think the title says it all.  Who is it?  What does he do?  Well…he is my neighbour (I didn’t say friend…coz you know…he wears these shorts when he runs, and I wouldn’t call anyone my friend who wears them) who started a blog when he heard I had one.  He also took up running and comes out with me.  Which he took up when he realised I do it.  He also cut the grass in his garden the other week.  Just after I did mine.  He also saw I was losing my hair…so I dunno…did he tear his out with his bare hands or did he use veet?  His blog is written in English.  As is mine.  You see what I am saying?  I am pretty sure he wants me to change my surname to Jones so he can continue to keep up with them.  But failing that, go read his stuff.  If you comment, tell him I want my bloody drill back.   The git.

Either way, I expect I will be back when Pocahontas is born.  Sure, her name isn’t going to be Pocahontas, that is her development name.

Tata!  Kiss kiss!  MWAH! xoxoxoxo

HELP!

Yeah I know what you are thinking.  You are thinking “Ohh…the simpleton has put up a post an entire month since the last one!  It is going to be special!”.  Well….

There are a lot of things I hate.  Disappointing people is one of them.

I also hate the fact that after many years of playing the lottery, and actually winning £10 last night I got excited.  Until I thought about how many kidneys I could have bought with the money I have spent to actually get that £10.  And sure, I already have 2 working kidneys, but I want more.  They look fun.  And they are interesting.  I once had dinner with a kidney.  Well OK, it was a person who had kidneys.  But about half way through the meal all I could think about was ripping her damn kidneys out.  She was fun.  You know, in that “I want to rip your kidneys out and eat them because it will be more interesting than hearing about your new epilator.”  And while on that subject.  An epilator?  A device used to literally grab big chunks of hair and rip them from the root up right out of your body.  And this is dinner talk?  Why didn’t she just say “I pulled chunks of pubic hair out with my bare hands.  And no lube.  I now have an awesome rash!  But at least I am not as hairy as a Sasquatch anymore.  Wanna look?” instead of giving me detailed information while I am trying to eat my steak?  But that was a long time ago.  And the therapy worked.  Kind of.  I still have a slight twitch.  And it sure as hell ain’t in the trouser department when I think about her.

But I fear you think I am moaning.  So I will move on.  And moan about something else.

I hate pilates adverts.  There is one on the TV at the moment while I am writing this.  A woman lost loads of weight just by doing pilates.  The ad shows clearly that she did by the fact that in her before pic, she is wearing a baggy T-Shirt and no makeup.  Oooh…you chunky munky!  A BAGGY T-SHIRT!  Wild.  Just….wild.

But most of all, I hate throwing up.  And this is where the post gets a little more graphic.  But you were expecting that.

A few weeks back I ate something I shouldn’t of.  No, I didn’t go all Dr Lecter and eat that girls kidneys.  I ate a sausage that had been in a fridge for a week…that had the door left slightly ajar.  So the fridge was a little less fridge and a little more bacteria fest.  So said sausage had been breeding like a spring time bunny on those little blue tablets that you may have received unsolicited mail about once or twice in life.  And speed.  And there are some reeeeally slutty girl bunnies about who are more interested in putting it out than cleaning up the little bunny droplets they produce.  And Mr Speed driven blue tablet boy is seeing all those fluffy tails and is really not thinking about his job as a construction worker, and is instead bounding about with an impressively hard…..hang on…why the hell am I talking about bunnies with erections?  Lets get back to the sausage.  Oh.  Yeah I see that now. 

So.  This sausage.  It was a little on the funky side.  But that is OK because I was a few beers in when I ate it, and so my taste buds had no idea what was passing over them in to the intestinal tract where all hell was about to break loose.

It didn’t right away.  It took a few hours.  But I knew.  I knew something was brewing by the “ohhh…I don’t feel right..” comments I was making to my wife who said “I am pregnant.  I have my own issues.  Suck it up you weak feeble idiot and go get me some milkshake”.  She had a point.

A few hours later I decided that going to bed was the order of the day.  So I planned ahead.  I cleared a path out of the room.  I left the toilet seat up.  The light on.  The door open.  The traffic lights were set to stay on green.  And then it happened.

I didn’t even get that warning you get where you think “OK, I have about 15 seconds…” and you can get moving.  It hit me like a surprise kick in the nuts.  It all happened in slow motion, while going at the speed of light.

Reaction 1 – Get out of bed.  Reaction 2 – Cover mouth with hand.  Reaction 3 – Run.  Like the bloody wind.

About half way to the toilet, the size of my mouth to cubic capacity of stomach contents managed to become imbalanced.  The contents overtook my mouth size with a venom.  It was starting to seep out from between my fingers.  Game over.  As I reached the door to the bathroom, I started the process of moving my hand away.   What came next was projectile vomiting that reached such a distance that North Korea has approached me about about supplying the technology to transport their warheads.  From the edge of the bathroom, I actually managed to get it INTO the toilet.  Yeah.  I know.  Impressive huh!  What isn’t so impressive is that I also covered the floor.  Cabinet.  Bath.  Sink.  My clothes.  My hair.  The cat. 

Why was the cat in there!  Did he not get the memo I sent out warning of an imminent event happening in the toilet?

About 20 seconds after I had completely emptied my stomach, I stood back to see the carnage.  Eyes weeping and puke dribbling down my chin and out of my nose.  About that time my wife appeared and said “The floor cleaner and sponge is in the second draw down” and wandered back off to bed.  So on my hands and knees I got and started the clean up operation. 

The cat was last seen licking itself clean.  Looking a little confused that although it tastes and even looks like bits of sausage, something isn’t right.

I feel far too many posts have been about me and that goddamn marathon recently.  For that, I apologise.  So.  Back to the crazy we go.

It has always been said that the Germans are a little on the crazy side.  When I say “It has always been said”, I actually mean “I am making this part up”.  But what I am not making up is the story of a German man that married his cat.  As it laid there dying.  So I guess it CAN be said that they are a little on the crazy side then.

Marrying a dying cat?  What a guy!  Why not punch it in the gut just after it says “I do!” too?  You know…he is obviously marrying it for it’s money, but geez…what is it gonna have?  “Your cat…Cecilia…has left her worldly belongings to her husband Uwe.  The belongings consist of a bag of catnip and some pouches of food.”  Dufus.  What were you expecting?  Hidden treasure?  Gold coated fur-balls?  To sell it’s kidney as part of the Pussycat Shared-Organ Feline Foundation?  (Or PS-OFF for short)

Side note:  A man called Uwe?  What is he?  A ManSheep hybrid?  That would be a more fun news story though…German sheep marries cat.

Now, I can understand his loss.  I also love my cats.  Sure, I don’t want to have sexual relations with them, and they are ALWAYS the little spoon in the bed because I like to dominate.  But I just don’t get it.  He married it?  Was he just wanting to share her pain because generally, marriage will do that to a man.

But there is the one part I don’t understand (you know, apart from ALL of it).  Cats say 1 word and 1 word only.  Meow.  For instance:

Hey…Pussycat…do you want food?  MEOW!

Oi.  Tosspot…did you just throw up in my shoes?  MEOW!

MEOW! *cough* MEOW! *cough* – Fur-ball!  Result!  I shall leave that under his pillow!

MEOW! – I don’t care if you are sitting on the toilet…I want to come in!

MEOW! – I just left a dead mouse in your bed.

MEOW! – I don’t want to be the little spoon anymore.  Roll over.

MEOW! – I have just been hit by a car and lay here dying.

MEOW! – NO I DON’T WANT TO MARRY YOU YA SICK FREAK!

Meoooooowwwww – I am almost dead.

Silent and stiff as a board – I am dead.

See?  The only time they DON’T say MEOW! is when they have croaked it.  So when he married it, I find it highly unlikely that it was saying “I do! I do!”.

But then, as the NEWS STORY mentions:

“Cecilia is such a trusting creature. We cuddle all the time and she has always slept in my bed”

Yeah?  Well according to TV ads, I should buy a new mattress every 29 seconds because of bed bugs.  And if I don’t, I will be sharing the bed with millions of them.  You don’t see me marrying them though do you?  And we are close.  Very close.   They suck my blood.  You don’t get much closer than that without sharing a uterus.   

My cats also share my bed.  Even after hearing the words “Get the frig off of my pillow you furry annoying dumb stupid freakin little shit!  How many goddamn times do I have to tell you!”, I can generally be filled with an air of confidence that I will find said cat curled up on my bed.  Still not gonna marry it.

So.  In closing….if you marry your pet…I am gonna call you a freak.  Now.  Where is my cat.  I gotta get my spoon on.

I am alive!  The marathon didn’t kill me.  My date of death has been put back to…I dunno…when my heart stops?  So instead of telling you about how I died, lets just talk about a fun day.

By fun, I mean a day where death seemed like the way forward!

It started as many do.  I woke up.  Nothing unusual about that.  But I can’t say that the rest of the day followed my usual day. 

30 minutes after I got out of bed, I was standing in the shower, razor in hand, shaving my nipples.  Tingly!  I could give you some reason like “To help the plasters stick better” for my reason, but no, I was just feeling a little daring.  Smooth as a….erm…shaven nipple?  But on the plus side, the plasters did indeed stick better.  Which is what is was all about.  Honest.

Two hours later, I was stood in a tent with a hand full of vaseline down my underwear and rubbing my…well…lets just say “groinal area”.  It was while I had my hand down my shorts pleasuring myself infront of a tent full of men I didn’t know, that one of them walked up to me and said “Can I have some of that!”.  I considered a few things. 

1 – Punch him.  I mean geez…can’t he see that I am masturbating greasing myself up ready for the big event?

2 – Ask him out on a date and tell him that my wedding ring is actually just a friendship ring.  I mean hey, he uses safe greasing.  OK, so I would also have to turn gay, and well…he wasn’t a looker.  Nice nipples though.  He must use Vaseline a lot.  I am not kidding.  I am fairly sure he uses “man product” on them.  The way he put the Vaseline on them was like he was creating the statue of David.  It was weird.  I didn’t want to look, but wow…the guy finished WAY before the race started.  What is that all about?

3 – Hand him my tub of Vaseline, and feel good knowing I stopped him chaffing and having nipples that bleed to hell like I would do for any other runner.  Especially a woman runner.  And obviously I would need to watch, if not help her put it on.  And I would have to bring a camera so I could let her see how I did it.  What?  I am so NOT a perv.  Geez…you try and help someone, and get a label like that!

I went for number 2. I mean 3.  Dammit. 

Of course, as I looked around, I noticed a lot of men, hand down trousers, one eye twitching all in the name of “stopping a little chaffing”. 

A short while later, I ran for 4 hours.  I wont bother telling you about the race in detail.  Lets say:

37000 people.  People dressed up as the devil and many other things.  I was sweating.  It hurt a bloody lot.  My nipples are fine thank you.  I needed to use a little more vaseline “down there” in future though as when I had finished, I got a touch cheese grated.  So if you ever want to know if my nuts are like balls of sharp metal…well…I just guess they are.  Oh, and I got sunburn.

As I crossed the finish line my slow run turned to a staggered walk.  My already diminished running style turned more to that of a wounded penguin.  I mean holy crap…I had done 20 mile training runs in my training, and could walk at the end.  But this time I had a walked like that of someone who had wandered down a dark alley, told the lady of the night to treat me a little rough and she then knocked me unconscious and inserted her piggy bank in to my anus.  Sideways.  And I hadn’t brought the Vaseline because some guy had used it all to smother his nipples and nuts in them earlier.

Later that night I had 3 beers and fell unconcious.  So.  Nothing new there than.

Well, it is almost time for me to leave this mortal coil.

No, I am not on death row, nor am I awaiting my uber dose of “man pills” to come through the post so I can be buried in a tent after having a heart attack during the 19th time in a row with a woman of quite frankly marvelously dubious qualities in a night of passion mixed with alcohol, condoms and an inability to say no to a can of pringles.   The plain ones.  Lets not get too spicy now!

I expect you to all read that first line of the last paragraph in one breath.  I just tried in my head and lost 3 IQ points through a lack of oxygen.  Who needs a full stop to allow an intake of breath once in a while?  They just take up space.

Where was I?  Oh yes.  My death.  Yes, after what feels like 22 weeks of solid training (I say feels like…well, it WAS that long), the London marathon approaches faster than Speedy Gonzales on speed desperately seeking Susana toilet.  I in no way just called someone called Susan a toilet.  So don’t go giving me shit if your name is toilet. Susan.

I have learnt a lot in this 22 weeks of long runs and alone time.  I learnt that I have the ability to run a long way while not going mad from my own thoughts.  It may be because I just don’t have many of them.

I learnt that sitting down looking at my daughter is the best way to run a race, thus the preparation for a warm up half marathon race at Silverstone Race Circuit looked like this:

I learnt that if you use plasters with the stickiness of KY Jelly, they wont stay on.  And you will bleed hideously from the or both nipples.  After the last occurrence, I honestly thought 4 days later that I could actually peel one of my nipples off.  It was like a big scab.  I can tell you this for nothing…I didn’t put clothes pegs on them that night!  Wow they hurt.  I took a photo, but lets be honest…do you REALLY want to see my bleeding nipple?  You do?  Well you are just weird.

I also learnt to always make sure my MP3 player is charged, and to never lend my earphones to my wife.  I learnt this the hard way.  After she broke my earphones, I was left to do a long run with no music.  Running for 3 hours straight with no music can get a touch tedious as it is when running alone.  But…  Try watching toddler TV before you go out for a run.  And the last thing you hear and watch before you step out of the door is someone with no self esteem singing what can only be described as “What the hell.  You wrote that?  And decided to sing it?  On TV?  So my daughter can hear it?  What are you…stupid?????”.  OK so maybe I just prefer heavy metal to the theme tune to kids tv shows….but you try running for 3 hours with nothing but the noise of your own breathing, your feet hitting the ground, cars going past….and the same 1 line from said theme tun in your head.  3 hours.  1 line.  No I don’t think you are understanding the magnitude of how painful it was.  Poke yourself in the eye with the finger with the longest fingernail on it.  Do it.  Don’t say no.  DO IT!  There.  Did that hurt?  Now do it for 3 hours solid.  The trick is to NOT go postal.

Not as easy as it sounds huh!

Amongst this stuff I also learnt that people get what is affectionately known as “Runners Trots”.  The need to, after a bit of a run, take a crap.  Not always of the solid variety.  Now, I live in an area where I have to run a bit of a distance before ready to become one with nature and ruin some poor lil bunny wabbit’s or foxywoxy’s day, so I am happy to report that I have in no way needed to lose my lunch the gravitational pull way during a run.  Which is amazing considering I get told I am full of shit on a regular basis.

Warning:  Soppy “awwww….” moment approaching rapidly.

But one thing I have learnt is the generosity of some people.  People I have never actually met.  People as far away as the US, Canada and Australia.  I am in the UK before anyone says “The US isn’t that far away!  I am already here!”  It’s about me…not you.  Geez.  But anyway…as I was saying.  People who I have never met, although one day very much hope to, who read this site have donated £200 to the charity I am running for in this marathon between them.  From those who read this on a feed and don’t come to the site, the charity is Children with Leukaemia.  For those that come to the site…well, you should know.  If you don’t, look top right.  DING!  People giving money to someone they don’t know is something that I have always admired.  I therefore expect you to click HERE, HERE, HERE and a Mr Phil T McNasty (hint:  I don’t think that is his real name) who doesn’t seem to put a link to a site on his comments, to view the sites of the people that donated.  Guys…Gals…you rock!  It is a worthy charity doing some amazing work.  Having one daughter and another child on the way (I find out what flavour it is the day after the marathon…if I can walk up the stairs to the room), I can honestly say I hope I never have to deal with the charity or their work in a way other than fund raising.  But in the event that I do, I want the best care I can for my children and yours.

End soppy moment.  It has passed and is now put back in my pocket.  No, the OTHER pocket.

According to something I was sent, there is also a site you can go to where you put in my running number and can see how fast I am going over each 3 mile (5K) stretch.  I would give you that link, and indeed my running number…but I just don’t think you need to see “Well he started off  OK, then about mile 16 he started slowing down.  By 22 he was walking.  By 24 he was standing still with a little walking backwards mixed in.  By 24 he was dead.  But the good news is that he was carried over the finish line in a hearse.  So at least he got a finishers medal.  Shame he is now finished in more ways than one!”

So that is me.  Signing off…possibly for good.  Come to my funeral.  And bring snacks.  Or if you are in the UK and watching the marathon on the streets, when a guy who looks like the guy in the image at the top trots by looking like he is about to fall over passes you in a brightly coloured top with the words “Children with Leukaemia” on it, pictures of Mr Men on it and the name SIMON printed on it.  Well, that’s me. (there are over 1000 of us running it…so I wont be the only one in the brightly coloured shirt!  SO look out for the name!)

Yeah I know…my real name isn’t Sy.  Who’d have thunk it huh!  Surprise!

But should any of you feel the need to sponsor me…well, you can go HERE to do it.  Please?  I will show you my bum!  What do you say?  Have one less beer this weekend or one less glass of wine and give a couple of pounds, dollars, euros, whateverthehellcurrency you have?  No?  Why not? I got dressed up for you.  Wore the stockings.  Suspenders.  Fireman’s hat.

I hope to see you on the other side.  Of the race.  Not what may or may not happen after death.  Good luck.  You too.

Back at around Christmas time, I got up from my nightly slumber and wandered in to the bathroom for my morning ritual of…well..it doesn’t matter.  But lets just say it involves a paint brush, dental floss, a copy of Hello magazine and some ginger nut biscuits.  After finishing my ritual, and being a little thirsty from it all, I noticed that my wife had left a glass of apple juice on the side of the sink.  “bloody marvellous!” I thought as I thought back to the time she watered down an expensive whisky of mine with coke.  Revenge is mine!  So I picked it up and took a nice big gulp.

It was piss.  And I don’t mean in the “Eww…cheap Apple Juice!” way.  It was literally a cup of my wife’s warmest urine.  I should have noticed by the way it was warm in the glass, but my blocked up nose also stopped the smell warning me before it touched my lips.

Acting as if I hadn’t just took a swig, I finished vomiting and called to my dear wife.  “Hunny…why do you have a glass of urine on the side?”

“I need to do a test” came the response.   Oh great.  So has she got some dodgy STD and I just put it in my mouth and in a few days time will find mushrooms growing out of my manhood?? was the first thing that came to my mind.  But no, in she wandered with a stick.  Unwrapped it, jabbed it in to the now half empty glass of urine.  About that time she said “You know, I swear there was more in there!” looking at me as I continued to scrape my tongue and stretch my jaw muscles in disgust.

Well shock bloody horror.  The test came up positive.  Of course, you knew that was coming so lets move on.  12 weeks later we went for a scan.

I would put up a copy of the scan we had, but you know, I can’t be bothered to, and you can’t be bothered to see it.  So  here is a dramatic representation of what we saw drawn by my own fair hand.  Yes, I am impressive.  Thanks for mentioning!

Good isn’t it.  I was going to use different colours and stuff, but I was also busy doing other stuff while I was writing this post.  It is called Dominos Pizza.  Food.  WAY more important than you will ever be to me.

Of course I didn’t mean that.  No…don’t cry.  I love you.  Really.  Sort of.  Fine.  Go away.  I lied when I said I loved you.  It was all about getting you in to bed.

So anyway.  I have concerns over the second coming of the fruit of my loins.  What if it is a girl?  Bear in mind that here is the contents of my house:

Wife – Female hormones

Daughter – Female hormones

Cat – Charlie – Female hormones

Cat – Danni – Female hormones

Cat – Yogi – Bloke.  Kind of.  Well…I think this image pretty much covers his intelligence level:

So if the growing sprog isn’t a boy…well…I will be looking to move in with some of you for some male hormone “grrr!  Baywatch!  Girls in bikinis” kind of action.

That…or I am gonna be sending the kid back.

On mentioning the option of sticking the new sprog back in straight after birth if it is the wrong colour, I was met with the following equation:

Her foot + My tackle = No more kid regardless now.

In unrelated news, I now speak in a very high pitched voice and have male breasts in the shape of my testicles.  Holy crap that girl kicks hard.

A few days back, I attended a funeral.  Not the first one I have been to…and being that I am still alive, certainly not the last one I will go to.  Every cloud and all that.

On the drive home, I did some reflecting (I was too busy listening to the music during the funeral to reflect then like I was supposed to).  And thought long and hard about something that was said during the service.  Thinking during the drive home made the most sense as my wife and child were in the car, it was pissing it down with rain, the car was aquaplaning all over the place, so it made sense to get lost in my thoughts and not pay any attention to the road while driving too fast.  Luckily we all made it home in one piece, although my underwear was a little on the stained side. 

Anyway.  What I was reflecting on during the drive was that in every funeral I have been to (not many…you know, I am not some serial funeral goer to..er or something weird) the same line was said.  And I wonder if it happens at every funeral.  The line was “…was loved by everyone”. 

OK, so I am not too sure if it is mentioned on death row or anything because I am quietly confident that the average serial killer is maybe not so loved by everybody.  But regardless…I had a thought about it and realised mine has to be different.  Maybe a few truths instead of the standard lines.  Not that the standard lines are lies…you know..before you think I am being horrible about the dearly departed amongst us. 

Instead of the “Sy was loved by everyone” line, I am thinking I could have:

Sy liked to wear socks when his feet were cold. 

He was also not overly loved all of the time. 

At times, his wife wanted to shove a mildly hot poker in a place that isn’t his mouth.  For those in the audience too stupid, we mean in his arse.  She found him annoying.  Selfish.  Arrogant.  A bit of a twat.  At times, he wished to flush one of his cats down the toilet when it cleaned it’s arse while sitting by his head…but never had an issue with using the cat to scratch his own arse.  He would eat his daughters yoghurt’s…but only the ones she really likes…because they are also the ones he really likes.  He would then tell his wife that she had eaten all 6 yoghurt’s that day.  Being a young child who couldn’t talk, she could not defend herself.  The world will be a better place without him.  Although cadburys may find that their profits go down because he ate so much chocolate. 

We wont miss the bitter idiot.

Fair?  I dunno.  If you don’t know me well…it’s all lies I tell you!  If you know me well…sod off.  You aren’t welcome around this post.

In unrelated news, I just had a large coffee.  Yeah I get that you didn’t need to know that.  I just like to share.  It is important in life.

Wow.  Almost a month since my last post.  In my defence, I have been busy.

Just last week for instance, I realised I needed to cut my toenails, so I did that.  And then shave my armpits, chest, legs, arms…actually, I should probably mention that I have had a sex change.  I am now a female goat called Hoshui.  I am very much looking forward to being milked!  Oh…hang on.

You see?  It isn’t that I am a slacker, I have been genuinely busy.

I have also continued to do that pesky running thing getting ready for the marathon.  That may be the real reason for my continued absence.  I am really not that good at it.  I am more of a bouncing bomb than a streamlined image of awesome.

Which leads me galloping along to this months weeks post.

I went for a short run last week and got me one of these:

Oh, I should probably mention that it isn’t pretty, so if you are scweemish, look away now.  If you aren’t scweemish…you are a hero.  Go get a gold star and a lollipop!

Huh.  I should have really put the disclaimer above the image eh?  Well, ya seen it now.  Stop moaning you big wuss.  You don’t have to have it attached to your foot do you!?  You haven’t been walking around like someone just jammed a lamp post up your arse have you?  Exactly.  And no, I haven’t had the lamp post treatment either.  But walking was an issue regardless.  Sitting down on the other hand…noooo problem at all.

Now I know what you are thinking.  You are thinking “Holy crap…with feet like that, he must have a face like a smacked arse!”.  Well, you could be right.  And if you spent some time stalking me on facebook, you would actually find out.  Or, you could save that 3 minutes of your life and go boil an egg.  Of course, if you underboil the egg, just like looking at the the photo of me on Facebook,  you will be violently ill.  You have been warned.

That is the thing about feet isn’t it.  Had I had not shown you my dirty sweaty ugly foot, and left you to imagining that people who write websites are all sexy and stuff, you would probably think that I currently look like this:

And then in a few years when I am older, I will look like this:

Yeah yeah, I know guys…but we spend so much time looking at the lovely girls of the interweb, I figured I should put something up for the ladies, so it was those two photos or a love poem.  And my poetry generally centres around the size of my little guy.  Not that romantic, and I don’t think they are interested anyway.

But instead of the two images above, after looking at the image of my blister soaked foot, you get the idea I look like this:

Hey, don’t knock it.  The guy never wore shoes, and you know what his name is don’t you!  What do you mean no?  It’s Gandhi for bloody hells sake.  And no, I don’t know why his man boobs look a little weird.  OR why he doesn’t have a laptop.  Actually, for someone that people think is awesome, the dude REALLY needs to sort his crap out.  I mean what is that?  A friggin crayon he is writing with?  And why does he have that sulky face going on?  Enlightened my left buttock.

But anyway.  I digress.  Back to my foot.

So yeah, a small blister.  But it doesn’t end there.  I got home and decided I would lance it.  So picking up my rustiest pin, I jammed that tetanus soaked metal in the side side of the blister.  Hooooooly crap!

Lets just say there was a little pressure in there.  I tried to take a photo of it, but you wouldn’t get the full effect.  The juice (is that the right word?  I mean it wasn’t puss.  Nor blood.  Nor a signed autograph of Madonna.) that came out squirted about 2ft high.  I am actually not lying here or embellishing (I embellish?  Ah come on…you lie!).  It was frankly disgusting.  But having just come back from a run, I was thirsty so spent the first few seconds trying to drink it like it was some weird sicky drinking fountain.

I recommend not doing that.  When you are there, drinking your own foot juice, and a family member walks in the room…well…YOU try explaining it.  It was bad enough that I got it in my eye so as my wife walked in, I was stood there half naked, licking my lips and winking ferociously.