A trip into the bowels of hell.

There is nothing finer in life.

You're out. You're pissed. You're caught short.

Full of trepidation, you approach the cludgy. Will someone have shat on the seat? Will someone have exploded in a cloud of shitty particles all over the place? Will you be unable to breathe because someone has released what appears to be zyklon B from their bum-pipe? Will there be a drunk man in the toilet who wants desperately to speak to you? He's going to get angry...... you know in your heart he's going to get angry.

But no! The toilets are pristine! They smell faintly of lemon and there's not a soul in there. You notice a faint residue of fat in the trough...... somene really REALLY unhealthy has been here recently, so unhealthy that they are actually pissing fat. Yes, fat. Bits of yellow, horrible fat are coming out their bob-end. But this matters not! You are, for the next few minutes, lord of the bogs!

No stage fright for you tonight, matey! No accidentally catching sight of the guy next to you and realising he's some sort of genetic monster...... but at least you only need to wash your hands when you leave and not your helmet . No, not tonight...... tonight, you are the sultan of spray, the emperor of excretion, the ultimate urinator! So long as you remember not to draw in the steam on the windows, nothing can go wrong..... that steam is the steam of death. That is the steam of a thousand bladders.

You're pissing in the urinals tonight, chief! No shameful hidden relief in the sanctuary of the cubicles..... tonight you shall befoul the water table in the openness of the urinals.

It's like the most amazing firework display you've ever seen. You're looping and swirling, pirouetting and swooshing. At one point, you manage to cross the streams all on your own. The satisfying rumble in the trough convinces you that you must have a mighty member. Like a thousand wildebeeste bearing down on the toilets it carries throughout the empty room, and yet you are unafraid.

You're even managing to scrape some of the ingrained fat off the urinal with your mighty stream. This is genius. Perhaps just draw a small cock and balls in the steam? No! No..... the steam is not for human fingers.

And then you see it.

You look down to admire the dying embers of your mighty confluence when you noitice you are standing in a river of missed tinkle. Someone has been in here and just went on the floor. All at once in your minds eye you see the soles of your shoes touching the carpets in your own house, and the boke attempts to escape. You feel queasy. You do up two of your three buttons on the way to the sink, but you stumble and accidentally open the cubicle door a touch. And there it is. Your eye is drawn to it like a moth to the flame. There, in the toilet, lays the beast.

Like a mighty saltwater crocodile rearing to the neck of a passing thirsty antelope, someone's jobby sticks halfway out the water. It seems to mock the heavens, reaching upwards like some kind of hellish tree trunk. Whoever left this here must have been taken home in an ambulance. The man must have a weekend job as the clyde tunnel.

And the smell. The smell.

Suddenly the sink isn't only a place to wash your hands. Most of your dinner is digested enough to fit down the plug though, so that's something. At least that's something.

It's ok. It's ok. It didn't get you. You stayed far enough away from the cubicle that it couldnt rear out and drag you in. Make sure you're ok....... yes. You may be a bit red from all the boaking, but you don't know, because no man's toilet in existence has a mirror in it. We know this, it's just the way it is. Right...... back out to the bar. Back to the sanctuary and security of the bar. WAIT! Have you pissed on your legs?

50% of the time, you have.

I know why women go to the toilet in groups.

Hmmmmmm.

His eyes opened. It wasn't exactly darkness, more sort of..... brown-ness. It soon became apparent he wasn't in his own bed, but on a couch of some sort. Instinct kicks in..... "Is my arse sore?" It wasn't. OK. That's a very good thing. Now..... where am I, what time is it, what day is it....... and who's been biting my neck?

Yes. I got pissed again and woke up at 4 on a couch. I have repressed most of last night because of the trauma. I remember some things though..... dirty white jeans, too much beer, unattainable pringles and biting. Question me no farther. I may begin crying. Or wanking. Probably both.

I have to point out, however, that I am a fucking paragon of virtue! It isn't something that's valued at all these days and it fucks me at every corner, but I appear to be what they used to call "a nice person" in the old days (these days it's more commonly known as a fucking idiot.) Protector of the innocent. Pfffft. Yep, one of those twats. Need to get that sorted. It's talked me out of more shags than I've had, well, shags, and almost got me my head kicked in more than once as well. I'm more concerned about the shags.

My fucking neck hurts.

At least it's not my arse. At least it's not my arse. She did strike me as a strap-on kind of person now I come to think of it.

YES! Random music is being kind to me I am still drunk. It's a quarter past 5. I'm gonna regret this later....... unless..... WAIT! MORE DRINK! That's just crazy enough to work. Shit. I only have tennents.

Shit. I'm starting to shake.

BEFORE I FORGET! I might have mentioned, I have a Zoosk account which is basically a redneck called cletus. I think I might have had the idea that it was some sort of social experiment or something but anyway...... He's had the odd wink, but yesterday he got his first hit..... an actual dyed-in-the-wool stunner Maybe that shit they all talk about sense of humour isn't all shit after all. (It is shit. I know it is. "funny gets the fanny" my arse! I make them cry laughing then they fuck off with my mates. Every damn time.) Updtaes incoming. He's a smooth one, Cletus. Silver tongued devil, he is..... just like his hero, Hank Williams.

Big dog and badly timed imaginings.

So I'm walkin home from my pals house. It's the back of one, it's dark. I've been reading a lot about this "Michigan Dogman" thing..... google it, it's scary stuff, big werewolf thing that's been sighted for hundreds of years around michigan. Anyway, I turn into my street, and there's this bush in a garden that starts blowing in the breeze. For some reason, I imagine the michigan dogman rearing up out of the bush and grinning at me. A shiver runs down my back...... imagine how scared you'd be if that happened, thinks I. Then there's a sound across the road, a sort of shuffle..... a scrape of claws on pavement. Now I've been a tubby little fucker for a year or so, but the old reactions are still operating at full steam (I seem to have been blessed with ninja reactions for some reason. I don't get many opportunities to show them off apart from catching the odd packet of flying super noodles without looking at them, but I do.) so I was round and facing the fucker before it was fully off the ground.

It was at least seven feet tall. It's eyes glowed red and fire spewed from it's frothing maw as it sprang to it's feet. At least, in my mind it did, in reality a pretty large black dog had just been disturbed from...... doing whatever the fuck it was doing laying in the middle of the street, by me wandering along. It jumped up and began barking and snarling as it ran straight at me.

I'd like to say I immediately dropped into a combat stance and prepared to grapple with the beast. I'd like to say I remembered the worst thing to do is run. I'd like to say these things. In reality, I let out a weak "Oh fuck" and gripped the fence as this thing ran at me and my brain tried to figure out what kind it was..... is it gonna eat me or just a bit of me. By this point, I had realised it wasn't a 7 foot werewolf, but was still a pretty hefty old dog. Fortunately, it took my rooted-to-the-spot-and-shitting-myself stance as a come-and-have-a-go-if-you-think-you're-hard-enough one, and shat out of going for my throat..... a mistake on it's part I think, as my jugular, though protected by at least three chins, is considerably closer to the ground than most. It stopped, looked at me then ran off round the corner, barking..... I assume to make sure I didn't follow it. It needn't have bothered.

When I got home and took out my keys, I realised I was shaking like a vibrator on a washing machine. Big bastard dug.

So anyway. There's another interesting happening in the life of me. Which, it seems, no-one will read. Tch. Ah well. Passed some time while pkr updates......

Winky trauma! What.... the.....?

Nobody told me about that. That freaked me the fuck right out that did.

Anybody who's been paying attention to my rambling either on here (and judgin by the page views, that's not much) or in real life will know I got tired of being the fattest gnome in Scotland after TITP and decided to lose a stone. Well, last week I stepped up my effort a bit after having my BMI and body fat measured.... my BMI was fine, I was spot on. But my body fat %? Well..... it wasn't good. Leave it at that. It can't be right that I'm the right weight for my height but my fat content qualifies me as (overweight) by american standards (the first website I looked up said I was obese! OBESE! Now I know I like a pizza, but that's a bit much. By the american athletic association standards I'm 1.5% into the overweight range. Which is better, at least.) So I decided that cutting out half of the shit I eat isn't enough, I'm actually gonna have to exercise. So, for a week now (apart from yesterday and sunday, when I was incapacitated with a mystery illness..... sore head, feeling sick, whatever could have caused it I do not know) I've been hitting the old bike hard (pffft, steady.....) and doing half an hour a day. Started off getting just over 8 miles done in that time, but tonight I managed over 9.

Now. I'm not one to shy away from embarrassing things. Whatever it might be that happens to me, I am unable to keep embarrassing things to myself. And this is no different. So there I was, fresh off the old exersize bike having tanked 9.13 miles out in half an hour, sweating like Harold Shipman at a Darby and Joan dance, when I wander over and sit on my PC chair to switch off the tunes before I jump in the shower. And I noticed an..... odd feeling.

I thought the old pork swordsman had become caught between my shorts and my leg. A quick glance down and nope, there's no helmet visible, so I reasoned he must be caught in the waistband. No. So I had a quick shufty down the old shorts.

THE BLOODY THING WAS SHRIVELLED UP LIKE A RAISIN!

Now, at the best of times it's hardly going to block out the neighbours sunlight, but for a second I thought my single barrelled pump-action porrige gun had fallen off!

Fear not, ladies. It's back to it's collossal norm now *cough* but if that's what it takes to get fit, I think I'll stick to 8 miles a day. Next time it might not come back out!

I can only assume my body needed the blood elsewhere.

Anyway. What? Me? Embarrassed? Noooooo not for years! Oh, if you're wondering, it's working. Half a stone gone in 3 weeks. (It's the other stones I'm worried about) Another 3 and I should once again be lean and sleek like some kind of sexy panther.

I know, you can't polish a turd. But you can try.

Never. Never never NEVER write a blog drunk. This comes from someone who wites a lot of blogs. And someone who is pissed more than Oliver Reed on a week night. Just take it from an old campaigner. Never write a blog pissed. It's inevitable (God that took all my concentration) that you'll spell something wrong. And you might become OOGACHAKA OOGA OOGA OOGACHAKA OOGA OOGA OOGAChaka DISTRACTED BY THE MUSIC THAT'S PLAYING IN YOUR HEADPHONES. OOPS caps lock. Also, you might accidentally say things you dont mean to say. About cunts. Cunts you want to cunt in the fuck. Or folk you want to poke in the pokey hole. Or stuff. Stuff you want to stuff in the..... erm..... stuff. Basically, drunken blogs are a bad idea. It's 18 days til half my life was ruined, by the way. Not that I'm keeping watch. That would be weird. And no-one can accuse me of being weird. Wait.......... Wait a fucking tic. I AM weird. I don't like Leona Lewis, because she's a generic hairbrush-singer. I don't have a fucking sticky up haircut. I won't shag the first thing that looks at me....... whenever that might be. I happen to think that House MD might not be that clever, actually. I have an IQ that I am proud enough of to embarrass myself by mentioning. Some day, and that day might never come........ oh fuck off and watch the simple life.

Blast from the past.

Had a weird night the other night there. I was steaming through my college work, eyes stinging from sitting so close to the big TV I use as a monitor, when I realised I was going to need polypockets. No probs, I think, I'm sure there's some stashed in the wardrobe......

Ah. The wardrobe. I have fitted mirror wardrobes in my bedroom, they were built when I was 16 (yes, everything was black and white and people had to crank start their cars) and over the years have accumulated so much shite, junk, trash and rubbish that I rarely go in there. I cleared out the lower shelves of the middle section and store my clothes and stuff there, the rest is a wee shrine to days gone by. Old school books, love letters, old comics, drawing books...... I rarely go in there.

I got a step ladder and started raking through the junk up on the top shelf. There weren't any tod mags, if that's what you're thinking, I had the sense to hide them more discreetly (I remember that, I hid a load of scud books under a chest of drawers when I was about 15 and forgot all about them, imagine my horror when my girlfriend decided to rearrange my room while I was at work.... at least it wasn't my mum :P), I was determined not to get caught up in old memories.

I lasted about 15 seconds before I came across an old school jotter. I spent the next hour or so reading through things that brought so many happy memories back. A list of christmas movies I had wanted to record on my brand new vhs video when I was about ten, an old drawing book that I'd had when I was thirteen and used to draw every day.

And the love letters. Ah the love letters. I still have all my old valentines cards, letters, teddies, all stuff I should have got round to throwing out years ago. I've never been able to face throwing them out, or even looking at them for a long, long time now. I found an old tape that I remember has a tune that was written for me on it, I don't have a tape player any more but I doubt I could have listened to it anyway.

It's weird, looking back. Seeing all those things from my past, from when I was just a wee awkward boy right up to when I was about 20, you realise how much you've changed over the years. I miss those days I suppose, whole world ahead of us and nothing bad could happen. Makes you wish you could go back now, give myself a shake and change the way I was, maybe things would have turned out so much differently. Ach, you can't do that though can you. We have to play the hand we're dealt. I might not have the aces any more, but I'm not out of chips yet.

I might keep some of it, I don't know, maybe a few old school books (I seem to threaten to shoot one of my teachers in a homework jotter I found, I was a weird kid), the old comics are staying (I found a cracking 2001AD comic that I actually remember buying about 20 years ago!), but the rest will have to go.

If you store up all the crap from your past, there's no room for a future. Jesus, if anyone should know, it's me.

Erm. Sorry, bit depressing this one. Cockrockets! There :D