Monday, 30 June 2014

Psycho cat is killing my mojo

I have issues with cats. I really don't like them and instinctively they know it. If I'm in someone's house who owns a cat I can guarantee the bastard will make a beeline for me, doing all that rubbing business before trying to make themselves comfortable on my lap by carefully kneading my thighs with their claws. I'm forced to grit my teeth and bear it because both me and the cat know that if I dare try to stand up to shift it, the claws will only dig in further to support the mangy moggie's full body weight.
Outside the house it's a different ballgame. The cat is the prey, but they're still determined to irritate me from a carefully measured distance. They know that if I get hold of them they'll be gripped firmly round the neck and immersed in the water butt until they stop wriggling, so naturally they make sure that they don't put themselves in a position that could mean they use up all nine lives in one go.
I hate they way they sit under the bird table looking up and licking their lips, even though the sadistic little fuckers have only just been fed.
I hate the way they saunter through my garden like they own the damn place.
I hate the fact that they come from far and wide with the specific intention of shitting in the middle of my lawn.
I despise the way their arseholes look like one of those rubber things in the kitchen for holding a tea towel.
I hate that I'm not allowed to shoot them, especially as I'm no longer capable of running after them. They just trot away, looking back at me and smirking, secure in the knowledge that however angry I am I'm never going to be able to catch them.
All except one of them. There's this extra-fluffy tabby that sits at the end of the garden and stares. Every time I try and chase it off it doesn't run away, it just turns away and sort of melts into the scenery. It's seriously spooky and it freaks me out. I'm sure it's some kind of psycho. It just sits there staring. It never seems to blink or look away. It just sits as still as a statue and stares at me like it's seeing right through my eyes, boring into my very soul. If cats practice voodoo then this is the high priest or whatever a top voodoo practitioner is called, and I swear this furry psychopath is working some kind of black magic on me.
At the weekend I fitted new interior doors in the house and if anything could go wrong it did. A more rational person would lay the blame firmly at the feet of the builders who appear to have been incapable of constructing anything straight or square in this house, but I blame the cat.
The roses in the garden are perpetually at death's door, but I think the cat is wilting them with its stare.
I'm also holding that cat personally responsible for the weekend's crappy weather, the struggle I had getting the Honda's brakes bled out, my inability to get the rear brake drums off the Mitsubishi, my pressure washer going tits up, and my lack of progress on the campaign of Watch Dogs on the Xbox.
At a stretch I could also believe it to be the cause of all the ants in the garden (a bizarre reincarnation of the pied piper, bribing the country's entire ant population to take up residence in my garden with a stolen jar of raspberry jam), the inexplicable popularity of Rihanna, and the sale of MG to China even though very few are fooled into buying such a nasty excuse for a car just because of the badge.
It's all the fault of psycho staring cat. He's watching me, stealing my mojo bit by bit, leaving me struggling to carry out the tasks I previously found so easy.
The more cynical among you may say that this is all simply down to getting older and slower, but I know it's the cat. And one day I'll get the bugger and my cosmic balance will be restored.

"Look into my eyes. Your soul is mine."


Tuesday, 17 June 2014

World diving championships

As a general rule I avoid watching any sport on TV that doesn't involve an internal combustion engine, but every four years I decide to make an exception to that rule by watching the odd match of the world cup.
It has to be said though, that apart from the Spain vs Netherlands match which was fantastic, the other bits I've seen have been spectacularly awful.
I'm writing this with the Brazil vs Mexico game going on in front of me and it is this that is causing me to feel the need to vent. With all the blatant diving going on it's only a matter of time before a football match breaks out.
I could easily believe that a mandatory part of professional football training must be to spend countless hours in a gym full of crash mats perfecting diving techniques in front of a mirror, with extra style points awarded for the number of rolls involved and for having a facial expression of intense agony.
I'm sorry, but I refuse to believe that these overpaid pussies have made it into their national team by having a worse sense of balance than an inebriated toddler, not to mention my surprise that they should be doing such things for fear of putting their immaculately coiffed hairdos out of place.
These teams just don't seem to able to get it right. If they're not throwing themselves on the floor writhing in the pain from an opponent coming within six inches of them and invading their personal space, they're fannying about passing the ball about (usually in the wrong direction) and generally wasting time in such a way that sometimes I think I'm watching the Chuckle Brothers - "To me", "To you", "To me", "To you".....
England are usually one of the worst offenders for this, but even Italy managed to outdo them when they played each other the other day.
If this wasn't bad enough, as I appear to have gained a few extra pounds recently I'm having to endure all this without the usual accompaniment of biscuits, crisps and chocolate. With a noticeable increase in custard cream consumption of late, the midriff has been showing an unfortunate tendency to bulge out over my belt and as far as I'm concerned that is unacceptable behaviour. The only hangover I will endure is the type induced by excessive alcohol consumption (fortunately a rare occurrence these days), so for the last week I've been carefully counting the calories. It wouldn't be unheard of for me to polish off an entire packet of custard creams in one evening, but having now worked out that this constitutes about 2000 calories (with sod all nutritional benefit) I think it's time to reel myself in a bit.
Sitting on the sofa watching telly is the time when the munching habit really kicks in, so as we've now reached the end of the new series of 'Orange is the new black' perhaps it will make it easier on me if I don't sit on the sofa and instead spend the time doing something more constructive to take my mind off not being able to snack. The poor battered YBR125 is now in complete kit form with the parts awaiting a good clean and polish before being photographed and put on ebay, so perhaps concentrating my efforts on that little project will help with my addiction.
In the meantime, half time has just come to an end, with Brazil and Mexico coming out for another 45 minutes of world championship diving, and I'm wondering if I have enough calories left from my daily allowance for me to allow myself to extract a cold can of Budweiser from the fridge.

Sunday, 8 June 2014

Not sexy and I know it

There's no getting around it, I'm a hairy bugger. Not quite at the neanderthal level, but getting close. I wage a constant war against excessive man fur everywhere from my big toes to my ears, and it's only the rapidly receding hairline that breaks the trend.
Yesterday, tired of the persistent chest rug, I decided to do something radical. I've contemplated getting waxed many times but being a bit of a cheapskate I figured I'd resort to clippers and razor as an experiment, and if I liked the result then I'd pay for a wax when it had grown back sufficiently.
The interesting result of this little adventure is that I have discovered that I possess the chest of a supermodel. Unfortunately that would be a female supermodel, and now I've got to go through the prickly and itchy phase while the rug grows back. Will I never learn?
It's clear to me now that a hairless chest and middle age is a combination to be strictly reserved for women. If you're a bloke you need to be under forty with a tight gym-honed body rather than a slightly saggy middle-ager with moobs who has never seen the inside of a gym in his life, and with the best will in the world is never going to have a body like Brad Pitt did in Snatch.
The relentless parade of beer, chocolate and biscuits has sculpted my physique over the years to a point where it would take more effort to reshape myself than I'm prepared to make. The cycling is probably keeping the worst of it at bay but as far as toning is concerned it's only good for the legs, and as I'm no longer riding big motorcycles, my upper body strength is noticeably slipping. Funny how I never realised that riding bikes was a substitute for going to the gym, and maybe now is a time when I ought to be considering the bold step of joining one to prevent or at least delay the progress of middle age spread.
I could get a cross-trainer of course, but everyone knows that home gym equipment gets used for approximately six weeks until the novelty wears off, after which it gathers dust for the next couple of years before being consigned to the car boot sale or ebay.
I've reached that point in life where many things that I used to do suddenly seem like too much effort.
Take DIY for example. I've done no end of jobs over the years including gutting and refitting a kitchen, hanging new doors, putting down laminate flooring, painting, plumbing, and electrics, but since I stripped out and refurbished the bathroom about five years ago I've lost all enthusiasm. Now I only do what I absolutely have to rather that doing it because I fancy having something to do.
Because the cars get little attention beyond their yearly service, when something extra needs doing it takes me a while to summon up the will to buy the parts and crack on with it. I've just paid out 45 quid to have the aircon recharged in my Colt, only to find that there's a leak in the system and three days later it doesn't work again. I could pressurise it, leak check the system with leak detection spray, and fix the problem before getting the system recharged yet again, but I figure it's easier to open the window when it's hot than go through the arse-ache of putting it right.
Maybe this is something that won't go away and will only get progressively worse as the years roll by. It would probably explain why so many old people live in houses that look like they haven't been decorated in the last thirty years and have that 'old person' smell that hints of decay and unfulfilled dreams.
When we're young, everything is an exciting opportunity worthy of exploration but over time life's experiences make us more and more jaded until we end up sitting doing a jigsaw puzzle and drinking tea because at least that can't go wrong and leave us disappointed. Until some git presents you with one of those 'impossible' double-sided jigsaws. Now that's just cruel........