#117: "Excreted"

The first race was due to start at Uttoxeter when the rain came down. It rained heavily too. This was the weekend that ended a particularly torrid week. Despite the unexpected entrance of pissing precipitation, the week prior had been sufficiently dry and pollen filled to give me the worst hay fever ever. I judged that it was the worst hay fever ever as I’m quite certain hay fever doesn’t usually affect people as horrendously as it did me. I’ve allergic to stuff, just stuff, and most stuff at that. I’m a bit like Macaulay Culkin in the movie My Girl, and like his character I’ll probably die prematurely as a consequence. Just not as prematurely.

The drowsiness suffered during that week knocked me out quicker than a headbanger in a confined space. The sneezing and general nose bother was so bad that I had huge nose bleeds. One was so bad that a little bloody bag fell out of my nose. It looked a lot like a kidney bean on a string.

At the same time people were really getting me down. Friends and family seemed exhaustingly rabid and bothersome. Even distant family bothered me that week. I had two teenage runaways at my door, in the shape of my cousin and her friend, which went on the include the police visiting my house, as they had been reported missing, and also some useless social worker. They did eventually go home having found refuge at my parents house for a couple of nights.

But worse than all the blood and the bother, I was just feeling a little jaded and run down. All but one of my pet frogs escaped, my arse problems returned and I just felt caught up in a relentless storm of hassle and bad busyness. And to finish the week I felt obliged to go out with a friend and just as I got to the racecourse it starts raining old women with knobkerries (as they say in Afrikaans). So I leave almost immediately, but not before I place one bet, thus making the outing marginally less appallingly pointless. I got, quite literally, saturated and just about managed to scramble towards a bookie for the second race and miserably place all my money on the appropriately pessimistic sounding horse 'The Snail'. Drenched and watching the 2.45 at Uttoxeter with a fucking headache and a troublesome arse I’m saved from my hell being extended when it turns out The Snail isn’t so bad. It leads from the beginning and despite stumbling badly at the final hurdle wins with so much ease that I’m jealous that everything goes so well for a fucking horse named The Snail, while everything is shit for me. He even has a massive cock. But then I remember I win a sack full of cash, so much money that I don’t even care they haven’t put it in a sack.

Encouraged by the achievements of a well hung horse named The Snail and the winnings gained, I went home still feeling a bit shit. BUT I had money to spend on cheap beer, and all the rancid prostitutes I could find, so I ran away to central and eastern Europe eating pastries and talking to foreign people until I felt like I could deal with going home without feeling down. To be fair I did have an appointment with an arse doctor, so made my homecoming handily coincide. But I only arrived back hours before the appointment and I was tired and the weather was hot, but I felt glad to be back and didn’t really mind being painfully arse fingered. However, and this is horrifically true, as I lay barely awake, I’m sure he fingered a bit of poop out of me and put it in the bin. Is that allowed?


OF THE DAY Is Away At The Moment, But Here Is A Picture Of What He Is Doing OF THE DAY - OTD has been hospitalised by the mention of Macaulay Culkin.


So I’m making a few changes to my life at the moment. I'm always more of an odd ideas person than a normal human being, but they mostly get overrun by the tyranny of appropriateness and acceptability. But I’ve decided to just do what I want and not feel so bad that they’re uniquely my ideas and make other people look at me with fear and dread, which I'm called fread.

I’m not totally sure if writing on here has a future, but if anyone actually gives a shit, I’m generous enough and contain enough homeless thoughts that I could continue.

The next thing I have to do is decide what to arrange for my mother’s 60th birthday next week. My dad would merely buy a card the same morning and nothing more and I’m not even sure my sister or any of my mother’s friends even know it’s her 60th. So the onus is on me to do something good. I do have a few ideas, although hiring some sexy black gigolos my not be as appropriate as I first though. But [Question You Must Answer In The Form Of A Comment:] do you have any better ideas?


Facebook del.icio.us Stumbleupon Reddit