Thursday, February 17, 2005

Ah the joys of Jin Kichi – gross consumption as usual

Miso soup
Mixed sashimi
O-toro sashimi
Tempura scampi
Chicken gizzards
Green beans with black bean sauce & sesame
Boiled fish roe
Chicken liver skewers
Pork with shiso leaf skewers
Asparagus with pork skewers

And now I feel very, very, guilty.

Having said that, the alcohol notwithstanding it’s all pretty healthy stuff, which I’ve totally undone today. Was planning a healthy meal day and then some psycho went and screwed it up. OK – we know that left over meeting food gets left out and you can help yourself, and that’s fair enough, but leaving out over 100 overstuffed bacon sandwiches and an entire tray of Danish pastries is NOT FAIR. You’d have to have a will of iron not to crumble slightly at the sight of all that delicious *FREE* food.

But I’ve been good, as good as I can be, and only eaten 1 Danish. I have unfortunately also eaten (count them) 8 bacon sandwiches. And washed them down with a full fat coke. Did have a low fat yogurt for breakfast though, so that’s OK.

In theory going to the gym should help you stop eating all that crap – the thought of the effort required for each delicious mouthful would be enough to stop the most dedicated gastronaught dead in his tracks, but somehow it doesn’t seem to work that way. Instead I’m carrying on as usual but each mouthful is now accompanied by a feeling of horror at the effort I’ve just undone, an appreciation of the sweating and grunting that now needs to happen to undo the bad, and a feeling of despair at the unending cycle of it all : eat food to quell hunger and love cravings : feel guilty at potassium laden saturated fat intake, quail at thought of hardening arteries, suffer torture of gym, feel hungry and *STILL* unloved, crave food as compensation, etc, etc, etc, and we’re off to the races again.

Congratulations, Pan. You are well on your way to your own little home grown eating disorder.

The only solution is to go to the gym *AND* give up eating. Which when you add to the low alcohol / low fags regimen makes you wonder why you’re even alive at all. Let’s face it my 3 big loves are fags, booze and gluttony and I can’t have any of them any more. And the tragedy is that after all this inner torment and self flagellation I’m still not going to get laid because I have become a crashing exercise/carbo loading/‘ugh that cigarette smells vile’ bore of the worst kind. To quote The Guardian “a great big galloping fartbag”

Having said that all I need to add is utter shit to my current personality mix of health nazi and thundering yawn inducer and I would seem to have the right mix for sex success, after all, the worst people seem to get the most action.

But stop, young grasshopper, you are in danger of making a grave error of cause and effect. None of the above about personality really matters because these prancing shitrugs aren’t getting laid because they are charm bypass areas, but because their superior physical presence simply make such considerations irrelevant.

IMHO ‘action’ is largely unrelated to personality, despite what your friends / relatives / women’s mags / psychiatrists / ‘they’ say. It’s all about looks, baby. If your face fits it doesn’t really matter that you have the character and charm of a Milanese racing spittoon, people are still going to want to shag you.

Don’t believe me?? Look around you – who’s getting laid? It’s the unpleasant shallow good looking people isn’t it? Who’s sitting at home with a packet of Furosemide and Everybody Loves Raymond? Thaaaats right! It’s all those witty, charming, kind and genuinely charming people who aren’t as good looking.

Rats. There’s really only one solution. Ferocious dieting, frenzied body sculpting, plastic surgery and above all : EARN MORE MONEY!

Alternatively I could just give up and happily sink into the wheelbarrow of shite tv and ghee based ready meals, handily lined with my own body fat and the crumpled Kleenexes of despair.

At this moment, both options seem equally appealing. I.e. not at all. It comes down to this : resign myself to spending the rest of a rapidly decreasing lifespan building an exclusive relationship with my right hand or become a monster.

It’s a tough one – it really could go either way.

I’m not saying that a bad personality is a turn on, I’m just saying that by and large it’s irrelevant in the machinations of shag. I suppose in the ideal world you might get picked in an otherwise dead heat because of your oh so witty anecdotes about the similarity of Tony Blair speeches to The Ballad of Reading Goal, but it’s always going to be pretty much a tie breaker. Whereas, and let’s face facts here, no-one was ever been passed over because they were better looking than their mate were they?

You know what all this self loathing and bitterness is really about don’t you? Yes, it’s about the 8 bacon sandwiches.

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