Ski

Time flies when you’re having fun . . . it’s been 3 weeks since my last confession blog and I can’t really think what if anything I’ve done with the time. OK, I went skiing to never so lovely Val Thorens – fantastic skiing, looks like an inner city ghetto plopped down in the middle of the 3 valleys where my skiing was just great. Most of the time. I had this completely obsessive ski instructor called Antonio – Mussolinni more like - and while I can safely say I loathed him, he did teach me an awful lot about skiing. It really doesn’t help when, as you lose it completely for the 5th time that morning and end up lying in the snow hitting it with your pole in frustration (bv the way very bad form to show such frustration and bad temper) instead of offering sage advice and words of encouragement your instructor instead clasps his hands to his head and moans “Oh my God – why am beeeing puuunisshed like theees”. And don’t forget – you’re paying him, not the other way around.

Still, I had a pretty good week – only a couple of truly spectacular wipe outs, including one where I must have gone about 200 yards on my back with absolutely no way of stopping. Actually as that was a particularly steep part of a really mogulled up and icy red I was quite content to go down it horizontally. And I wasn’t the only one. Top moment : S who has 20 years of extreme skiing experience and dresses entirely in black excepting his orange racing boots managing to cross his skis on an easy blue, try to recover, lurch forward, get it back, lose it again and totally head-plant – whilst being filmed . Yes!

Anything else to add – not really – quite a high injury week, saw 2 blood wagons, one grizzly looking unconscious, one large patch of red snow (usually a VERY bad sign) and my friend A nearly did for herself by spectacularly losing it and landing on her binding. Ouch. Trust me – it’s a very nasty moment when you look back up the slope, see them halfway up not moving and in the 1’ 30” it take you to get your skis off and trudge back up to them they don’t move so much as an inch. Scary stuff indeed.

Drunk.

Got absolutely trolleyed again on Saturday, despite my best intentions. Went to the Faltering Fullback (horrible name) in FP, which is practically the only halfway decent boozer in the area to meet Luce early doors despite having been out VERY VERY late on Friday night as well. It’s basically pretty grim, but it does have a halfway decent beer garden at the back which is not too unpleasant, and as I indicated earlier the opposition is pretty damn poor around there. Anyhoo the guys at the next table were absolutely wasted, totalled completely blunted. I can only assume they’d been on some sort of all day bender as they were utterly hammered and completely tripping as well. The large multi coloured slinky (yes really) that they had with them had become UTTERLY FASCINATING. I don’t see how you can expect to get served in the pub when you can’t stop talking about how the pretty colours keep moving up and down, but somehow they managed it.

So had a quick 4 pints there with Luce & Pats and moved on to Nellie Deans about 8ish and continued to get properly stuck in as they say. Ack ack ack, Think I got home about 4.30, but not really sure.

Ugh

Sunday was Like a Nightmare. I didn’t manage to get myself off the sofa (where I woke up) all day until about 8.30 when I crawled (oh the shame) to the Home of the Venerable and Inscrutable Colonel for a grease injection. It was absolutely vile and I ate every last bit of it. I also managed to miss the repeat of Dr Who, but did manage to catch episode 2 of Fingersmith. I read the book a while ago and it is a cracking good romp if you like that sort of thing, and frankly, what’s not to like – evil villains, tight corsets, wicked uncles, cackling crime monkeys, feisty heroines, brutal lunatic asylums and a hefty shot of saphic lurve as well. Who could resist that??

Pikey

Flatmate 1 deserves a special pat on the back : getting off with not one but *2* random blokes outside Crystal’s kebab shop on the Holloway road in the wee hours of Saturday morning. Double chav points!

Tossers

Sometime you just have to leave the gym because it’s just packed with unbelievable wankers. I get to the gym and there are no warm up bikes left because every single one is taken up by some designer stubbled track suit wearing numpty. I work in a building where people wear suits to the annual company picnic – who the fuck has stubble?? Anyway, not a problem I can warm up with a cross trainer instead. Anyway, just as I’m getting going these idiots quit their little bike ride (they must have done all of 5 minutes (I’d seen them earlier in the changing room)) and – oh what a surprise - head over immediately to the free weights where they proceeded to spend the next hour monopolising both weight benches doing bicep curls and ‘spotting’ eachother.

I go to that gym pretty much every day, I know who’s serious, who’s trying, and who’s just a galloping fart bag, and I’ve never seen these guys before. Who the fuck goes to an alien gym and then spends an hour prancing around doing bicep curls. Cunts that’s who. I wouldn’t even mind so much but it’s such a waste of time. 3 x 10 reps at maximum weight 3 times a week is pretty much the top of the range efficient work out rate for muscle build. Spending an hour doing the same thing? All they’re doing is damaging the muscles and wasting their time. So I suppose I should be grateful for that at least. Anyway I was so pissed off with these guys that I split my shorts doing over aggressive lunges, which provided me with the perfect excuse to quit my workout and leave. I can finish it tomorrow. If I know anything about gym wankers it’s this – you won’t see them in there 2 days running.

And you won’t see them doing any cardio and you’ll NEVER see them doing any stretching.

In fact that’s a not bad rule of thumb to judge the people who are serious about the gym and those who are just playing. Serious people stretch. Of course you can go too far – for every person who’s doing the right amount there’s some chick in a tight top and a pair of peddle pushers doing extravagantly thigh spreading half hour yoga moves right in front of the weights area. I hate them too.