At (good) odds with myself...

I'd buy blog for a dollar...

I'm not used to hard work and that ain't no lie. I prefer to spend swathes of what would otherwise be productive time imagining a life spent on a chaise longue carved from unicorn horn, lying prone as hoards of fantasy bosomed wenches bring me dolphin kebabs, ambrosia smoothies and the TV guide.

Despite my imaginings seemingly limited to lounging about, indulging tedious misogynistic leer-a-thon's and watching the telly (perhaps I should become a Premier League footballer. As long as I didn't have to endure the twice weekly running about, all I need is a haircut and a lobotomy) recently, even this has proved to be a bridge too far in the "effort" stakes and I've been investing all my efforts into operating on a kind of sub-human level of inactivity where only my wild screams at the prod of the morticians scalpel can separate me from a cadaver.

This has the knock on effect of making me ever so slightly annoyed with myself whenever the daily grind of breathing, eating, hanging over and weeping silently at the futility of it all, threatens to raise my pulse rate above 'occasional'. Inactivity breeds laziness and therefore it becomes increasingly difficult to a) take the rubbish out before the council have to knock in the front door and hose me down with a mixture of sulphuric acid and Cillit Bang, and b) ensure that the one thing it's worth doing, still gets done. The "one thing" that I refer to is, obviously, feeding the blog monster, who I adore, loath, am obsessed with and avoid in equally futile measures.

To combat this, perhaps it's best to change tactics. Rather than weekly (kinda) updates on the weighty topics such as elections, iPods, watching telly, I could focus more regularly on the trivialities of my day: sweating, grunting, combing, murder. More regularly, but shorter. A bit like the children's version of the Bible, only with less fiction and more swearing.

For example, yesterday's trip to the races brought me, squinting, blinking out of the darkened catacombs of my room and into the real world, starring real people with slightly less regular ad breaks (I looked at an advertising hoarding occasionally to preserve the illusion that it was on telly). It had been quite a while since I'd been to the races, but I was genuinely sad that the weather was typically biblical for England and therefore most of the more eccentrically dressed racing crowd stayed away. By this, I'm of course referring to women dressed as cake decorations, having covered themselves in Bisto and wrapped up against the cold with a small piece of wedding dress material and 6 pints of Blue Nun. There was only really the occasional overdressed, multi-coiffured male to gawp at as he sported a V-neck, day old stubble and a suit jacket to indicate his sophistication, despite struggling to tame the twin demons of understanding betting odds and the concept of shame.

I wonder if he was able to comprehend the lack of willing, idiotic, awful people that he could impress, instead finding himself at an event populated by spit-fingered old men grasping their last betting slip, while their dignity is released fluttering into the breeze, and regular people, having a bit of a giggle with 2 pound bets and struggling to stay warm. Eventually even these walking clotheshorse chaps dropped their meaningless search for 'cool' and just decided to jump up and down and scoff profanities at losing ponies like the bloody rest of us.

There's nothing to be gained by trying to be cool at the races. Especially once you've reached the point where you are simply 'cold'. Still, better cold and living than warm and watching stuff do it inside the magical box in the corner of the room. Might be something in this 'doing things' lark after all.

Now budge up, Friends is on....

Seeyousoonerthanishealthy. xxx