Tuesday, 12 April 2011

The War of Bernie and Rose. I

I live with my Grandparents, i'm sure some of you know. Bernie - the cynical hag, who spends 7 months of every year drunk, and the other 5 months sitting with me at the kitchen table, bitching about everyone else in the world. And Sean - the mysterious old man that spends 12 months of the year writing letters to someone infront of his 48-inch television. We have a good relationship. Seany in his living room, bernie in her kitchen, and me in my bedroom for the most part.

Above us, in 64B, live Wayne and Tom. A gay couple. For a few months, Tom has been making crude and pervacious advances toward me on Grindr, which I politely went along with until I obtained his and Wayne's wifi password, then I blocked him.

Wayne is an Australian. He has a mother called Rosemarie (Don't worry, this story does actually go somewhere). She is a devout catholic, or so i've heard, and she, while wanting to visit England in the past, was abhored by the idea of homosexuality. And in a grand falling-out with Tom one day, everyone thought it best that Rosemarie, on her frequent stays in the UK locate herself downstairs, with the other old people. At this juncture in their saga, I was about to leave for a holiday, and only met Rosemarie once, on my departure. A svelte, 5'10 figure, with healthy curls of waist length grey hair appeared from the top of the stairs. "Are you Luke?" she smiled. Her pearly white teeth resonating through the unholy darkness, "God bless on your travels! And God tells me we will meet again!"

"God tells me we won't, because you're very old, and you live in Australia" I thought. How wrong I was. Rosemarie returned last week. This time I am here to witness her first hand, and can finally understand why my grandmother chose, of all the descriptives available to call this God-loving woman, a "Cunt".

Marathon training, weeks 19 - 21

I didn't make separate entires for these three weeks because, drawing so close to the end of it all, everything's become quite monotonous, really. Although i've been doing things these three weeks that I hadn't done for the first 18.

I've been to physiotherapy twice, which is quite enjoyable. My physiotherapist is a turkish cpriot, and i'm a greek cyprio, so he get's all his racial anger out on my calves, so we both win.

I've started to delve into some research i'm doing for an essay on the marathon. Maybe too much research. But it means that i'm not just running it for running-its-sake, but for research purposes, so whether I give up and die, or breeze through to the finish line in seconds, I will have something to write about, I hope.

I raised £200 in these three weeks. I was hoping for more, but i've got wind that "the average" fundraiser is at 50% with one week to go. I'm at 61%. Win. I will keep nagging you, for the next 6 weeks, to donate on my behalf, so you should do it.

I've started tapering, so 2 weeks ago, after my longest run yet, 15 miles, i get to relax more and eat more than ever, which is fun.

Can't beleive there's less than a week left. Not really a training week at all. It seems to me as though I haven't trained for long or hard enough; I've heard a lot recently about how mammoth a marathon is supposed to be, and that half of it is in in the training. It's been quite enjoyable for me. Maybe because i'm young.

Tuesday, 5 April 2011

The Curse of April 17th

I'm cursed. By April 17th. Or at least I think I am. But I'm going to document this now, in 2011, so that if the curse plays out, and I die on April 17th, you'll all be safe in the knowledge that I told you so.

The curse isn't necessarily a bad thing, but I've noticed that for as long as I can remember (April 17th 2007), something monumental/dire has happened in my life. Let's start with April 17th 2007; I broke up with my first "real" boyfriend on this day. Hardly life changing, but it was a big deal at the time. One year later, I found myself in someone else's bed, and I was like "Oh snap! It's a year today since I broke up with Matt! How far I've come!" Little did I know that the sex I had on A17th08* (*Does that work?) would lead me into a painful, one sided relationship a la Kate Winslet in The Holiday.

So so far - My first break-up. I fell in Love. 2009 was a bit different in that what happened was that I shat myself.

Yeah you heard me. It was just a normal day, A17th09 to be precise, and I hadn't yet clocked on to my curse. I was in the middle of a Jungle, in a homophobic country, so obviously the Curse-Master couldn't inflict any romance related calamities on me this day. But I got out of my hut, as I did every morning, brushed my teeth by the river side, in my swim shorts and t-shirt whilst watching the hundreds of school children sweep the grass (???). My tooth-brushing was, as always, interrupted by the headmasters house-girl telling me my breakfast was ready. So I put my toothbrush back in my hut, and crossed the busy field to the headmasters hut, where I sat with him and his wife, to our usual breakfast of Hot water and fresh bread. And then suddenly I shat. It wasn't even faux flatulence. One second I was chewing by bread, the next second I was shitting. At a table full of people, in loose shorts, in a house without a toilet. I had no choice but to finish my breakfast with a stern face, and politely excuse myself, somehow keeping my back to the wall. I couldn't keep my back to the wall when crossing the field, back to my hut, but who knows what, if anything, the children saw. They probably just saw the crazy white man clutching at his shorts for no reason. Anyway, we don't need to know the rest of the story. Suffice to say I got washed and changed and went to school. The point is - Who shit's themselves?! Nobody does. Except children, old people, people who are having anal sex, and people who are cursed. We know which category I fell into on that day, don't we (the cursed one). It was only in writing it in my diary that night that I spotted the date at the top of the page! I noticed the trend, How exiting.

Forward a year; April 17th 2010. After basically exactly 2 years of self inflicted torture, I found myself in that boys bed again. Fooling around. It's something I'd wished for for years, and as I kissed him, I felt emancipated from my wishes, and basically got over it. Who knew how simple it was! Besides the fact that we fell out a month later, the curse had been broken!!! A break-up, unrequited love, and a shit. I'd ended it with something good! An emancipation! Woohoo! I got on with my life for another year.

Then last week, I realised something. The most important trial of 2011 for me so far, is going to be The London Marathon. Guess what Sherlock. It's on April 17th.

It awaits to be seen whether the events of A17th10 mean that the curse is now a good curse, or whether it was just an off year, and I'm going to break my leg and die at mile 23. Maybe nothing will happen; i'll receive an average time and my legs will hurt a bit; but it is definitely something major, and definitely on april 17th, so that's definitely the 5th year in a row. And now I have the blog entry to prove that curses exist. Stay tuned for A17th12 - end of the world edition.

Friday, 1 April 2011

R U Flirting Wiv Me?

And other conversations.

Actually, I'm making fun of your name.

My brief and sickening brush with vagina...

My brief and lively brush with drugs...

My brief and tragic brush with unhappy people...