Local football – the difference between quality and enjoyment

Posted: April 21, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: I've been about | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Before I begin – I’ve looked up the rules of WordPress (by which this blog is generated) and whilst I can’t play music over the top of these words – I can link you to websites that play music – meaning you can enjoy sounds from one tab whilst reading words on this tab .

So I’m linking to some suggestions I’ve had from YouTube: Deep Space Banjo Ambience, A playlist to feel like you’re inside a Monet painting, and Rest Here a Moment.. Tomorrow We Start Again. I don’t know if you’ll like them, or if I do – but the internet seems to feel these pieces summarise me.

My dad and I travelled to watch Gillingham FC play yesterday. The Gills are a Kent-local team with a respected regional history that is over-shadowed by an incredibly devoted fanbase that reminds you that people are dedicated to all sorts of things, including screaming.

I find going to the stadium quite intimidating due to the crowd all around – especially behind me. There’s something about a mob that hasn’t realised it is one yet – it really makes me stay home.

I’m not really frightened of having a fight because no ones tends to start fights with me. However, I’d be quite tentative about starting a fight because I don’t know how to do it.

At what point am I allowed to punch you in the nose?

What happens if we’re exchange insults and threats, and I punch first? And then, everyone gasps and suddenly my wouldn’t-be opponent sobs with hysterical confusion, questioning what drove me to do such a thing – and then I’m politely asked to leave?

Unthinkably embarrassing and really not what the beautiful game is all about.

There are other aspects to the game which is beautiful. Elements that one can’t perceive through the screen watching premier league fixtures.

For one, the litter

There’s litter on the pitch and trundling down the stadium steps.

I think this comes down to two issues.

One – the stadium is draughty, being a stadium, which facilitates litter blowing into the goalmouth and clattering against the fanbase.

Two – the local stadium doesn’t have a two-deep line of hi-viz staff constantly trawling through the square footage to clamp down on the litter that risks being a form of unlicensed advertising (“a Snickers wrapper?! I didn’t approve that flutter by!?”).

Plus, everyone keeps dropping litter, which is likely the most crucial cause of littering.

Pigeons are fucking on the stadium roof

It’s spring, and nature is springing, which is beautiful.

Pigeons, fucking on the stadium roof, is also beautiful, but is that kind of beauty nobody really wants to see. Or hear.

If they could smell it, this sport wouldn’t exist.

It does make one feel lucky to be alive though. Spring is here!

Football! Sunshine! Pigeon eggs (eventually)! And god knows these past few months of dark winter, we’ve all been looking forward to more pigeons. The thought of that got me through Christmas.

The elements are real, not like on TV

I remembered to bring my hat this time, as previously I’d spent the entire 90 minutes saluting the spring-time sun in a vain effort to protect my eyes and see a single moment of play. And I don’t like saluting.

I could probably take eye-damage more seriously though. We all could. But I’m still not going to.

The sun hit my forearm for a long time that afternoon. Feeling something, as opposed to that dulling sensation of generally sitting – in which one only feels anything when they’ve been sitting for too long – I don’t get that at home watching TV.

It’s good to feel something, from the sun on my forearm, to the breeze that helps the litter along.

THUDS

Sitting 3 rows back from the field – you can hear the real thud of the game – thuds of players colliding, landing after tackles and the ever-thwack of the ball.

The same ball that everyone cheers as it makes it way by means of foot-empowered-flight out of the stadium towards brown top-hat chimneys of houses just feet away; it thuds when kicked, it thuds when it hits the roof, and it thuds and beep-beeps when it lands on a car just outside the stadium.

That ball is what makes me feel even more on edge than the mob around me and the procreating pigeons above me. There is a constant feeling, sitting so close to the pitch, that the ball is going to be kicked (perhaps…passed) right into my nose with such power it would colonise my face in the name of football.

It’s brilliant.

Fear can be a good thing, especially when it only relates to cosmetic issues and minor brain damage.

‘THUD‘ personifies that.

Money where it can be found

Each goal was sponsored – something I’ve never encountered before.

I wasn’t sure after the first goal, thanks to the roar of the crowd, but after the second – I’m sure the stadium announcer declared: “In the 47th minute, goal scored by JOSHUA ANDREWS!!! This goal was sponsored by Mr and Mrs Potts, of Twydall.”

Not only did this hyper-localise the local football game, but it made clear that ways to make money are discovered through ways to spend money. In this case, hyper-local; to donate money.

Outstanding.

Unbalanced and loving it

With my Dad – I think we were too balanced to fit in properly. When the ref judged a handball, we’d quietly agree with each other, whilst all about us let there position known not so much by direct disagreement, but by calling the ref a cunt.

It’s a matter of passion over facts. Everyone’s got a football opinion, because that’s the point. If you’ve got a football fact – that’s nice, but one hardly screams it at the opposing fanbase.

All about me were the folk who came to slightly decrease their overall long-term blood-pressure by drastically increasing it for a highly vocal 90 minutes (with a quick 15 minute break for liquids – in and out).

The referee represents the villain in the pantomime – you just know you’re supposed to boo them, regardless of what they actually do on the field/stage. The Gillingham-devoted have no idea of this ref’s name, they just want to enjoy the hour and a half of absolute love and total hatred; football.

The greens are greener

You can see the blades of the grass.

Not just general greeness – like on TV, but actually blades, and flying tuffs as boots dig in deep to the pitch whilst missing the ball somewhat.

It’s the same with the players’ hair, the swish of limbs, and – again – the pigeons fucking.

It’s spring!

Glory. Real glory

There were children asking for autographs from players in case they’re not nobodies, and the players were dutifully signing them. It’s wholesome – live with it.

But whilst they’re potentially not nobodies in the future, right now their names are revised and celebrated by the kids who have this hyper-local passion that is, I expect, replicated up and down the country and probably the world.

And then there is that particular moment of glory, when it comes – as it did for Joshua Andrews (sponsored by Mr and Mrs Potts) in which the ball came to him, he paused for a moment and thought (visibly) – “why the fuck not? I’m supposed to aren’t I?!“. And he kicked it, almost a punt on a punt…and it went in.

And a collective of associates who either know one another by name of the fact that they’d also die for this football club, felt every theme of joy conceivable – and they showed it.

By god, or more importantly – Gillingham FC – they showed it.

That’s a glory that cannot be compared.

But it can be beaten, by this:

There are other nobodies, ones you’ve not heard of and I’ve since forgotten, who played with this club for years and may have enjoyed times such as Joshua – the current number 9. Decades later, they passed away, and yesterday, they and their name received a standing ovation over 60 seconds in honour, absolute honour, of their life and service to this club.

There’s glory on these Saturdays, and dreams come true on the field, but it is in the stands that the living of life can be found. It’s excitement – and it is contagious.

All in all – you might get a bit of it, but there’s no way you get all the above from watching the Premier league on the TV.

Some, not all.

3-0 to the Gills it was.

Me and my Dad went.

Sam

Genitals in a tornado – and other topics that don’t get you far as a writer

Posted: April 12, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

‘Whirly whirly whirly‘ they’d go.

There’s something to it as a topic….the topic being genitals in a tornado.

It’s got depth, and history. It’s also metaphorical, but that’s not as important as literally having your genitals in a tornado.

Which genitals? You name them, they’re there. In fact, bring your own! BYOG!

Which tornado? I don’t know – I don’t any tornados. Obviously they’re all named, but I don’t know the depth of their character in the same way I do genitals.

Either way, I like the idea of genitals in a tornado, because that implies being naked in the elements.

And being naked in the elements, the wind and the rain, the sun and the snow, that in itself implies something too.

There’s depth to these genitals, especially hers.

I think it’s an epic representation of how tiny you are, an insignificant little human in a slightly larger universe, which is entirely indifferent, but the stars are out and pretty, and though you might be insignificant – feeling the rain and the wind and the starlight proves you’re alive.

Which is nice.

You might be able to picture the scene:
A person (perhaps yourself) looking up at an unending sky and appreciating all that living can be, whilst the turbulence of life on Earth increases – the wind rises and makes the person sway and lean into the now-raging storm threatening to rip them away, the will to be and live swells greater than the storm, and proof of living is undeniable and powerful, and all the while their genitals are going round and around like the clappers.

I’ll bet it’s good for them.

Doctors should recommend a tornado for your blood pressure, variations of hair-dos, and for your genitals. Or perhaps, just for the experience – why shouldn’t a doctor want you to have a fun time?

These. These are the topics that don’t get us far as writers. Probably because they’re so interesting, we don’t want to move.

There’s history to these genitals.

Well, really pre-history, but mostly guesswork and even statistics. There’s no way you’re the first person to have genitals out and about in a tornado.

And there’s absolutely no way in hell that you’re the first person to helicopter your penis hands-free but elements-dependent, such as a tornado provides.

The likelihood of this happening goes back further than even helicopters, further back than lassos, further back than any other things you might consider waggling round and round. A penis was doing it first – and I’ll bet there was a tornado right alongside it.

This is history that wasn’t written down at the time it happened, but I bet there’s an undiscovered cave painting somewhere in the world, with storm clouds and rain depicted – with a focus feature of a simple human figure encumbered with a penis so overly large it upsets other people’s balance, surrounded by motion lines to indicate rapid revolutions, and other members of the tribe keeping an awed-whilst-embarrassed distance.

That’s art that I wouldn’t pay for, but I would paint it.

I think they have something similar in the Vatican. Maybe on the walls that hold the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel up.

Turns out – there’s art and architecture to this.

I don’t know about breasts, since they seem to wobble most of the time anyway, but when it comes to history, I’m sure I’ve heard the term “like tits in a wind-tunnel” is one I’ve heard before. I just can’t recall when. I can recall why though – things were going extraordinarily well at the time – like tits in a wind-tunnel.

Vagina-wise (which is a theme, not a given-title for experienced gynecologists) – I’d have to imagine that whilst the tornado might make one’s ovaries a tad chilly, the hollow vagina in a tornado would emit a pleasing ‘toot‘ sort of noise – like when blowing into a half-finished bottle of beer. And you’ve finished the second half, first.

These are the topics that get one nowhere, not even preferably lost.

The important point here, is that writings on topics like these are the guarantee of successlessness. In addition to the creation of unreal words such as at the end of the last sentence, they are not what you want to read about.

But by golly, they’re enjoyable to write about.

And I write, to write.

Doing it this way is to ‘other’ yourself, which gets you attention such as I’m not getting, but the potential is still there.

These are the topics, as you’ve seen above: history, depth, metaphors, art, and architecture – who could possibly be interested in such subjects as these?! Thank heavens there was a unifying theme.

Maybe ‘genitals in the breeze’ would be a better title?

Sam

The internet isn’t sexy, and it isn’t helping

Posted: April 6, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I was distracted after writing the above title, by brief segment from a chat-show featuring a guest speaking about why having core stability is important for Formula One racing.

Apparently, it’s very important. For Formula One racing.

I don’t like Formula One racing, though I admit I’ve a soft spot for core stability.

The time I spent on the…….sorry I became distracted again and started browsing for cigars online.

The internet – it is distracting, and not in a good way.

The internet is only as wonderful as it is – and that’s about it.

When I think of the internet being most useful and worth keeping, I picture vital research being finalised in a lab in Australia thanks to some AI programming, then being discussed on a video-conference-call with Europe-based colleagues, and then shared with a children’s hospital when it saves a baby’s life in the nick of time. And then the news is celebrated amongst Facebook friends.

Yes, there’s also music, online communities, access of life-saving information, and occasionally – OCCASIONALLY – a funny video of a cat having a slightly bad time; all of which is tremendous.

Otherwise, it is a unsexy place – location undetermined but seemingly everywhere – and stopping people from approaching one another normally. Of course, ‘normally’ for humans – online or ‘off’ (I like that term – I am “off“) will remain as strange as it ever was before, thanks to people having it within their DNA to make things interesting.

These engagements don’t need to be online. It is preferable to take a single step out doors and try it thus instead. It’s better for your cardio.

The internet is not good for your cardio.

Cardio is sexy, leads to sex, and actually is sex too.

Whilst the internet might lead to sex – it certainly doesn’t do so in a sexy fashion; a click of a button is neither romantic, or attractive. ‘Sexy’ is almost as important as sex itself.

‘Sexy’ is a reason I am involved in things and with people, but aside from my wife – they’ve nothing to do with sex, but they sure as hell are sexy.

Indeed, I have many sexy friends that I don’t find remotely attractive, which I tell to the remaining few of them all the time.

In fact, the benefits of the internet, as broad, varied and accurate as they may be, seem to be proven in the individual instead of en masse.

The individual – who used internet forums to lose weight. Most are gaining weight from lack of movement.

The individual – who developed their friendship circle of like-minded folk to enjoy happily. Must feel more alone than ever, especially when self-judging in comparison to the beautiful people online.

Beauty is important a point that the internet has hammered-home and lost altogether. Once, physical beauty of a person was an exception. Of course everyone is beautiful but no they’re not. Quite a few are pretty, or kind of handsome, but few are beautiful.

The internet has reduced the unique advantage of beauty as something special. Beautiful is now ‘just-another-beautiful‘.

Naturally, everyone wants to breed with someone that is actually attractive – and all the more so if beautiful. I do, anyway. But now that physical beauty is everywhere, thanks to an online ubiquity, it’s not quite the same selling point as it once was.

Therefore, I predict now that in soon-years, physical beauty as a focal point will be replaced in favour of a unique face, one that suggests character over symmetry; balls over cheekbones. Smells good.

The internet has no scent.

It is whiffless, and this should tell us all we need to know.

But there’s more.

Dogs do not approach the internet, despite being such as prominent feature on social media and veterinary sites. If a dog doesn’t trust it,

If the internet were to attend parties, it would be the rather uncouth character fraudulently telling everyone about ladies he’s been with, attempting to sell you a variety of essentially unnecessary items but primarily penis enlargement pills, and speaking in acronyms and then delightedly rolling his eyes when older folk don’t understand.

The internet ain’t got no class.

Oscar Wilde would not invite the internet to one of his soirées, nor would he have need to use the internet as I just did to spellcheck “soirée”.

Another subject I needed to check with online help was the names and faces of the original 150 Pokemon.

I’ve wondered for a while if my two young children (3 and 5) would have their attention held by the programmes I watched when I was their age. So I gave the original pokemon series a go on YouTube.

Sure enough they loved it, but whilst they enjoyed the stories – laughing and silent at all the right moments – I was squirming with resistance to the urge to search online for the full 150 names and faces of each Pokemon.

I succumbed.

This is the data I do not need, but in that scenario I felt I could not do without it and now, in my brain, its there.

150.

So many minutes.

Afterwards, and indeed at the time, I preferred to spend the time with my children, watching them enjoy the cartoon, or I could have turned to this blog and make it a little better, or even dropped and given a solid round of push-ups. But instead, I had to have the instant knowledge, and it is distinctly unsexy.

Yes, of course the internet is fantastic when it’s needed, but we don’t need it as much as we use it.

There’s nothing wrong with a healthy thirst for knowledge, but there’s nothing wrong with not knowing something every now and then, let alone immediately.

And yes, this blog is on the internet, but nobody is trying to suggest this blog is a good thing. I could take it offline, and just comment your address below so I can post each blog to you in the mail.

The internet isn’t sexy. I don’t like online banking, which is remarkably more convenient and cost-effective, because I prefer bank tellers. I dislike home online-streaming services, but really want to go to the cinema and smell the popcorn. I prefer not to order online goods, as I really enjoy getting lost and confused in a department store, hoping my wife will come and find me.

It makes the world something you view, rather than be party to the people in it, and with head full of the kind of inane you don’t want. And I know what kind of inane I like – it smells like popcorn and is trusted by dogs.

If you haven’t got people – you haven’t got much.

And I’ve got some.

Sam

An unromantic hotel room.

Posted: March 6, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I think a good hotel room is unromantic.

Same as how a happy life, without conflict, drama or the overcoming of both, doesn’t make for a good story.

Happy stories are for the birds, unlike the movie ‘The Birds’ by Alfred Hitchcock, which is a fantastic idea about birds attacking rooftops and that being an issue for some reason (the cure for zombie apocalypse, human or avian, is baseballbats directly into the blood stream – just not your bloodstream).

I’m in a hotel room as I write this and it’s fine.

Quite nice actually. Comfy bed, door locks as it was built to, TV televises, and the window offers a vista of one of England’s more breathtaking carparks.

All rather nice, all rather dull. Nice. How nice. Very nice.

No one likes a good experience be relayed to them, it’s uninspiring.

You don’t pull your closest friends to the side to tell them that there’s no need to rise to the challenge because it turns out everything is nice and the TV works, therefore they’ll be no righteous battles, mountains hurdled or passionate shagging tonight, thank you.

People like a good story about a bad time, preferably overcome but not vital to the hopes of battles, hurdling and shagging.

This hotel room has vibes, and they’re comfortable.

I didn’t realise it’d have vibes when I booked it.

I just wanted a bad time, every now and then, to keep things interesting and to make sure there’s a tale to tell.

Oh well, maybe the room service breakfast will be subparr.

I’ll be sure to let you know

Sam

PS: Next morning. There was only one sausage. Hilarious! But still, regrettably, nice.

Topics that ruin your working day

Posted: March 6, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

The holocaust.

Anyway, I woke early one morning at the start of lockdown, frankly enjoying the idea of not having to leave the house.

My son was about one at the time (there weren’t two of him), and I’d become used to waking early for feeding time, as well as to prep for the work commute.

With no need to commute due to that there pandemic, and with my son being coddled by my wife (both still asleep upstairs), I made my way down stairs in my pajamas with the kind of swagger that celebrates not having to do anything as physical as having a ‘spring in my step’ for the rest of the day.

I laid down upon the sofa, kettle boiling, bowl and spoon cornflaking, and skimmed through the DVDs stacked title-out on the bookshelf (why else have a bookshelf, unless needing somewhere else to place your coffee and cornflakes?).

Realising that having woken at 6am meant I had by then just under three hours to somehow put on a clean shirt, move to the office-room and turn my laptop on – I had time to enjoy a movie.

I’ve a good DVD collection. They’re not really for watching, because the films are either a little too intense, or too boring for the rest of the family, or too regularly watched by me over the years because I love them so much.

But one title filled that spot between knowing it’s a cracker of a movie, and not having watched it too recently.

Children of Men.

“Coooool” I would have thought if I actually thought words – which I don’t, but the did still regard the movie, and the premise of watching it with time to spare, before work, as – coooool.

So I put the disk in the player, lowered the volume so as to not wake my Mrs and little son, and watched.

A little under two hours later, I turned off the television, made my way back upstairs, needing to wash my face and put on a clean shirt….and opted to get back into bed.

I reemerged with ten minutes to dress, and turn on my laptop.

Which I did!

And from that point I spent the rest of the day solidly not giving a shit, or anything else helpful or unpleasant to give, to my colleagues, their projects, their workloads or their latest news since coming back from annual leave and having some smashing photos to share from their time in Gibraltar.

The film’s plot, about there being no more children, until there suddenly was one more and it was born into a post-semi-apocalyptic war zone before being sent adrift with its mother towards what might or might not be a friendly boat, had really bummed me out.

How could I reinvigorate myself following so harrowing a tale of constant violence and death at breakfast?

Cornflakes should not be accompanied by shot midwives. CORNFLAKES SHOULD NOT BE ACCOMPANIED BY SHOT MIDWIVES

This ruined the working day for me and frankly the pandemic all went downhill from there (no disrespect intended).

The topics of that film has ruined my working day, but there are others.

And happily, they’re jolly.

Like South Park.

South Park is one of those entities that I forget about and am then delighted to be reminded about because it’s simply excellent. All you’d want from comedy.

I feel like I could do comedy, and if not to the degree of South Park, then at least – slightly. Slightly comedic would be a step in the right direction.

But pondering this means that, again, I am dwelling on topics that are terrible for my deadlines, traumatic for my proofreading, and deadly for my career progression since I realize the career I’m in isn’t the one I want to fucking progress with.

And quickly from there I’m wishing I too was in a post-semi-apocalyptic war zone rather than in this particular Teams online meeting because I’d bet those shot midwives would have a better sense of humour than any of you fuckers.

Fuckers.

Fucking colleagues.

Colleagues!

Before I go, here’s some more work-day ruining topics:
Modern Slavery
Unit 731
Carol Ann Duffy
The Simpsons
7 Dirty Words You Can’t Say On TV
Surprise Military HomeComings

A nice mix there, but one that makes me cry the most is Elvis performing Unchained Melody. Try working on a spreadsheet after watching that stunner.

All the best,

Sam

I can’t be alone in thinking this. I’d like to be though.

Posted: March 6, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

There’s always a risk of being honest online.

One must tread (type) carefully with the expectation that one is racist or something equally unpleasant and therefore not deserving of having a blog anymore.

Now, I probably am racist, but I’ll leave that to folk more qualified than myself to diagnose. I can’t think of any specific views or prejudices at this time, but I’m sure they’ll surface on my commute home through traffic.

Less so focused on the likely-racism for today though; I want to talk about feeling sad.

Because I do feel sad.

I’m sad right now.

Oh look, I just got sadder.

And this has happened before with me, and it’ll likely crop up again, but I do keep reverting to this perpetual option I have to wander into a field and die.

Not suicide – I don’t have a violent bone in my body – but definitely not trying any more.

I don’t know if that counts as ‘giving up’, or ‘no longer putting up with the planet’s negative sides any more’ (can a planet, being round, have a side? When I’m in a bad mood – yes it can. A temper-dependent, partially flat Earth).

Either way, I like the idea of having the option to wander into a field, sitting down, and worries ebbing away as one of two things happen.

  1. I master meditation and Zen the shit out of myself.
  2. I abandon the premise of hunger, ambition, regret, loss, hope, fear, glory, pride, and especially having a numb bum from sitting in a field for too long.

Hunter S Thompson made clear is his view on suicide, ultimately by shooting himself in the head (really showing his conviction) and in what he left behind – his words.

Beautiful words on the matter.

“I would feel real trapped in this life if I didn’t know I could commit suicide at any time.”

And then the note – ‘Football season is over’.

It was his final note. We probably shouldn’t know about it – I doubt it was ever meant for us.

But still, his point remains now as true as then.

It’s a weariness. I cannot be bothered with the blue bells and bird song.

I’ve had enough of the laughter of children and the company of friends.

Women aren’t what they used to be, nor am I.

Bye….along those lines.

The sort of things that are why you want to leave a dinner party that’s gone on too long, but you don’t mention because everyone thinks you’re suicidal, and that reflects awfully on their hosting skills.

I’ll cheer-up, I’m sure. Maybe not tomorrow, but hopefully before the weekend.

And whilst in this mood, I still like to ponder walking into a field, harmlessly, carelessly, and should I die then I shouldn’t care, because of the careless happiness I’d feel about being in a field.

On a sunny day, obviously.

Not too sunny, either – that won’t work for me.

For this I’d have that kind of particular preference that comes from a mix of memory and imagination and won’t ever actually happen – that’s my kind of weather.

It’s good for the soul.

Sam

Sandwich ingredients – can’t we all just get along?

Posted: January 31, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Say you’re a slice of cheese, with all the crucial memories and opinions that a slice of cheese would have.

You want, specifics? Fine you’re brie.

Actually, no – you’re cheddar. Being cheddar is important for this.

It matters to me.

Anyway, you’re a slice of opinionated (cheddar) cheese – and someone places a slice of ham on top of you.

Opinionated ham.

Ham with a mother.

Ham with hopes (not dreams though – it’s just ham).

And that slice of ham is laying on top of you face to cheesy face – how would you feel?

Perhaps you’d nod politely at one another, like businessman bumping into each other on a crowded train, but then again, that doesn’t often happen when they’re both horizontal.

It’d be really neat if you’d both simply get along. No need to shove.

But that’s not all – next is the disappointment that comes from the comfortable slice of bread you yourself had already been placed on.

You’d been enjoying it being as soft and convenient as it was to relax upon, though weirdly, it was particularly buttery. As buttery as anything you can think of as being buttery.

Not many things are buttery. In fact, its likely that most things that are buttery, aside from bread, are not intended to be buttery.

Buttery.

Albeit buttery, it was a pleasant place to find yourself as a slice of cheese, even when a slice of ham is pressed against you.

Then, you see over the slice of ham’s………………. shoulder (?)……a second slice of bread descending its way towards you.

Now I can’t pretend to have ever heard cheese before. But if I were then, like you are now – a piece of cheese about to be imprisoned within the kind of butteriness that you’d honestly begun to trust – I think I’d have a lot to say. And even more to scream.

Meanwhile, the slice of ham is still squished up against you, face-to-face, unable to move because it’s inanimate (AKA “thoroughly well-cooked”) and is desperately asking what you’re freaking out about, but can sense the darkness looming up from behind it.

As I said, I’ve never heard cheese, and I’ve never heard the inside of a sandwich either, but I’ll bet its muffled.

Now I don’t want to be grim here. There’s no pain in the life of this cheese (can’t guarantee same for the ham) so have no fear of me describing the agony of teeth coming together through you – some cheddar cheese.

But, the idea of being chewed cheese basically just occurred to me and I wanted to share consideration for the sensation with you.

My favourite part was the suggestion of the cheese and ham nodding politely at each other. Its nice to get along.

There might be a metaphor in there somewhere, sandwich ingredients getting along and so on.

But I’ll leave that to you to be interested in, I’m just curious about being a piece of cheese.

Sam

Why I don’t remember my weekends.

Posted: January 26, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Matters that Matter | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I tend not to remember my weekends, because I tend not to remember most things that aren’t memorable.

I cooked pig’s feet on Sunday night, and I have literally no clue what we took place.

No clue.

I’m thoroughly informed on the flavour of trotters (taste like pig feet, probably like your feet too), but not on the preceeding 48 hours.

It’s because I ‘Walter Mitty’ – but not in the exotic or adventurous sense like the famous movie.

Instead, when my weekend is happening, and especially when my wife is explaining to me what we’re doing for the weekend, I like to get lost in an internal fiction of mundane oddness.

And it’s very frustrating.

I’d love to enjoy the memories of a weekend, or maybe even the weekend itself, but I reverie without mercy to the point that I’ve broadly got no idea what’s going on.

My wife was speaking, as I presume she does regularly, and instantaneously I began daydreaming about how I would explain to an ancient Viking that a cow is female, using only the most choice grunts and hand-gestures.

Why did I do that?

I didn’t do that!

That daydream happened to me and I simply couldn’t look away.

If this bizarre scenario played itself in your head – you’d also miss-out on your wife’s plans for your weekend.

And to be frank, whilst I’d like to enjoy the weekend, sometimes – I also really want to give some serious consideration to how I’d explain to an ancient Viking that a cow is female, and then watching myself in my own head, with an ancient Viking I’ve never even met before, miming a vagina whilst really committing to an effeminate moo.

Sometimes, I’d really like to do that.

But, reality is also lovely at times.

My wife and kids a smashing, really lovely. Can’t fault them at all.

My wife walks towards me with a smile that she can’t help – because she, like me, has a massive face.

Thus, she presents me with a smile, the same way someone might want to show me they’ve a bucket.

And my children – they’re worth being around for, as well as all that parental responsibility, etc.

My son reminds me of me, he’s the best show off and hopefully will do better than having a blog one day.

My daughter makes me laugh, and I expect that’s a phase till she finds easier means of getting chocolates and dollies.

How do they compare with an ancient Viking ignorant of bovine gender?

They’re preferable, but I’m still distracted by the ridiculous.

I’ll just have to concentrate on the preferable, I suppose.

But I hope you appreciate that having an uninvited Nordic fellow, complete with axe and beard and numerous other stereotypic apparel, inserted into your head from nowhere, might be distracting.

Because it is – I’ve written a whole blog about it. That’s how distracting it is – it gives me focus.

If this distracting focus makes me a millionaire thanks to this blog, that’s a negative – I don’t want my son to be inspired by such things.

He’s already distracted enough, with the void look in his eyes that tells me that in his head he’s somewhere nicer than the conversation I’m currently giving him.

He needs a good, solid focus, uninfluenced by fictional Vikings and me.

He needs his grinning mother – the ultimate reality, the sort you can both hang your hat on and rely.

My daughter will be fine, she takes after the ultimate reality with the big face.

I’m reminded of something teachers have said for, I expect, centuries…”must try harder”.

I’ll certainly try.

Sam

Can’t I just donate a foot and have fewer worries?

Posted: January 16, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

I wish sacrifice was real.

Not that form of sacrifice we see every day, in which people sacrifice (meaning ‘dedicate’) their time and efforts to something for others; time and efforts that might otherwise have been enjoyably spent on more selfish endeavours.

People do that every day, and that’s wonderful. Good for them.

I mean the kind of sacrifice that currently doesn’t work. The other…..other….kind of sacrifice.

Don’t worry, I don’t want to sacrifice my children or pets or anything like that.

Just one of my feet.

To the gods.

If I could lop off my left foot (I need my right foot for work) and throw it into the fire of heavenly donations (like an ethereal footbank) in exchange for just a little less woe – I’d do that.

Let me put it like this: you can retain your left foot…..or…..your mortage is paid off by the gods. Which would you choose?

I’d be hopping to the bank with a right-footed glee not seen since I hopped for genuine joy as a child.

Then I could spend my money on things I really want to buy. Like a shoe.

And I mean no offence to those out there without left feet, but this is my view and whilst I’m sorry right now – I’ll happily apologise further when my mortage is paid off by the Gods and I can consider sacrificing some of my remaining toes in exchange for free wifi.

My children get ill, you see.

And if you’ve children too, then so do yours.

Consider this – plus war, climate change and taxes, and you’ll realise – your not as attached to your left foot as you once thought. And you’ll feel this all the more following the ‘procedure‘.

All in exchange for a little sacrifice. Just a little less woe, would be nice

Fewer feet, less woe, a fair compromise.

And what will the gods do with my foot?

None of my business, but there’s no doubting that it’ll all come down to procreating with it and birthing angelic hordes of demi-god feet that can march or tap-dance at will.

Not that it’s any of my business.

Sam

Bread. Where did the inspiration come from?

Posted: January 8, 2024 | Author: | Filed under: Brief...therefore witty. | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Because I don’t have it.

The inspiration for bread is beyond me. Especially the ‘yeast‘ bit.

I have no idea what yeast is to be honest with you. And should I ever find myself holding a lump of it in my hand and was told to get some of the local crops to make bread, I’d seriously have to consider leaning on magic to get the job done.

And that’s with magic being real, which it isn’t, but then again I suspect yeast might not be either.

Take some wheat, squash it in a dry manner – don’t let it get wet in the squashing process.

Find some yeast, if you believe in such things, and just add it. I’m not sure how, maybe throw it at the dry squashed wheat. How thick a crust you get depends on how hard you throw it.

And where to find said yeast?

I’d imagine a cave, or the underside of a mighty boulder, or behind a waterfall at the mermaid lagoon – what does it matter? It doesn’t exist anyway.

When hunting the mythical ‘yeast beast’, search the forgotten realms of some dark bakery, where it continues to both give decent, hard-working folk infections, whilst simultaneously remaining imaginary.

Back to whatever ‘baking’ is:

It’s possible you then contribute an egg to the proceedings, but that might result in a cake and cakes are simply ridiculous – look at them. They have cherries on top.

Heat, the hot stuff. Put it in the mixture. On and around too.

With that done, it’s just a matter of time.

Time to wonder what the hell you were playing at, throwing yeast at things and hoping there’d be a positive outcome because you made it hotter.

What the hell were the first people who actually made bread trying to do? From whence did their inspiration come?

From whence?!

There’s only one possible explanation for bread.

And I do believe it’s the creativity of idiocy, curious to see what happens when you do something to something and see if something happens.

In this case, it was bread. But what was the first baker trying to achieve? Food?

Because and no point in the bread making process does it look like food.

It looks like matter with no future, regardless of if it gets hot or not.

What could they see that I can’t?

Did they have any idea it would become the basis of poetic metaphors for religious and socio-political economic movements, or the far more serious daily status is holds for the French?

Probably. Most of my actions are based on how important the outcomes will be for the French. Such as this blog, which I’d presume they’d refer to as “hors-de-propos” – the opposite of bread.

Sam

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