nunoncastors

I’ve now sat through more dreary, half-arsed international football matches than I care to remember, hours of my life have been stolen away by people who, on the surface of it, don’t want to be on the pitch living the dream.

I’m sure they’d assure me otherwise but really, having watched yet another dismal performance, I suspect even they no longer believe their own platitudes. I sat down on Wednesday evening with a group of friends and expected to see – well, effort; because when you’re representing your country you’re supposed to be filled with national pride and respond accordingly. You’re supposed to realise that every single man watching you dreams of trading places and raise your game. You’re not supposed to wander about as though you’ve never seen a ball in your life and repeatedly pass to the other team.

What we were treated to was the sight of disinterested millionaires milling about, playing long balls and doing precious little else. It’s not as though I have unrealistic expectations of the national team, I don’t expect them to win every game, I just expect them to try to win every game rather than amble about like a shower of arseholes.

Some will doubtless think it ridiculous to question our footballer’s commitment to the national team, that it’s blasphemy to impugn their desire to win. Of course they view it as an honour, they’re proud to be wearing the shirt. I just think it’d be nice if they played like it, that’s not too much to ask is it?

On a side (and related) note, I’ve actually rather gone off top flight football altogether. I used to really enjoy watching footballers plying their trade but, of late, there’s something that really grates about watching men with more money than sense diving, whining, cheating and conniving. It’s a contact sport; people should either get used to it or stop playing. Simple.

Christ knows what Christiano “goes-down-as-though-someone’s-thrown-acid-in-his-face” Ronaldo would do if he ever came up against someone who tackles like Julian Dicks. Go down clawing at his eyes as usual probably, at least he’d have reason to.

Then you get to hear them moaning about their wages, “I only get fifty-five grand a week, wah-wah-wah.” My heart fucking bleeds.

I think this season’s going to be my last. Still, there’s always Notts County. At least I expect them to be dire.

I left my room in a bit of a state over the weekend and now it may be too late. My fever dreams of the last few days appear to have awoken… something. I sincerely doubt it’s anything as severe as a Deep Crow, but it scuttles and scurries in the night nonetheless, watching me, waiting.

This is what I get for not doing my washing.

Yesterday was a write-off. I’ve no idea what caused it but I spent the day feeling close to death. Indeed, death would have been a welcome visitor while I was curled over the toilet slowly turning inside out. It shouldn’t be possible to vomit a kidney but I think I came close. My brain throbbed and ached like it was too big for my skull; my limbs felt as though they were made of dully throbbing lead and the joys of sweats, both hot and cold, shivering fits that curl you up into a ball, and vomiting are something you really need to experience to appreciate.

By about half past seven I’d had enough of being conscious/alive and attempted to make everything better by passing out in bed only to then wake up every twenty minutes with the sheets wrapped tightly around my neck choking me. I mean, I know men tend to be overly dramatic about illnesses, you know, unless it’s something really serious, but if someone had suggested I let them give trepanning a go I’d have fitted the drill bit myself.

The rest of the bank holiday however, before I came down with the ague, was lots of fun. I made my way down to Slindon Base Camp (which is a somewhat over-the-top name for what is essentially a youth hostel) with my fellow cult members and drank, caroused and saw a few things that, frankly, I didn’t expect to see. And I mean really didn’t expect to see.

Still, that’s beer for you.

Prior to this weekend I hadn’t spent much time in the south, not the south east anyway. Obviously I’ve been to Dover and Deal and places like that, but that was a long time ago and I don’t really recall much of it beyond Dover Castle and an unfortunate incident with a bream. Having the opportunity to take a little wander about in one of the few parts of the country I don’t know very well was therefore something of a treat, even if it did rain and snow and blow and bluster.

I know I sometimes belabour the point, but you can’t help but marvel at the little twists and turns life takes when you find yourself, for example, wandering through a wood on the South Downs talking about German bombing raids with people you only know because of a shared interest in a book. It’s a curious world. I like it.

[edit] Ok, so technically it’s Spring now, but you need to shut up. [/edit]

As part of my duties as an internet cult member I am bound by dark powers to attend at least two good-natured party weekends a year, a duty that has thus far fallen far short of becoming onerous.

I’ve stated this before, I know, but those of my friends who aren’t themselves members of secretive online cabals think it incredibly strange behaviour on my part. I mean, I’ve tried explaining that it’s predominantly an excuse the have a few beers and a laugh but they remain convinced that we’re all LARPers or murderers or D&D enthusiasts waiting for the planets to align before invoking the libre mortis.

I’m not saying that we don’t have bonfires; I’m just saying that we don’t put people on them.

At least… not so far; it’s a long weekend.

Anyway, best be off, I’ve got to pick up some Scandinavian ladies from London on the way and I don’t want to be late. See you on Monday

Personal debt has apparently climbed to exciting new figures and we’re all approaching something called the ‘credit crunch’ which, presumably, entails being crushed to death by a mountain of bills and debt collectors.

Imagine my surprise then, to receive a credit card application from a company who many years ago, I defaulted on a Vista card with and never paid back.

Let me explain.

I’ve never exactly been a ray of sunshine, even as a child. Proof of this can be found in one of my old school nicknames, ‘smiley’ so called because I wasn’t and I didn’t, at least not very often. It was perhaps unsurprising then, when depression eventually bloomed and led to a series of unfortunate events.

Such is life.

Now, I’ve a tendency to be quite sly and calculating, though this may not be immediately apparent, and while my depression eventually led me to do unfortunate things with razors, the cynical pragmatist in me reasoned that I might as well stop paying bills, tell the respective companies to fuck off and wring as much enjoyment as physically possible out of my remaining days. Which seems something of a contradiction now.

Still, true to my reasoning I defaulted on my credit card, ignored every bill that came through the door, told a debt collector to fuck off in person and generally got on with the business of having the best summer of my entire life at the end of which, well, razors.

Obviously this plan was not without its flaws; having fun can be quite difficult when you’re habitually morose and, should you somehow manage to start having a good time, there’s a good chance you’ll no longer so keen on the old sui caedere.

As it was, I had a truly wonderful time and then spent a little while in hospital thinking about what I’d done. Without sufficient vigor, apparently. Hospital beds, it turns out, are surprisingly reflective places and I found myself ruminating about the contents of my somewhat mixed-bag. To whit,

1. I’m still alive. This is definitely going to come in handy for future activities.
2. I owe a lot of people a lot of money. This could prove to be a hindrance to said activities.
3. I think we need to find a different and less final solution.
4. I hope they have jelly and ice-cream.

So, despite this, despite my truly ruinous credit rating that, if nothing else, will ensure I never own my own home, despite my past willingness to opt for immolation as a solution, a previously defaulted account and a continued insistence that, frankly, I’m doing businesses a favour by using their services and not the other way around, I’ve been offered a credit card.

And I thought that I was cynical, I’m a fucking amateur.