Are We Aware?

My feelings of anger and betrayal soon dissipated when I got this lovely picture of a windmill in Lytham:

This Friday past I have been informed that the company I work for will be sold to an Irish company and the choice that is faced by myself and about a hundred others is Belfast or Redundancy.

... redundancy it is then.

I never had any particular attachment to the job myself, but it is hard not to feel a little sad about something that you've been doing for the past year, day-in-day-out. I feel more for the people who have been there a long time or have mortgages and families to support. It does feel like all the effort put in over the last year has come to nothing, however. Nevertheless, business is business and there isn't much we can do about it now. Just try and squeeze the company for every penny we can legally get. We're all choosing elected representatives who will sit in on a 30 day consultation period and relay information back to us. Let's hope that we choose wisely. All in all, I'm not too down heartened. New horizons.

My oven took it pretty hard, however. I tried to explain what had happened when I got home.

"What are we going to do?" it demanded. "What about the kids? The toaster needs a new P.A.T. test and you know that the microwave hasn't come out of his box in months. We have a mortgage to pay and food doesn't buy itself!"

I reassured it and reminded it that I we are not in a relationship, don't have kids or a mortgage, that it doesn't need to eat food and that any form of intimacy between us would  be weird and frankly a bit dangerous. I thought we were fine. We cooked a pizza together and I left it to cool down after dinner. No point in entering any further debate when it's so hot headed. We went to bed in different rooms, which some would say is a bad sign.

Around eleven thirty I went downstairs to grab a glass of water and there it was. It had smashed it's front door, pieces lying all over the floor. You couldn't even tell which bits were the perspex windows and which were the frame. The only way I could tell it was my oven was from the handle sticking out of the top of the pile, still dangling a little oven glove that I'd given it as a present about a month before.

If only I'd paid more attention to it's feelings...

Surprisingly, my interest in running has not dissipated in the last year, even if my ability to blog apparently has. I still attempt to go running about two to three times a week and the distance that I can now run has gotten longer over time. I am quite proud of this. I'm starting to feel fitter and more healthy and the small paunch that I developed from my appreciation of fine ales has begun to recede. All is well in the world of running. Or so it seems. There are several rules that possibly do not exist, either in written or un-written form. Tenants that all runners should obey. I am going to do a service to all my fellow jogganaughts and write them down on this stone tablet that some call a blog.

THE UNBREAKABLE RULES OF RUNNING

1. The Joggers Salute. We're all dressed in outfits which are not only ridiculous but also highly visible, as if we want our mental deficiency to be noticeable to all and so that cars can aim more carefully at us. We all look like we're about to die from exhaustion, dehydration and a general lack of fitness. We all look down on the mere mortals who choose to move at a mere half the speed that we enlightened beings do. However, we don't communicate between ourselves in any shape or form. Why not? I propose that since talking is a big fat no-no on the running circuit, we devise an elaborate system of hand gestures and salutes to signal our express joy at seeing a fellow enthusiast and offer encouragement. In the case of severely flagging runners whose out-of-breath, deflated posture suggests a terminal case of stitch, this should be accompanied by extremely encouraging shouting. Preferably in their red, bloated, ugly face. That'll get them moving.

2. Jog-Gods. Some of us are more adept at running than others. Some were born with the innate ability to make the ground move around them, so that whilst this gives the appearance of running, the runner himself is actually doing nothing but posing in an ever-moving world. Said slacker is usually unspeakably blonde, handsome and plays at least eighteen different sports all involving winning. I'm aware that such a being will undoubtably be too busy playing said sports to read this, but still: STOP SHOWING US ALL UP. Yes, you can fly using your legs and incredible calves as wings, but do you have to do it in front of me? Adonis, if you must run past, could you not make it look like you're about to collapse too?

3. Dogs are Fair Game. For some unknown reason when I'm running all dogs hate me. I don't know why, they just do. The feeling's mutual. Normally I am a very amiable person towards our canine friends, but as they choose me for the target of all their barking, growling and general annoyance. So, dog owners, if I kick, maim or eat your dog whilst I'm out running, it had it coming. I'm pretty sure all runners feel the same. Except the ones with dogs... although, c'mon, isn't the urge there? Just slightly? Go on... kick it. Go on.

4. No Roads. "I'm doing it! I'm doing it! Look at me run! Look how fast the world is going by! I don't even feel tired! I could run like this for hours. No, days! No, YEARS! Wait... what's that? A road? It's ok there's a crossing. THE MAN'S RED?! What will I do???" All running grinds to a halt. The flow is destroyed. Suddenly, your legs are lead, your lungs are filled with sand and your heart would like an angry word with you. Therefore I propose, NO ROADS. We don't need cars now that we can all run everywhere anyway. If you can't run there, it doesn't exist. In fact...

5. If You Can't Run There It Doesn't Exist. I'm going to re-draw maps. Anything too far away from your house to run to does not exist. Deal with it. Bikes may be allowed. I haven't decided yet. You disagree? Well that's a shame, because I've already smelted you car keys. Look, they're now a little model of a runner. And he's SMILING! Isn't that lovely?

So there you go, Unwritten rules that will probably never be enforced. But then again, maybe one day there will be a man in a ridiculous outfit at your door, signaling some ludicrous salute that you've never seen with a little metal running man in his hand...

Bobbikk

Right.

I've been wracking my brain for about two months now, trying to think how to write this. How to make it amusing, entertaining and not just downright self indulgent and pretentious. I have only just realised (after long perusal of my earlier posts) that ALL my writing is self-indulgent and pretentious, so I have nothing to worry about. So, for a month I have been pacing my room, crying myself to sleep and fretting endlessly like a teenage pregnancy, over how to break this news to you. However, all this worrying has been in vain.

And I will tell you why. I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my will to post, forgone all pretense of writing and indeed it goes so heavily with my creativity, that this casm of fantastical words, my blog, seems to me nothing more than a sterile vacuum. This explosion of thoughts, my brain, look you, this organic pulsing cognition, this commanding patriarch of bodily functions, why it appears no other thing to me than a shrunk and shrivelling collection of synapses. What a peace of work is a post? How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty, in form and devices how express and admirable, in eloquence, how like an angel, in apprehension, how like a god! The beauty of the world, the paragon of literature! And yet to me... what is this quintessence of dust? My writing delights not me. Nor yours neither. Though by your smiling you seem to say so.

If you look closely, there is a clue in the last paragraph as to the news I am hinting at. Ok, I know. WAY too criptic. Sometimes I'm just too brilliant even for me. I'll just let you in on the little secret:

I'm playing Hamlet.

Gosh, it feels good to get that off my chest! It is the first night of the show tonight. The play has been taking up all my time and most of my life. I'm nervous as hell. The whole process has been scary and wonderful and life affirming. When I began the show, I didn't really like Hamlet. Having studied the play, he seemed indicisive and thinks too much into things and ultimately the tragedy of the final scene appears to rest on his head. That was from studying though. Pooh to that. Live Hamlet. He's such a wonderful character. His relationship with practically every other character in the play (barring Claudius) is touching and moving. He's SO incredibly loving. Yes, most of the deaths rest on his head by the end of the play, but he accepts that. He doesn't shy away from it. Nor does he shy away from what he needs to do. I hope this comes across in my performance.

Thank you to everyone who made this show possible. I'll remember this for the rest of my life,  my life, my life...

Sorry I didn't tell you sooner. Hope you can forgive me.

Let's turn the clocks back several years, shall we? Everyone wearing their time-travel belts? Anti-nausea tablets at the ready? Good.

It is the year 2000. People are wearing fashions which are now outdated, the youngsters (including me) are listening to some classic tunes from the era and something or other has just happened in the news. As you can see, I am well informed of the culture of the times. More importantly I am just turning thirteen and discovering one of the most influential forces on my life to date.

I don't need to go into just how awful school is at this age for three main reasons:

A) You've progressed from school and can remember what it was like.
B) You're in school and are living the hell right now.
C) You've progressed from school and it was so intolerably awful that you have blocked out all memory of it and have entered a frightful stage of repression.

Unless you're suffering from option C, my school days were at least 10 times worse. In the case of C, it's only 5 times worse. "Why" you ask? Because I say so. I couldn't possibly go into the details, they're just too horrific.

Luckily, I found a small crevice of solace in what was an otherwise dreary existence. Enter the mindless violence of Dragon Ball Z. Scientists have proved that the programme has so little of the substance known as 'plot' (chemical symbol Pl, atomic weight 92) that it has a similar effect on the brain as alcohol, shutting down all functions until the only the drool gland and visual cortex remain active. Exposure of any longer than about an hour can be fatal, however in half hour bursts, the programme brings out a sense of euphoria and elation in the viewer. I believe I once watched an episode where the only line of dialog was a scream.

Clearly, the person responsible for writing that episode was in no way consulted whilst creating the live action movie which I PAID to see on Saturday morning.

I must point out at this point that I went into the cinema KNOWING it would be bad. There was no question in that. The fact that me and my brother were the ONLY people in the cinema to watch this film gave me a small clue. If you wanted to see a feature length episode of the show (fatal as that might be) then you should just invest in the show itself and watch the episodes back to back. Just HOW bad it was going to be, however, intrigued me. It didn't disappoint:

• No character in the entire film bears any resemblance to any character in the television programme. This is both in physical appearance and acting style. Goku, (our beloved, dim protagonist and usual instigator of the aforementioned screaming) especially was epically misrepresented, arriving on screen as an exceptionally emotional teenage boy. It's quite a crime to get characters SO wrong when there's not that much character depth there to begin with.
• My favourite line: "A Dragon Ball Energy detector. Hey DBE! Catchy title!" When you have to be your own sycophant, there's something wrong. Again, this is the BEST line in the film.
• Super-moral-believe-in-who-you-are-teenage-angst! It permeates every pore of this film.
• It very blatantly infers that the main characters had sex halfway through. Entirely unnecessary. It's a PG. One attempting to be sickeningly wholesome. Consistency?
• It tried to have some semblance of a plot (which mainly consisted of collecting characters along a journey). There needn't be a plot if everyone is just fighting ALL the time. Fight your enemies, fight your friends, if there's no-one around, fight yourself! Dialog and plot suddenly become redundant, because the sheer ridiculousness of the fighting becomes the spectacle.

Similarly flawed is the Silent Hill movie. Someday I'm going to re-make these films with no substance or plot, or even an explanation for why most of the stuff is happening. People will sit in awe of the magnificent eccentricity before their eyes and cry at the end. One day...

So, my contract with this house is nearly up after seven months of peaceful living in the idyllic city of lancaster. There has however been a few minor hiccups which have made life in this house not so idyllic and peaceful as it may have been. Generally these appeared once per month, just in case things got too comfortable. Here is a calendar of the disasters that have befallen us in this house:

September - The Hill.

In fact, the two hills. The first is known as The Surprise Hill. Upon commencing your trek up this monstrosity the thought occurs that 'oh, this doesn't look too bad, I'll climb this easily!' Thus, the unsuspecting victim attacks the incline with much vigor and enthusiasm. But wait, what is this? Shortness of breath? A sudden aching in the leg-ular region? Beads of perspiration? Oh! Foul trickery! This hill is nothing short of a bohemoth! I'm sorry to say sir, you have just been fooled by The Surprise Hill. Nevermore will you fall for such base deception. Until the next time you climb it, obviously.

Hill two is known as the The Bastard Hill. This is due to the fact that the hill is, in all respects, a complete bastard. Having been hoodwinked by it's younger and sneakier brother, any wiley soul is unlikely to fall for the same trick again. Therefore, adorning itself with clouds, obscuring your view of the summit, this mountainous incline simply poses graciously and pronounces to the mere mortals gaping at it's base 'I am a bastard'. Inducing awe in it's victims, it is hard not to have a certain amount of respect for this utter bastard.

Luckily, after a month of being guided up by a sherpa and a lonely goat, along with three nearly fatal accidents near to the summit, the hills don't seem so bad and normal life can continue. Now, I generally skip up them.

October - Fire Alarms.

At first, the kitchen one went off. Truly understandable. Iain, as usual, had overcooked some water. (I know. He amazes me sometimes too. By the way, burnt water looks like crusty charred ice. It's beautiful in it's own way) The resulting smoke/steam has alerted the devices sensors and it complains. Loudly. A quick maneuver with a chair and a pencil and peace is restored.

However, it seems that every one of it's friends in the house (including several that we didn't know were there) have cottoned on to this game and join in with hearty aplomb. Here is a list of things which the little devils enjoy singing rousing carols about:

Burnt water, toast, burnt toast, porridge, pizza, any pasta dish, any meat dish, any dish involving vegetables, soup, imaginary soup, extensive body odour, normal body odour, deodorant, a distinct lack of odour, air, fire-alarms, un-burnt water, sunlight, floorboards, darkness, sleep and the wind.

Notice at this point that this list does not, in fact, include smoke. I feel safe.

November - The Washing Machine.

It likes to go on adventures. Sadly, the hose which connects the brute to the wall does not. Flooding of the basement becomes a regular end to this excursion. No clothes ever dry as there is no dryer. Nor do they come out of the machine clean, as most of the water that is meant to be cleaning them is now forming a swimming pool in the basement.

Turns out the transit fixings were not removed. Yes, the ones that the instruction manual states in BIG BOLD LETTERS must be removed before the unit is used. Once these are taken out, the machine suddenly finds it has a perchant for staying still. Several months later the floor of the cellar finally dries out. Sadly, my clothes do not.

December - The Cold.

The Fire Alarms discover they are allergic to the cold. Everyone knows about it.

January -  The Ensuing Heating Bill/Christmas Tree.

This economic crisis? All those shares plummeting? The entire country of Iceland going into administration and causing the Kerry Catona fiasco on This Morning? Streams of Youtube videos on the subject? Yep, that was us. Sorry. The heating bill was just that massive. And do you know what? The house was still cold.

The Christmas tree, admittedly, was our own fault. Having forgotten/been too lazy to take it down before epiphany, we decided to leave it up til Easter, as according to the superstition. I can worriedly announce that the thing has been taken down (by a rather irate flatmate's girlfriend) and nothing bad has so far happened. Well, except for all the stuff on this list. But unless the tree has the power to time-travel, I don't think that's an issue.

February - The Visitors.

Through our door, continually, come little notices that warn us of impending housecalls from The Visitors. Lead by a mysterious and wicked blond woman, dressed up to the gils in prissy, over-compensating, 'I'm a modern working woman, respect me', power-clothes, these beings appear at our door half an hour before they arranged and demand to inspect the property, ooh-ing and ah-ing at the nuances of our very home and scorning us as 'dirty students' because there is a tea-cup on the side to be washed up later.

After twenty minutes of un-filtered disgust from the Blond One, The Visitors disappear as quickly as they came, leaving no mark but the muddy footprints they scatter around our newly mopped floors and a rude phone-call telling us just what filthy pigs we all are. The fear and hate is so palpable that even the Fire Alarms dare not warble.

March - The Land-Lady-Lady.

She hid our shoes in a bin-liner in the basement. We don't know why.

Next month is May and whatever happens I will not be living in this house anymore. Judging by the list I have compiled above, that's probably a good thing. God knows why, but for some reason I get the feeling I'll miss this place...

Yesterday I was a model for the Art Society at the local university. Now, I don't know how many of you know this (I'm guessing probably all of you, but I'm still going to explain anyway) but life models for drawing are generally... naked! Indeed, yesterday was naked models a-go-go. It's something that I've always fancied having a go at and when I found out I could, and what's more get PAID for it, I jumped at the chance. Literally. I'm not allowed in that bar again now.

So, here is my diary from my upcoming three hundred page biopic on the experience:

5.50pm - Imagine art studio in all it's glory. Beautiful marble arches of pure white, leading out onto a patio of a private garden of two acres. Sunlight pours in, aided by the dazzling lights that illuminate all the wonderful nuances of my body; the tones of my muscles, the glint in my eyes and wistful, yet enigmatic expression on my wise, strong and yet still friendly face. Adoring artists fawn over the adonis before them, who they are overwhelmingly luck to be able to capture in art. Afterward, one artist approaches me, unable to stop crying from the beauty of it all and hands me the most exquisite portrait that anyone has ever seen. It hangs on my wall forever, reminding me always that Robliness is next to Godliness.

6.00pm - After 10 minutes of searching and constantly seeing alarmed doors with anti-theft warnings find the art room. The floor is cold and possibly wet in places. Industrial frosted glass adorns the few windows. The flourescent lighting makes everyone glows a sickly pale blue and one man sits in the corner staring dissapointedly at me. Worry sets in. 

6.10pm - I am told by the president of the art society that if no-one else turns up in five minutes they may have to cancel the session. I am slightly dissapointed. Apparently no-one wants to see me naked. At this point, that includes me.

6.15pm - Five more people turn up. All of them women. Most of them attractive. Arousal worries set in. Everyone now wants to see me naked. Even me. I think. I am asked to go and get changed. My dressing room is a small art-supply cupboard. Everything in there is broken, save the one giant mirror that asks me "Do you belong in here, or out there?" After removing my clothes and taking one final private look at my body... I'm not sure how to answer that. Robe myself and stride out with affected confidence. No-one says anything. No fawning artists, although I do think I saw a tear in one of the girls eyes. Bearing in mind the context of the situation, I seriously hope not.

6.16pm - The door is locked. I am trapped in with sex mad animals holding sharpened graphite instruments. God have mercy on my soul. I am asked to assume my first pose. Disrobing feels surprisingly normal and I assume a strong manly posture, shoulders back, stomach sucked in leg muscles taught. I try as hard as I might to glisten. Don't look at penis. Not even once.

6.26pm - President says that there is only 5 minutes left of this pose. For the last ten minutes I have had the song 'show me your genitals'*, as shown to me by some of my more... crudely inclined friends, in my head. I am regretting my manliness. Keeping stomach sucked in was a bad idea. For the first time since starting remember that there are girls in the room. Arousal fears return. As does song about genitals.

6.31pm - I am given my first break. I re-robe and go to look at one of the pictures. The girl has decided to draw my face. Just my face. It has a likeness of me. I am pleased. I check a few other drawings. No-one has gotten round to drawing my penis. Not sure how to react to this. Maybe they just didn't have time.

6.35pm - Pose Two. I ask for a stool. I sit nonchalantly with a straight back. Don't look at penis. Not even once. However, do point it directly at girls.

6.50pm - Pose Two is also bad idea. Thank God when it is finished. Straight back, whilst keeping stomach flat, hurts like hell. Left leg goes dead. Try to recreate nonchalance when standing up. Nearly fall over from dead leg. Hobble over to see pictures. Again, one girl has drawn my face. She tells me to ignore my monstrous ear. I do, in fear that it may eat me. Glance at other drawings: Head and torso, head and one arm... penis. Enlarged view of my penis. I didn't look at it, but obviously someone did. In depth. Am pleased with the enormity of it. Confidence restored. Arousal fears remain.

6.55pm - Pose Three. One lady asks if I can be drawn from behind. I acquiesce to the saucy minx. Sadly, this means no more penis. Still don't look at it. Not once. I fold my arms, imagining myself to be Alexander the Great, conquering the world, nude. I've conquered the art room, that's for sure. Thank God for the small heater which has been placed there to keep me warm.

6.10pm - Pose Three does not hurt, thank goodness. My bum has had a thoroughly good drawing and I am paid. Don't look at the last set of pictures. Wonder if the previous girl has once again drawn my penis, this time from memory. Decide the answer is yes.

6.15pm - Leave the art room fully dressed, paid and with my self confidence thoroughly boosted. Realise I am late for rehearsal and so begin jogging. See one of the artists (possibly penisgirl) as I run up. Wonder if she thinks I'm following her. Stop jogging and walk casually by giving her a smile. Don't want her getting too excited... what with that imagination of hers. Arousal fears still apparent.

All in all I highly recommend this experience. At worst, at least it's something you can say you've done before you die. At best it is life affirming and liberating. Plus, twenty quid for an hours work? BARGAIN!
 

*http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qqXi8WmQ_WM - all I can say is... I'm sorry.

It is my birthday this Saturday. I will be twenty-two.

That's right. As of Saturday, I will be officially... old. Rather than mourning my ever quicker approaching fate, though, I am going to stoically accept it and march bravely on towards the grave with pious joviality. As anyone will tell you, there are no interesting birthdays beyond twenty-two. In the eyes of parents, relatives and friends of parents, at twenty-two you have entirely lost the 'cute' factor. In my case it is almost impossible for any of them to look on me with patronising eyes when I am indefinitely taller than all but my father. Their interest quickly ebbs from me, therefore and on to smaller and more cuddlable members of the clan. A simple card will suffice to note thaft I've successfully lived through another year without lucking out in mortality terms and thus increased the odds that twenty-two will be my death-year.

Looking at the world in this rather morbid way (as one is want to do when another anniversary approaches) I have determined that there is only one coarse of action. One which may seem drastic. One which may upset a great number of my closest friends and family. One which will change the lives of so many around me. One that will end the misery that is my almost twenty-two year old life...

Suicide? No! Of course not! Don't be silly. I'm going to get ahead of the pack by starting my mid-life crisis early. Here's my five step action plan:

1. Aesthetics. I have have to get the look right, or this is just going to be ridiculous. Sadly, no bald patch has appeared yet at the apex of my head. Instead, I intend to grow my hair into a mullet-esque style. Whilst this may seem a perfectly viable plan I just don't feel I'm going to look desperate enough. The answer to this will be to keep the length of the hair at one side, and shave the middle of my crown, allowing for the all important comb-over. Nothing says 'I'm still virile, honestly!' like a comb-over. It will help if this can be badly dyed.

In dress sense, I can go one of three ways. Firstly there is the 'aging rocker'. I must don as many 70s rock band t-shirts. At least one Zeppelin a week and my wardrobe should be at least 30% motorhead. Nothing later than 1987. Ironically, that was the year that the 'entirety' of music went downhill and that I was born. What with me being twenty-two. Secondly is the 'UBER-hip'. This means wearing anything and everything that is UBER (pronounced in uber-capitals) fashionable. Excessive pink is a must. Uberly excessive. Uberly Pink. Lastly is the 'Jeremy Clarkson'. No explanation needed.

There are other options, however these are the ones I feel best suit my twenty-two year old personality.

2. The Ride. Here's the tricky one. Motorcycle or ostentatious sports car that I can't really afford. It doesn't matter that I can't drive either of them, the point is that they make me look young. Women love this kind of thing. Listen to the noise it makes. Doesn't that just sound like sex to you? I mean, clanking, humming, highly mechanised sex. Y'know like 70mph, over before you know it, but gee that kinda hurt sex. But sex nonetheless. Yeah it does.

3. Quiting My Job. Obviously now that I'm twenty-two going on thirty, I can't just settle for my old run of the mill, boring yet stable job anymore. Oh no! That would be ludicrous. If T.V. sitcoms with a heart have taught me anything it's that I have to go out on a limb and grab that dream by the throat and punch it in the face until it gives me everything I've ever wanted. Sadly, because the career that I have chosen is acting, the career path that I have to leave this for will have to be outer-space scuba-diver superhero-cop/dinosaur. Not easy, but I just have to seize that dream, y'know? Otherwise I'm always going to look back and think 'why didn't I take that chance when I was twenty-two?'

4. Bemused but Ultimately Supportive Family. For this I'm going to have to find a wife and kids. The wife has to listen to my rant patiently about all the stuff that I just have to do, otherwise I'm going to be miserable for the rest of my life and not love her and beat the kids mercilessly. Then, walk behind the chair I'm sitting on after my tyrade has deflated, hug me from behind and say that she'll love me, 'no matter what I decide to do'. The kids get beaten anyway. 

5. Actually Being Middle-Aged. This may take time. However, out of the five point plan, I deem this the least necessary of all the points. After all, I'm twenty-two. If I plan to die at forty-four then I am technically middle aged. It's all about perspective. Sadly, I plan to live to two-hundred and twenty-seven. So I'm not even at my tenth of life crisis yet. Again, this is a moot point.

So there it is. If you see me zooming past your window with my glorious, yet thinning locks blowing in the cool rush of air my hog creates, sporting an impeccably pink shirt and uber leather trousers... run after me for goodness sake! I don't know how to ride that thing and no amount of supportive families is going to save me from the impending disaster!

Oh, also, did I mention that I'm going to be TWENTY TWO?

I have taken up running. Have you ever been running? I have. For those who haven't, here is a small guide I have drawn up as to how to enjoy this healthy, fun-tastic pastime:

Step 1. Decide that you are going running. This may sound obvious and easy, but it's deceptively tricky. The half hour of the two separate parts of my personality, Laziness and Motivation (those being metaphorical, not schizophenia) shouting 'but you HATE running' and 'yeah, but it's good for you!' and finally resorting to name-calling, was one of the most harrowing of my life. Usually Laziness, being the older brother (oh yes, they have back stories! Character development a-go-go!) would win, however, it seems that Motivation had a gun this time or something... (*metaphore finally gives up the ghost*) FINE. I'll just say I went running, shall I? "I went runnning". Right. Do you see how BORING that was?

Step 2. Purchase your extraordinarily fashionable running outfit. If you are like me, then you haven't worn jogging bottoms since you were twelve and finally realised that wearing what your mum picked out for you will probably leave you dressed like a colourblind, sexually frustrated monk, who is not sexually frustrated because of his vow of celibasy, if you know what I mean? In this case, you have to go out to a shop and buy them. Word of warning, do NOT run to the shop to buy them. You're not ready yet, my son. Yes, I am aware I'm not your father.

Having reached the shop of your choice, (I recommend a charity shop to begin with, no point in shelling out a fortune on duds you're not going to wear, eh?) You should purchase something you can easily run in. You're going to be hot and sweaty, so who cares if you look good. In other words, put the diamond encrusted Gucci sweatpants down.

Once home, spend at least half an hour looking in the mirror doing one of two things: A. Admiring how fit, athletic and downright cool you look in your new outfit. B. Trying to figure out at least one way that the people on the street WON'T laugh at you. I personally went for the idea of carrying some kind of offensive weapon.

Step 3. Plan your route and time. Know where you want to go. Are there hills there? Are you running on grass or on tarmac? Are there woods? If you're running along a canal, is there a chance you could fall in? Is it going to be dark? Will there be youths around trying to mug you? Are their bears around that area? Fascists? Sexually frustrated monks? Was there a hurricane warning in that area? Is an alien invasion planned for that day? Do you have planning permission for that run? Will you have legs at that point in time? Is Eastenders on at that time?

Step 4. Prepare yourself mentally. Imagine yourself running the route and feeling proud of yourself when you've finished. Focus on the good aspects of the run, rather than the brutal painful agony which it puts your body through. Or any of the terrible scenarios written above. Oh, and also, take a bottle of water with you. Makes you look like you mean business. That ground won't know what's hit it.

Another good idea is to pretend that all other people you meet on your run are rubbish at running. You are the best runner in all the world and anyone who says different is a liar and a racist. This will build up your self esteem and competitive nature. Remember, there's no winners in running. Only losers and YOU.

Step 5.  Run.

So there is my easy to follow 5 step guide to running. Trust me, after years* of experience at this, I should know. I'm now so fit from running that I'm practically part bear. I'm at least as strong as one. Just remember, if you're going running:

Stay the hell out of my way.


*Two runs. Yesterday and Monday.

I'm pretty sure a zombie apocalypse is on the way. Ok, so it looks like everyone just has a rather nasty cold, but that's how it starts, doesn't it? 'Oh it's just a sniffle, nothing really... by the way, what size would you say your cranium is?' I've seen the way my friends have been looking at me, with their greedy brain hungry eyes. Little do they know I'm on to them. It's the little Freudian slips. Take for example the conversation I had with a friend (I shall name no names, as Zombaphobia is rife these days) yesterday:

Me: Hey, would you like me to bring you something to make you feel better? Some soup or perhaps some cereal?
Zombie Fiend: Well I've got some soup, but some brain flakes would be nice, thanks.
Me: What?
Zombie Fiend: I said some bran flakes would be nice, what's up?
Me: You said 'brain flakes'!
Zombie Fiend: No I didn't, I said bran flakes. Are you ok? Maybe you've caught what I've got.
Me: Maybe, I do feel a bit run down...
Zombie Fiend: I want to eat your brains.
Look of immeassurable fear on Rob's face.

So, as you can see the world is coming to an end. In accordance to this, I have brainicaded myself in the room and hoarded enough food there to last me at least eight days. I figure the world will have sorted itself out in that time. This does leave no food left in the house and whilst one of my flatmates (a nice chinese man) has shown no sign of zombification, I'm sure it will not be long brainfore the only sustenance that he requires is my soft squishy grey matter. I therefore deem him a necessary sacrifice as the moaning coming from my flatmate's room leads me to brainlieve that he has already succumbed to the dreaded disease. These could be moans of hunger, due to the recent lack of food in the kitchen, but I'm just not willing to take that brains. Brains.

*Edit: Having read the above statement and noticed the small, but important errors in my typing I am lead to brainleve that I may brains infected as well. After all my efforts the disease has finally got me and I am unable to take my mind (brains) off of the soft, squishy, chewy indescribably delicious brains that are inside each and every one of your heads... brains, brains, brains brains, BRAINS!

**Edit 2: Turns out everyone was just a tad ill and I was being a little bit of a hypochondriac. Sorry everyone, I'll replace all the food I ruined and Iain, I'm sorry I went after your brain with a spoon.