I can call you that can’t I? See, I’m trying to be affectionate after neglecting you over the months that laboured under the misapprehension of Summer. Pah. Anyway, lo siento and all that jazz for my relative quietness… It’s not as though I haven’t had the time – what with being a resting actor (sounds better than unemployed, no?) for the last month, you’d have thought that rattling out a few words would be easy peasy lemon squeezy. Apparently not.
Firstly, and as you’re well aware, my propensity towards obesity, (mobid or plain old regular) has been stalking me again. Yup, I got fat. Okay then, fatter. You know those resolutions that I wrote about over Chrimble? Well, in terms of quitting smoking, I’ve been rather triumphant. I’ve not smoked since December and nor do I want to. I woke up one day with the lung capacity of a dwarf fly with pleurisy and thought, ‘Okay, am done with that…’ Like, hurrah. Anyway, as my lung power increased a thousand-fold, so did my waistline. Oh and no, etc.
I got on my scales t’other week and almost suffered a coronary as I took in the information blinking back at me from the screen. Apparently, I was 120 stones. 120 stones! Can you believe it? As the shooting pains in my left arm eagerly spread to my chest and my face turned a rather delicious (but slightly alarming) shade of purple, I realised that I’d accidentally flicked the switch from stones to kilos. I hastily switched it back, only to find the real-money equivalent equally horrifying. I mean, I knew that the cheeky bottles of wine and Tesco Finest chocolate brownie dessert thingies were inconducive to good health, but come on…
Later that same day, I was in the shower, trying to avoid my reflection in the mirror – which was quite hard, given my ballast – anyway, there I was, scrubbing away, when I went to cleanse my bot-bot, only for my love handle to get in the way. I couldn’t believe it. I was so depressed, I almost popped my head in the oven, but it’s electric. Fan assisted, though, whatever that means. So there we are, am currently fat, round and bounce on the ground. Fuck and bugger, etc.
What else is new? Well, I’ve had the misfortune to sign on a few times as and it’s about as much fun as headbutting glass that a tramp with VD has pissed on. I mean, I’ve never been out of work. Ever since I was a nipper, I’d babysit for a few quid before going on to work at the now defunct Kwiksave for £2.80 an hour. Fancy! At first, it was quite nice not having to get up in the mornings, especially as it meant that I didn’t have to complete a hideous commute only to spend the whole day doing possibly the world’s most boring job in an office with an atmosphere that could rival a morgue for it’s thrills. However, the novelty of a leisurely start has long worn off. As I’m keeping busy, even if I do find myself scraping through the bottom of the barrel. For instance, if I take my diary and look up, say, August 21st, my ‘to do’ list is a bit... well, desperate. The first 'action' instructs me to ‘unplug the video.’ You see, we never use the video, yet it remains plugged in, happily drinking an unlimited source of electricity which will no doubt cause the destruction of the Northern Hemisphere, if not the whole world. Every day I look at its flashing clock and think, ‘such a waste, must turn that off,’ yet never get round to doing it. But how absurd to remind self to disconnect it, when it would be quicker just to lean over and effing well do it. I wouldn’t mind, but it tragically remains plugged in as we speak. I failed on August 21st, didn't I?
I could go on and on and on about the mundanities of my existence even further, but bearing the above sorry tale, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I do however, hope that I’ve elicited sufficient sympathy that you will forgive my neglect. I am more sorry than a sorry thing in sorrysville and I promise that I won’t do it again. Cross my heart and hope to die. Probably of an obesity related illness, but hey ho.
Love you longtime,
Johnny Red Pants xxx