im sitting here, in my white walled small room with its cluttered bed to my left and glaring monitor to my front, while I am listening to Brad Pitt's recent BBC radio2 documentary on nick drake's music and his life. Nick drake was a student at cambridge, apparently, and he died at age 26. His music is incrediblly brilliant (insert new word here in the place of brilliant, that sounds so regular for what was so more than brilliant). Today, monday, my silver and black claud buttler Rubaix racer bike was back into action, due to broken spokes on the front wheel I have been walking in to work (last week) and before that I was using my now retired mountain bike using its last energy up. The route, its very bumpy with speed bumps and a fair sprinkling of pottholes, but hay this is the england and we like our roads bumpy for the 4x4 monster trucks that everyone is drifting around suberbia dreaming that they are actually eating up rugged spikey countryside offroading, but thats their dream not mine. So, today up really early nads still aching like hell and the inside tops of my legs aside my cock red roar from the chaffing achieved from walking over the last week. In the last week I;ve walked a lot. yesterday, sunday, I went on a very long walk - made longer from its original ten miles by us: rachel, dave and I getting very lost twice - in the really hot swealtering yellow fields rolling hills and little woods of the southeast most corner of cambridgeshire from castle camps. the scenery was really scenic, nice rolling countryside with churches yellow fields a large flock of brown goats. till we got lost then it was all hot hot hot baking sun reduced to spluttering licking lips cracked from the already induced dehydration watersupply long drafted down my thirsty throat. To make matters worse, dave got in a depressed angst thinking that if we were to walk faster then we would get there quicker, its a walk dude and if you're lost then walking faster will only downgrade the situation tiring both body and mind into mutherfucking lost and youre fucked there. Fortunately a road threw itself into our paths and we walked back onto the route finding gleaming the directions from the rather out of date walking guide book rather lacking in helpfullness. Still, we located the town we were aimed for and had our lunch on a village bench. I wont go into much details of the latter half of the walk other than the fact that the footpath was not there across the center of a field and we got lost again finding the only way forward was across deep ditches and around yellow oilseed rape fields. About 15 miles in about 5 hours, in trainers. Oh yeah, that was another bane to my sunday (there were lots). I woke up had a morning wank to try to ease my hangover back into my head and out of my senses. Early up, struggling to get my shit sorted for the walk eventually got dressed and downstairs looked into the plastic bag in the kitchen under the worktop next to the beer factory cause (partly) of this mornings hangover hell. Last time the walking boots were used was 2 weeks ago on the soggy walk around Linton. Sitting there for 2 weeks now there was mold on the still damp smelly boots. There was no way that these boots were walking with me.
Enough about fucking walking.
Saturday was FA Cup final day, Manchester United versus Millwall. On paper everything pointed at an easy victory for Manchester United. In the morning I was up real early, so early in fact that it was too early to do anything other than read my book Buffalo Soldiers which is now almost finished. Buffalo Soldiers, about a squad (dont know if its a squad, a unit perhaps?) of american troops stationed in german town of Mannheim and about one charecter principally. He writes the death notes and deals the drugs while staying out of trouble in this army hell where agression is bursting bubbling under the surface eeking to get out and severly hurt damage injure anyone that is the mutherfucked. Im at a juncture in the read where he's been offered a part in a enormous (different fucking word here I think) drug deal which will provide him enough wodge to scamper through to retirement (etc.?). In amongst this he is a player sorting things out for anyone willing to aid him in the future. Hes screwing the chiefs daughter. the chief is trying to catch him and his drugs stash and destroy him. Not too deep but entertaining.
So later it was time to go into town and get my bike back from the shop where it had been repaired, free thankyouvery much, and before this get the walking books (2) a couple of maps (unfortunately not the detailed map (orange) pushing where we would be walking on sunday as that was not decided until later on on saturday. Also on the list of purchases were a book on urban street art (mostly pictures), book called Gulag (history of russian concentraion camps), and Anthony Beevor's (author of Stalingrad, and the fall of Berlin 1945) latest read, The Mystery of Olga Chekova. Manchester totally dominated the FA Cup Final beating thrashing millwall 3-0 Ronaldo inspirational scoring the first goal and Ruud scorring the other two. As a fitting rememberence to a young manchester united squad member (name?) who was killed in a car accident earlier this year all the players (manchester united players) wore his name and number while recieving the Trophy. Dennis Wise should have been sent off and he was supremely lucky not to have been, poking scholes in the face being one of the highlights. Dave and Joe were in the cricketers where we watched the pub, mainly millwall supporters (anti man u supporters) in the pub quickley diminished in noise after manchester uniteds first goal. Drank a few pints of triumph, one in the clarendon arms where dave said he was going to be (consumed very quickley because dave wasnt actually there anymore, he had his lunch while I was walking into town and when I spoke to him). Very tasty it was too.
After the game a quick route march back to the pad and dropped all my bladder into the toilet and joined the bbq my housemates had aready started. Next few hours eating, and drinking toms homebrew severly fucked me and by the time I put on monty python's the life of brian i was totally fucking tired that bed called and i made it a day (or night). In the above, somewhere between getting back from town on the bike and going into town again to watch the footie, too much walking to fast in too hot weather causing rubbing the hell out of the insides of my legs and bottom of my ball sack, I was juggling in the garden and I managed to beat my 5ball cascade record with 84 catches!!! Today I beat this again with 89 catches :> Nearly there 100 :S Had a few goes at 4ball shower. Concentrating on throwing all the 7s to the same place same height whatever the other balls were at seemed to help.
.AH.
