monkey wrenches, pig's bladders, PCC

I'm all ready to die after picking up my car from its full 48,000 mile service and being landed with a bill for £365, £1 for every day of the year. While I was waiting for my credit card to be processed, I heard a mechanic around the back in conversation with what I assume was a pretty young lady, since he said, "your eyes are like spanners - every time I look into them, my nuts tighten." Conveniently the conversation became more muffled and distant after this, but I don't suppose it's too hard to figure out her (if indeed it was a her) reaction. As a neat counterpoint to this amusing incident I decided to blast out Foo Fighter's Monkey Wrench on the way home, even if it is a song written for girls about girls. I arrived home before the song was over.



Reclaiming my testicles in the lounge, I flicked on telly to the usual boring weekday crap. I had thought Sky Sports might offer some interesting diversion, but no, it was the usual 22 overpaid idiots kicking a pig's bladder around for 90 minutes in the name of entertainment. The really sad thing is how often these supposed professionals miss the mark - in an average match an average team will average 8 or 9 shots on target. That's one every 10 minutes. Also, I've never understood why players (especially midfield ones) pass the ball backwards, even when they are losing (or on the verge of losing) the match. My sister, for instance, is Crystal Palace's biggest fan, but their defence is mostly non-existent and their keeper laughable. They will have to do much better to remain in the Premiership, and rightly so.



I have also grown accustomed to various sexual innuendos in and around the wonderful Leeds Uni School of Music. It's a wonder anyone gets any work done when the air is filled with "Is my fingering correct?", "I've broken my G string, can I borrow yours?", and "I'm not sure I'm tonguing this part correctly, can you teach me the proper way?" It is exactly as though the Music School were filled with 13 year old children instead of mature adults. Then I wonder why I care so much about it, instead of joining in the (childish) fun. The way to live life isn't to whinge about every single fucking thing under the sun, but to seize the moment. Carpe diem, no less.



On a separate note I would like to complain about people who complain, if that makes sense. I really do wish they would get lives, instead of watching TV all day and finding something to telephone the PCC about, such as "it's disgraceful that this actress was completely flaunting her breasts at the Oscars." Really? If it was showing off your assets I'd have to say it was more Golden Globes than Oscars, but that's by the by.