My mood reflected the weather we had been having lately. Dour and drab interspersed with the odd glimmer of light. I had been tasked with a trivial job. One which demanded a burst of toil and sweat.
I had to move a high jump landing area across the running track. A simple chore which could be carried over a few feet.
A wee bit of manouvering was involved and I moved the first mat into position. All it needed now was a manly push. My body tightened up like some old man had felt my leg and my arms threw themselves out like I was pushing the old pervert away.
A searing pain shot through my right shoulder. Like someone was trying to floss my armpits with cheesewire.
The old stiff upper lip kicked in and I finished the gig.
The pain lingered throughout the day and by dinnertime, my range of motion had all the qualities of a Lindsay Lohan acting performance. Limited and painful to watch.
One diagnosis later and I was lamenting over my torn ligament in the shoulder.
"No training for six weeks"
Those words cut deep.
I sat there in a daze. Her words turned to white noise as I contemplated this reality she was forcing upon me. I had to call on all my powers of resolve and figure out how I could deal with this conclusion.
Thats when I spoke to my inner god, squat
I realised that the time had come, the time to seek solace in the squat rack and pray for redemption. Now was the time to devote six lonely, hard weeks climbing the well beaten chalk paths of Mount Squat...
Monday, 31 December 2012
Thursday, 27 December 2012
Needles
I'm hugging the wall like an old drunk, who's just been kicked out a bar at night. My arm is reaching round to my crotch. I look like I'm halfway through a stroke.
My mind is overwhelmed. It trawls the waters like an ironclad of doom. Every move I make is sending a calvacade of pain throughout my body.
People are walking past me. No one stops. They struggle to care.
Why should they? Pain is a pursuit of solitude.
I lift my right arm, reaching for air. My deltoid hardens with the authority of paper mache. It exudes power yet is flaccid as it suffers a barrage of needle pain.
I start to cast my thoughts back to how it all began.
The weight was light. I was snapping it back and forth like a mischievous tea towel wielding chef with some serious downtime.
The needles began to creep. My manly DNA started firing along the hardwired neurons.
Ignorance is bliss, even when pain is involved.
The fist pump continued. The manliness ceased to exist.
I stood there, in a daze of pain induced clarity. The needles had won.
They always do.
My mind is overwhelmed. It trawls the waters like an ironclad of doom. Every move I make is sending a calvacade of pain throughout my body.
People are walking past me. No one stops. They struggle to care.
Why should they? Pain is a pursuit of solitude.
I lift my right arm, reaching for air. My deltoid hardens with the authority of paper mache. It exudes power yet is flaccid as it suffers a barrage of needle pain.
I start to cast my thoughts back to how it all began.
The weight was light. I was snapping it back and forth like a mischievous tea towel wielding chef with some serious downtime.
The needles began to creep. My manly DNA started firing along the hardwired neurons.
Ignorance is bliss, even when pain is involved.
The fist pump continued. The manliness ceased to exist.
I stood there, in a daze of pain induced clarity. The needles had won.
They always do.
Wednesday, 26 December 2012
Wind-Up
Seven guys in one bedroom would set the alarm bells of in any manly being, however this was part of growing up.
Sharing the available beds as we all spent our first night in an adult free house. We had spent the whole day gearing up for this milestone.
The banter had been thick and fast.
"Hammy, did ye know there's a ghost in Vinny's granda's hoose?"
Hammy just stared on and refused to acknowledge the question. It wasn't out of disdain as well. It was out of fear. I could tell as a gormless look had overwhelmed his face.
Hammy was a bit of a livewire, A frail youth who looked like he had the testosterone levels of a tired nun after a day of hard mass. He was actually one of the oldest group yet seemed to be losing the puberty race. He was over mothered and it showed.
Yet he tempered this beta pain with a wild streak. One that was purely designed to get attention, which was strange as his mother feasted him with the stuff. This would manifest itself in destruction, mainly of doors, dogs and goldfish. I blame this on misguided youth yet I have never laughed so hard until I watched Hammy take the JuicyFruit he had been chewing all day and use it to stick his lonely goldfish to the side of it's bowl. Utterly random and cruel yet it entertained my puerile mind.
"Aye Hammy, it only comes out at night as well. It's freaky as fuck"
Once again this comment was met with the raising of a wispy eyebrow.
The day passed and we all headed over to Vinny's grandad's house. It was a Saturday night and in those days, that meant good TV.
And that's when the ghost chat started to gather momentum.
"Hammy mate, you better no shit a brick when this ghost starts jumping aboot"
The gormless look had now evolved into a chimpish giggle. One that seeked reassurance while at the same time tried to convey sheer apathy. The tactics had been confirmed. A bombardment of random comments about the imaginary poltergeist that roamed grandad's house. Normal conversation which would be punctuated by childish psy-ops. We had become North Korea for the night.
It was time to bed down. There were two of us on a creaky, old couch bed. Three were cooped up on a double bed and the oldest had the obligatory camp bed all to himself.
Within minutes the wailing had begun. Creepy screams pouring out of our mouths, trying to mask uncontrollable giggles.
"Whit the fuck was that?"
"Did anybody hear that? I'm sure I heard a noise"
Everyone was getting stuck in with aplomb however Hammy's side of the bed seemed static. It was time to up the tempo.
"I don't like this" I yelped.
My voice started to quiver and the bottom lip started to tremble. The wailing started to gather pace and I started to cry like I had bagged an Oscar. It became more intense with every passing moment. Excruciating to the point where I was beginning to annoy and potentially embarass myself.
This added a certain intensity to the proceedings. I could tell as Hammy was nowhere to be seen. He was stuck rigid using his duvet as a protective shield.
Stevie, the alpha camp bed boy decided that this overdramatic sobbing wasnt enough and decided to throw in some exorcism.
"Check Stevie, he's fucking turning green!"
At this point I was faking the tears yet trying to stop some renegade piss escaping from my dick. It's hard controlling your bladder under such circumstances and I didn't want the joke turning on me. The room was filled with wailing, yellow tears and the expulsion of imaginary ghosts.
Vinny and David where at the top of the triple teamed double bed.
"Hammy, get up to the top of the bed mate!"
Young Hammy wasn't getting out of that bed for anybody. He pulled an SAS style manouver under the covers and commando crawled his way up, resting his head on David's knee. We knew we had him at this point.
The laughter became frantic at that point. There was no point continuing. Hammy was ours.
"Hammy mate, are you okay under there?"
We pulled the covers away. Hammy was weeping while clutching onto David. Saliva had somehow created a rope bridge from his mouth onto David's knee. It wasn't the most glamorous of looks.
"It was a wind-up mate"
Sharing the available beds as we all spent our first night in an adult free house. We had spent the whole day gearing up for this milestone.
The banter had been thick and fast.
"Hammy, did ye know there's a ghost in Vinny's granda's hoose?"
Hammy just stared on and refused to acknowledge the question. It wasn't out of disdain as well. It was out of fear. I could tell as a gormless look had overwhelmed his face.
Hammy was a bit of a livewire, A frail youth who looked like he had the testosterone levels of a tired nun after a day of hard mass. He was actually one of the oldest group yet seemed to be losing the puberty race. He was over mothered and it showed.
Yet he tempered this beta pain with a wild streak. One that was purely designed to get attention, which was strange as his mother feasted him with the stuff. This would manifest itself in destruction, mainly of doors, dogs and goldfish. I blame this on misguided youth yet I have never laughed so hard until I watched Hammy take the JuicyFruit he had been chewing all day and use it to stick his lonely goldfish to the side of it's bowl. Utterly random and cruel yet it entertained my puerile mind.
"Aye Hammy, it only comes out at night as well. It's freaky as fuck"
Once again this comment was met with the raising of a wispy eyebrow.
The day passed and we all headed over to Vinny's grandad's house. It was a Saturday night and in those days, that meant good TV.
And that's when the ghost chat started to gather momentum.
"Hammy mate, you better no shit a brick when this ghost starts jumping aboot"
The gormless look had now evolved into a chimpish giggle. One that seeked reassurance while at the same time tried to convey sheer apathy. The tactics had been confirmed. A bombardment of random comments about the imaginary poltergeist that roamed grandad's house. Normal conversation which would be punctuated by childish psy-ops. We had become North Korea for the night.
It was time to bed down. There were two of us on a creaky, old couch bed. Three were cooped up on a double bed and the oldest had the obligatory camp bed all to himself.
Within minutes the wailing had begun. Creepy screams pouring out of our mouths, trying to mask uncontrollable giggles.
"Whit the fuck was that?"
"Did anybody hear that? I'm sure I heard a noise"
Everyone was getting stuck in with aplomb however Hammy's side of the bed seemed static. It was time to up the tempo.
"I don't like this" I yelped.
My voice started to quiver and the bottom lip started to tremble. The wailing started to gather pace and I started to cry like I had bagged an Oscar. It became more intense with every passing moment. Excruciating to the point where I was beginning to annoy and potentially embarass myself.
This added a certain intensity to the proceedings. I could tell as Hammy was nowhere to be seen. He was stuck rigid using his duvet as a protective shield.
Stevie, the alpha camp bed boy decided that this overdramatic sobbing wasnt enough and decided to throw in some exorcism.
"Check Stevie, he's fucking turning green!"
At this point I was faking the tears yet trying to stop some renegade piss escaping from my dick. It's hard controlling your bladder under such circumstances and I didn't want the joke turning on me. The room was filled with wailing, yellow tears and the expulsion of imaginary ghosts.
Vinny and David where at the top of the triple teamed double bed.
"Hammy, get up to the top of the bed mate!"
Young Hammy wasn't getting out of that bed for anybody. He pulled an SAS style manouver under the covers and commando crawled his way up, resting his head on David's knee. We knew we had him at this point.
The laughter became frantic at that point. There was no point continuing. Hammy was ours.
"Hammy mate, are you okay under there?"
We pulled the covers away. Hammy was weeping while clutching onto David. Saliva had somehow created a rope bridge from his mouth onto David's knee. It wasn't the most glamorous of looks.
"It was a wind-up mate"
Tuesday, 25 December 2012
Internet Fuckpig
We had been speaking for 2 hours. Texting furiously. My mind had been ablaze with lust filled thoughts this whole time and I was finding it hard to concentrate on my work. If my boss had seen this pathetic work rate, she would have been writing out my P45.
Her photo was staring at me from my laptop screen, the battery burning a hole into my desk.
"She better fucking look like this picture"
I had been in this situation before. Shooting some horny chat with an internet fuckpig, thinking I'm speaking to a nubile princess. The disappointment stays with you, especially when you've trawled the depths of depravity having fucked Moby Dick.
"There's no fucking way I am doing that again"
It started off with some quick fire banter. Scattergun lines designed to probe her humour levels. You could always tell the ones where the chances were high. Rapport would quickly be established as you fed her gobbeldy gook. The cold ones would just sensibly reply and leave you standing there like John Merrick on a blind date. How could I work with that? It was like giving a blacksmith a knife and telling him to make a balloon.
Once this was established, I tossed in a couple of sexual grenades to gauge the response.
The response was good. I instantly became drunk on this banter vodka. My head swirling with filth and hands shaking like Michael J Fox making a margarita.
This girl was primed for sex. I just had to unleash the beast with innuendo and sledgehammer chat.
"Soooo, what are we going to do about this?"
"You should come up to mines"
My head explodes like I've just had a weekend break in the Hanoi Hilton. Endorphins start to flood my lymph nodes, like an intense bout of sexual chemotherapy.
"I'll be there in an hour"
I hit the shower, scrubbing my armpits and eradicating 2 days worth of dick cheese. The excitement forcing me into an impromptu grooming session, shaving my pubic hair. Those metrosexuals were right about one thing.
I leave the house
"This better not be an internet fuckpig"
Her photo was staring at me from my laptop screen, the battery burning a hole into my desk.
"She better fucking look like this picture"
I had been in this situation before. Shooting some horny chat with an internet fuckpig, thinking I'm speaking to a nubile princess. The disappointment stays with you, especially when you've trawled the depths of depravity having fucked Moby Dick.
"There's no fucking way I am doing that again"
It started off with some quick fire banter. Scattergun lines designed to probe her humour levels. You could always tell the ones where the chances were high. Rapport would quickly be established as you fed her gobbeldy gook. The cold ones would just sensibly reply and leave you standing there like John Merrick on a blind date. How could I work with that? It was like giving a blacksmith a knife and telling him to make a balloon.
Once this was established, I tossed in a couple of sexual grenades to gauge the response.
The response was good. I instantly became drunk on this banter vodka. My head swirling with filth and hands shaking like Michael J Fox making a margarita.
This girl was primed for sex. I just had to unleash the beast with innuendo and sledgehammer chat.
"Soooo, what are we going to do about this?"
"You should come up to mines"
My head explodes like I've just had a weekend break in the Hanoi Hilton. Endorphins start to flood my lymph nodes, like an intense bout of sexual chemotherapy.
"I'll be there in an hour"
I hit the shower, scrubbing my armpits and eradicating 2 days worth of dick cheese. The excitement forcing me into an impromptu grooming session, shaving my pubic hair. Those metrosexuals were right about one thing.
I leave the house
"This better not be an internet fuckpig"
Monday, 24 December 2012
The Power Clean
BOOOSH
The bumper plate hits the floor with tremendous force. Eyes turn and necks become crooked.
Some people get pissed off at the sudden metallic volume, crashing into their ears with a fury reminiscent of a firebrand preacher. Others embrace the ferocity, using it to drive them on and increase their strength.
Chalk begins to scatter, like confetti at a wedding. I dust my hands in anticipation of heaving steel above my head. Men used to wield swords, casting their dominance through the medium of violence.
I wield the barbell.
Meditation comes in many forms. Some obvious and some more subtle and hard to find.
The mind starts to scatter, unfulfilled by the still and essence of steel. This results in pain and frustration. The thumbs become obscured by gnarled fingers and the arms firm up, strong but flexible. My eyes look towards the sky, praying to the altar of hard steel.
I weld my spine into my hips and shoulders. My chest stands proud like a fighting cock, weary after months of battles in farmyards and musky cellars.
I hold my breath.
I pull the bar. The bar begins to move slowly like a ship on its maiden voyage from a lonely port. Momentum kicks in. My hips extend, thrusting outwards with vigour. The shoulders begin to shrug, resembling a bemused child being chastisised.
My hands begin to hover round the bar. My knees folding slightly yet remaining rooted to the spot.
My shoulder frame burns as it collides with steel. The pain searing through my battered carcass.
I stand tall, weight in hands.
BOOOSH.
The steel owns my mind
The bumper plate hits the floor with tremendous force. Eyes turn and necks become crooked.
Some people get pissed off at the sudden metallic volume, crashing into their ears with a fury reminiscent of a firebrand preacher. Others embrace the ferocity, using it to drive them on and increase their strength.
Chalk begins to scatter, like confetti at a wedding. I dust my hands in anticipation of heaving steel above my head. Men used to wield swords, casting their dominance through the medium of violence.
I wield the barbell.
Meditation comes in many forms. Some obvious and some more subtle and hard to find.
The mind starts to scatter, unfulfilled by the still and essence of steel. This results in pain and frustration. The thumbs become obscured by gnarled fingers and the arms firm up, strong but flexible. My eyes look towards the sky, praying to the altar of hard steel.
I weld my spine into my hips and shoulders. My chest stands proud like a fighting cock, weary after months of battles in farmyards and musky cellars.
I hold my breath.
I pull the bar. The bar begins to move slowly like a ship on its maiden voyage from a lonely port. Momentum kicks in. My hips extend, thrusting outwards with vigour. The shoulders begin to shrug, resembling a bemused child being chastisised.
My hands begin to hover round the bar. My knees folding slightly yet remaining rooted to the spot.
My shoulder frame burns as it collides with steel. The pain searing through my battered carcass.
I stand tall, weight in hands.
BOOOSH.
The steel owns my mind
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