I feel as if Harold Shipman has injected my head with bathroom sealant. My cold is in full swing but worryingly, I’ve yet to hit the green thaw stage where one perpetually drips mucus indicating the colds passing. I am happily sneezing, gasping, groaning and coughing like I’ve been smoking asbestos, my skin can’t decide if the contents inside my body are hot or cold and my fucking hair is being vindictive by flopping into my face as I’m trying to type this.
Last night wasn’t exactly one for the memoirs either. Supper was planned with military precision; it took into account my cold and the need to replenish the vitamins and minerals that were swept away over the weekend. Grilled chicken breast with steamed Savoy cabbage and broccoli combined with fried onion and shredded bacon, splash of Worcester sauce and Kikkoman, plenty of cracked black pepper… it tasted of air, had the texture of wool and if it wasn’t through sheer willpower and my innate understanding that a cold equals no dairy, I’d have order a mega stacked pepperoni four cheese defibrillater from the local Pizza bucket from up the road.
My attempt at smoking a joint ended in a lung catching a glimpse of Snakes on a Plane, a film so utterly devoid of any substance you could’ve bottled it and flogged it outside Lourdes as a cure for cancer. I was beyond care, I sat in my leather armchair and gawped at it, partially aware that my mouth was ajar and my tongue had dropped inside my lower lip as if I’d been starved of oxygen at birth, perhaps if I had been the film would’ve made more sense? Either way, it was doing a fairly good job of keeping my mind off creeping death so, dear reader, imagine my distain when the fucking rented DVD clicked, farted and froze about 2 thirds of the way through, just as last weeks offing had done.
Now, I don’t know about you, if one has watched ‘most’ of a film the desire to sit through ‘most’ of it again just to check out the end is somewhat diminished, actually it’s beyond diminished it’s been sapped of all life. I rent my films from a postal outfit called LOVEFILM, despite leaving LOVEFILM about a year ago and moving to the relatively sublime Screenselect because the vast majority of the formers DVD’s appeared to have been previously handled by the primates at Bristol Zoo. I had no problems with Screenselect for a good year until, at the end of last year, they were bought out by LOVEFILM, and since then it’s been shit business as usual.
Carefully I removed the DVD from the machine and making sure it hit the side of the table, I frisbeed it across the room with such force it exploded into a million tiny weeny little shards of fuck. I took great delight, despite the fight from being dragged down to the carpet by my swollen head, in collecting all the fragments then pouring them into the return envelope, taking care to circle the ‘damaged disc’ box on the front of the pack before dropping it into my rucksack and retiring to bed with a thing called a book -no chance of that freezing or jumping I thought as I carefully reclined on my bed- having said that, I wondered what Samuel L Jackson was going to do now the pilot was dead and no one could land the plane.
Has anyone got a Lemsip?
