Well at least I managed to cough my disc out of place. I’m fucking z shaped this morning and I still have this motherfucking cold which is now so bad I’m considering setting up a fund for myself.

I managed to make it to the pub last night though. It’s been a successful week of pubs due to my mate from up the road being off work for the week. When I got home I wasn’t feeling in the mood for a large meal, my appetite has been quashed due to my new diet of snot. I wonder if I should appear on Dragon’s Den and just vomit it up over Peter Jones after claiming to have revolutionised dieting? Doubtless the cunt will think I’m plagiarising bulimia and I’ll leave with nout. Anyway I had kippers and toast, it was perfect.

Still feeling like something in the dark corridors of Resident Evil, I decided, like with my (albeit misjudged) Snakes on Plane decision to watch something un-taxing, The Hunt for Red October was on BBC3, seen it loads of times, fancied it again. It was only as it was starting that I began to question why I’d seen it loads of times and why I was looking forward to seeing it again… And then it dawned on me, claustrophobia. The idea of being in a submarine is, to me, one of the most appalling places I could imagine being in, to be able to watch a film that deals so starkly with a pet fear from the comfort of my armchair in my room makes everything rather pleasant. I wriggled in my chair with delight, then my fucking mind continued wandering without express permission from its owner as to why I was claustrophobic.

After missing half the film in deliberation I narrowed it down to two incidents, both occurring when I was about 7. The first is with my dad when he took me to his offices in Hammersmith to show me around, meet his colleagues, you know, contribute to the whole dad/son thing. We got into this two person lift to get to his floor, dad warned me that the lift was temperamental but as he’d never been trapped in it, no problem. Of course the fucker got stuck between floors, dad remained calm for about a minute until he began yelling at the top of his voice, kicking the door, pressing alarm buttons all the while glancing at me with a faux expression of reassurance, at the time I wasn’t particularly fussed as I was with dad but his reaction gradually seeped into my psyche and I left the lift some ten minutes later with a brand new fear.

This new fear was nurtured a few months later in a cubicle in the school loos when, on leaving, I was shoved back in by the school bully whilst his little cunt of a mate, using the gap between floor and cubicle, grabbed my foot and attempted to drag it out preventing any form of escape irrespective of the larger bully who had me in a headlock. That little incident was the final straw and ever since small spaces have not been my thing and I live in constant fear of respiratory failure, despite smoking.

But there is an upside to this, both bullies died before they were 15, the big one nicked a car and crashed it into a tree and the smaller one picked on the wrong person and had his head beaten in with a heel of a shoe a few years later. Oddly, a later bully who eventually became a close mate, he even dated my ex, hanged himself, indeed, his brother drank himself to death a few years after that. It would seem that bullying me isn’t a good idea, simply, because you’ll die prematurely in nefarious circumstance, and so will your immediate family.

I’ve had 3 lemsips today; they’re proving to be utterly useless, even worse I’ve an afternoon of meetings today. Oh well, at least I’m not dead.

I rock

*cough*