Rangy Manatee

Apologies dear readers, and I think it’s safe to say – at this moment in time anyway – that the majority of my readers are quite dear to me. Sorry, that wasn’t quite a sentence was it. And that one had little purpose too, but this one is gonna rush right ahead and say sorry for being generally elusive on this, my own blog.

I think Circletide’s been kicking around eating paprika pretzels and smoking rollies, Spurious no doubt popped his head round the door with an expectant bottle of wine and a Smog record, and I know Phil McLean’s been here for days now guzzling all the free booze and occasionally getting his cock out.

But alas, I have not been at the ongoing party of Rangy Manatee. I have, you might say, been…..elsewhere.

I would love to say that all will be well and I will write on here four times a day, but dear readers, my routine has changed, in that I now have one.

I wake up at 8.50 to the appalling sound of my phone’s alarm clock. A sound that would irritate the most serene of dispositions and guaranteed to wake the deadest of the dead. It’s a percussive, polyphonic, high-end piano jazz-lick that inspires the quickest physical movement I’m likely to achieve all day. I throw my arms across my bed (elbowing my girlfriend in the ribs, if she’s by my side), grunt a couple of times and aim my thumb as hard as can be mustered (at this un-Christian hour) at the button that makes it shut the fuck up.

I then close my eyes, smile a half smile and drift back to glorious restfulness; fuzzy sleep, warm and safe.

For five minutes. Then I get to repeat the bastard arm-stretching phone debacle.

The third time I hear the alarm after a snoozing period, usually signifies the following words in my head: “no shit bubba, get the crap sandwiches out of bed. It really is time to get up. Word.”

Now it’s time to kick my mattress/girlfriend in some kind of all-out body stretch that seems to last longer than it probably actually does. It loosens the muscles and should really make it easier to get to the point of moving right out of the bed, but seems to create some kind of reverse effect whereby my entire body shrivels to half its original size and how can a man with a penis now only seven inches flaccid be expected to get out of a bed? Crazy horse.

I turn on my light and try to imagine I’m somewhere a lot less comfortable and with someone half as attractive. This is usually the point where I summon an inordinate amount of yolk to force my body to do a sit-up. Satisfaction at this much exercise usually gets me all the way to the shower, where here on in it’s a doss and frankly not worth commenting on cos let’s be honest, I’m no Proust.

I’d say I was more Tony Parsons if I could remember who the hell Tony Parsons was. (wink)

So to conclude, I now work during the day. Still in a bar, the same bar (will things ever change?) and I find myself more inclined, once work is finished, to get riotously squirrel-arsed to take away the impending doom of existence than write on my blog.

But, hey, if you guys will read it, who am I to deny you the only pleasure you get? Death of the author and all that. I don’t write this. You do.

Ok, gone weird again. Until the next time, which I really do hope will be more regular than the recent past.

Oh, and don’t panic my nob isn’t really fourteen inches flaccid. But Phil McLean’s is.