I wanted to get in on this action because it’s all very well and good doing a joke once but it’s even better (?) to repeat it a second time in the same month. Spoiling Kev’s plans? Yes please.
I’m joining in then, throwing my hat into the ring on that dusty trail. I have consulted my Kev-prediction robot and it has come up with these potential future posts that now won’t happen now because I’ve altered the future. If he does write a post about these things then I will have been right and nobody wants a world where I’m right. There would be chaos. So sorry everyone, you’ll never see posts about the following:
Bees
The Boston Tea Party
Wireless abbabbs (or some computer bollocks I’ll never understand)
There. Happy to start enjoying my new hobby. I feel as though this has been a very productive five minutes of my time.
Old Hat, What is that? It is coming ‘atcha like a mountain to frack. Old Hat, Conical rat, Something must be burnin’ cos I’m feelin’ so whack. Old Hat, Dental plaque, Worries building up me like a pancake stack. That old hat? Nothing but cack, I know you feel it too ‘cos you got ma back! Old Hat, Comedy prat, I’ve got so much cattle caught me flexin’ my yaks. My old hat, Your old hat, Still none the wiser, best fade to black,
Warning: this post contains gratuitous scenes of exercise. Viewer discretion is advised.
This boy has been running now, jogging now, a bit of a mix of the two since the start of the year. Rogging arounds wrong so let’s stick with junning. I’ve been junning since January. I have dabbled in it in the past however nothing substantial. I suppose with a lot of things collapsing in on itself it’s only fair that one tiny thing in my life prevails in a positive and optimistic fashion.
Cut to Thursday night though when shit got real.
I prefer junning at night because there are less people around to point fun at the tiny shorts I wear. The temperature is at a steady balance, much better than slogging through ice and snow anyway. I start my jun and headed off in the direction of my route. This route has been planned to perfection i.e. it features very little uphill bits and mostly flat or downhill bits.
There is a housing estate close to where I live that I do a couple of laps of to warm up. As I approach the edge of it I’m feeling the juice, I’m feeling the jun through my veins so I decide to speed up a bit. Down the first street, right at the end there is a footpath which curves round a corner down to the next street. Bounding like a chopper I go, I approach the curve and this is where it all goes wrong.
There was no slow motion here, no events slowing in my brain or anything like that. It was a short, sharp pinch in the eyes as far as my recollection of events goes. One moment I was junning away, the next I’m lying on the ground with scrape marks on my legs and blood staining the palms of my hands.
Some little dear had left their scooter in the middle of the path, something which you couldn’t see because it was round a blind corner. Unless I had leapt 2 or 3 feet in the air I was going to hit it every time. Not a full size scooter, no no, something someone just out of toddler-dom would use. I have no concern for myself, my god, I must check that my electronic life partner is still okay! The phone is nestled snugly in my jacket pocket, safe and sound. I stagger to my feet to assess the damage under a dimly-li lamppost.
Now this is exactly the kind of thing that I would do to myself; I am no stranger to injuring myself in unusual circumstances. What really sealed it as an ‘Ian’ moment though was just as I turned the corner and collided with the scooter a teenage boy was walking up the path from the opposite direction. He daren’t touch me, for obvious reasons (following Bovona guidelines to a tee) but asked if I was okay which was nice. As I stood up to brush myself down and turn to start running again he called for my attention. To my confusion and astonishment the boy brought over the tiny scooter. “You forgot this.” Luckily the violently sarcastic part of my brain was sleeping at the time.
Unreasonable reaction: WHAT THE F*CK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING, LAD? DO YOU REALLY THINK THAT F*CKING SCOOTER IS MINE? F*CK ME, I COULD BARELY GET ONE OF MY TOENAILS ON THERE LET ALONE A FULL F*CKING FOOT. I’M WEARING SHORTS, I’M OUT JOGGING. WHY THE F*CK DO YOU THINK A F*CKING 37 YEAR OLD MAN IS SCOOTERING AROUND AT 9PM ON A THURSDAY F*CKING NIGHT? DOES THAT SOUND SH*TTING PLAUSIBLE TO YOU?
Panting through the stinging in my hands, I merely said that it wasn’t mine and thanked him for his concern. There I was, stumbling in front of a member of the public only for him to believe that the situation was that much worse because I had embarrassed myself by failing to use a scooter properly. Remarkably my legs were fine, a gash on one knee and nothing more, so I carried on with my jun.
This is getting too long. I did consider that perhaps this was some kind of cosmic karma for something else. A balance had to be made by me making a tit of myself. The day after I was in agony. Some bruising to my right side meant breathing, coughing, you know, any kind of movement caused a little jolt of pain to explode under my ribs. I am on the mend after a few days of rest and hope to be back junning later on this week.
2021 is turning out to be a right sad-sack of a year. It’s currently trailing behind 2020 with a forlorn look on it’s mug, a napsack of woe and wearing a pair of soiled pants. We need to electrify this mother into next week, then bring it back into this week so we can knock it back again. Tennis.
What the world needs right now is a call-back the likes of which has not been seen before. Yes, I know what you’re thinking, what the world needs is a large steaming plate of Burakkas.
Kevindo Menendez knows what you’re pondering before you’ve had a chance to ponder it. Burakkas are back and they’re bigger (?) than ever. They’re the thing that does the thing that you need them to do but faster and possibly a little bit better. They’ll clean up that thing that shouldn’t be there, they’ll email that other thing that you should have emailed last week and then blame someone else for the delay.
Thought you forgot that thing? Well you didn’t because your Burakkas put a note in your phone or something similar, like a diary.
Where’s that thing that you lost? Ha, well it doesn’t matter because now you’ve got Burakkas and they’re much more versatile than whatever it is that you’re looking for. They’ve got your back.
I don’t know how you expected to get by in the post-2020 world without a friendly pair of hands by your side, handing you breath mints and stress relievers when life thrusts at you an unbuffed, wrongly-sized kitchen worktop straight through your front window and into your living room. What were you thinking?
The best news though is that for the next twelve months if you buy one pair of Burakkas you’ll get another pair for the same price, or maybe even a little bit more. How about that? Buy now and lots.
From Kevindo Menendez – a name that’s a name and it’s a name you can trust!
Here at Newsboost we have been granted exclusive access to Kevin’s new kitchen worktop and, in my humble opinion, especially one which knows sod all about quartz, it’s a bit of a something special.
We were also granted an exclusive interview with the man himself.
News berk: So what do you think? Kevin: I think it’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Ian had to loan me some of his spare eyes so I could gaze at the glaze a little bit more. News berk: After all the time you spent getting it right, was it worth it? Kevin: Absolutely. 105 days it may have taken, I may have lost most of my hair and destroyed the neighbouring village in my frustrations but it’s over now. News berk: What do you intend to use the kitchen worktop for first? What’s top o’ the worktop to-do list top? Kevin: I’m going to lay out a chaise lounge of cheeses for the kids and some very sensual cakes for me and the wife. It’s going to be a great night. News berk: What advice would you give to any other aspiring kitchen worktop enthusiasts out there? Kevin: Don’t do it.
Pack your bag, grab a coat and head off with me to a mystical place, a place where only the brave may date to enter and only the fiercest survive. If you have the courage then perhaps you will make it to the very peak of n’cle.
In all honesty, I’ve never been to n’cle. It’s clearly listed on a lot of signs around here but whenever I head in the general direction it disappears. It is as though n’cle is more of a concept than anything else, it’s a state of mind. You don’t go to n’cle because you’re either there or you’re not. You can’t get there if you’re already there. Yeah, something deep and meaningful like that.
I have dreamt of hiring a helicopter and flying closely over the terrain in the hope of finding a physical, tangible thing. Perhaps n’cle is so small that only the locals know where it is. Perhaps it’s a stump in the middle of a dell, or a well, or a part of Hadrian’s Wall with a bad smell.
These are all theories though and none of which get me closer to n’cle. I will forever be chasing it, desperate to taste it, smell its goods and embed myself within its warm embrace. Embed? Definitely embed.
Gather round children for I have a story to tell you.
The ratio of men to women is currently around 1:10 in my office. We used to have two gents toilets but it was decided to turn the smaller one into a ladies, for obvious reasons. The remaining gents toilet is umm quaint but not perfect: the light takes around 10 seconds to turn on (not ideal when you’re busting for a whizz wazz wongle), the hot water tap doesn’t work so they had to get an extra one with a heated unit and the dryer is so poor that it’d be quicker to blow on your hands yourself.
Due to the hand dryer being as effective as a car made of wet cheese, I started putting paper towels in the gents so that we had options. There was a small bundle stacked on top of the dryer and a spare lot in the (broken) cupboard above the urinal. I had started doing this before the Bovona virus took hold and every so often the same thing would happen; the paper towels would vanish completely. There one day and gone the next. I thought it was the cleaners moving them or something else. Baffled but thoroughly British, I said nothing and merely replaced the towels. This happened at least half a dozen times over a period of about twelve months.
When I came back from furlough, mainly working from the office, I did the same for what few men remained in the building. To my astonishment the same thing kept happening; a few weeks would pass and the half-used stack of paper towels would be gone with no explanation. I finally decided to do something about this so I mentioned it to the office manager, who was just as puzzled as I was. There was absolutely no reason for anyone to remove the towels. She said that she would mention it to the cleaners and get back to me.
The next day I entered the gents to put my contact lenses and smiled as there was a newly opened pack of paper towels waiting to dry my moistened paws. After putting the lenses in I walked over to the office manager’s office and thanked her for sorting it out. She looked confused, “sorted what out?” I mentioned the towels. “I haven’t spoken to the cleaners about it yet though.”
I asked if she was winding me up, an elaborate prank which I had completely fallen for. Given how grim the world is right now anything light-hearted is very welcome, even at my expense. She swore that she knew nothing about it. There was nobody else in the room when I asked her about it the day before. The towels re-appeared out of nowhere.
There is talk of a ghost who haunts the office at night. Colleagues working late have mentioned hearing noises and bumps after dark. The building is over a hundred years old so it has gone the rounds, so to speak. Do I think that a ghost is playing a trick on me? Do I think that this spectre is yanking my chain by throwing away paper towels?
I don’t have a foggy froggy fog fog fogey Phileas Fogg the foggiest idea.
