Scaremongering and Futon Shangri-La

Post LXXXVI

Here’s the story of finishing last, sullen snow, and Pointless.

I think my face is falling off. It’s been peeling so much lately that I genuinely fear the day will come when there’ll be no more skin to come off. It might not stop there. It might keep going until my head is nothing more than a skeleton. If I find getting work now difficult, just imagine what it’ll be like then. I’ll be limited to work in Hamlet. Or as a Mick Jagger stunt double.

The face issue was hardly a top priority on my mind. With my knee still going doolally on a merry-go-round of pain, a level of pain best described on the pain scale as ‘ice-cream headache’, I thought it best not to consume myself with worry over an ever-growing list of problems. It comes with age. Can I still not get away with blaming my age? How old am I?

Does anyone else forget their age, or is it just me? Maybe it’s why we become forgetful. So we forget things like age and don’t become overwhelmed by it. By not knowing things like your age, your life is limitless. It isn’t, but if you think it is because you’re not sure how old you are, you’re free to live life to the full. At least that way you’ll die of a heart attack on a rollercoaster instead of watching Pointless. Or die when you’re ankles snap whilst bungee jumping and hurtle into the raging torrent arse first instead of watching Pointless. I don’t know how you’re ankles would snap watching Pointless. Maybe the old dude from ‘Up!’ had forgotten which house was his, tied his balloons to your house that hadn’t had floor strengthening applied, it lifted off, the floor gave way, and the bath came falling down and landed on your legs.

Pointless, by the way, is the greatest television show on Earth. The circus is dead, long live Pointless, is my motto. Actually, my motto is ‘Quid Me Quaeris?’ That’s Latin. For the youth, Latin was a language, and language is what people used to talk in before mobile telephones were invented. ‘Quid Me Quaeris?’, in case you’re wondering, is Latin for ‘Why Are You Asking Me For?’

My number one priority this week was the snow. Yes, the nation was once more gripped by snow. Ravaged by snow. The catastrophe of the century nailed us to floor and crippled our very infrastructure. The entire nation was gridlocked. Nobody could get to work. All the bleedin’ schools were closed, except, ironically, The School for the Blind. Seriously. The end of the world had come! Say goodbye to your loved ones! Tell those you’ve wronged you are sorry, and tell those you hate that you meant it and give them one last moon! Raid the shelves at the supermarkets! Stay warm! Stay safe! We’re in it together, people!

For some reason, this scaremongering from the news networks, the newspapers and all this new-fangled shiny technology people use, didn’t really scare me. It was less a case of “It’s the end of the world!” and more a case of “Oh no, I’m slightly inconvenienced by the light flurry of snow that’s left me, quite literally, right on time for work! It’s the end of… high prices, here at Futon World! We’re slashing every price, two for one, you got it, sir! Come on down and enjoy low, low prices, and if you don’t beat the ‘traffic’, I’ll still be here, bouncing furiously to pass the time”.

It was an overreaction. I don’t know if I made that clear. I and several burly men have pushed one van that was stuck on our road. One. And I’m not that burly. In fact, I don’t even know what burly means. It’s fun to say. Burly. Burly futon. Good name for a porn star. You don’t want a burly futon, though. Not very bouncy. Not that I bounce on them like someone half my age. Because nobody does that at 22. Ahem. Where was I? Ah, yes. Futons. What is a futon?

A few years back, we had proper snow. Cars stuck on our road? They were being dug and pushed free left, right and centre. By very burly men. And I watched on in my knitted jumper with my cup of cocoa. I was more emotional support than physical.

I fell over repeatedly that very same winter. I’m surprised I made it through the winter alive. Small cuts and grazes are what I get when I fall over. Nothing spectacular. Not a broken arm, a major cut or something dislocated. Oh no. I go through all that hell and I cannot even show off my cool wounds. A woman sees a man with an arm in a sling or a huge scar, and they’re immediately interested. They see me plasters and that surgical glue coming out of my head and they’re repulsed. Can’t I be the fallen brave guy for once? They have one accident every five years and I have one every five minutes. Some guys are just destined to finish last.

There was an even worse snowstorm around here about a decade ago. There was a huge snowball fight between my old school and the one opposite. And this wasn’t a friendly, innocent childish snowball fight. Many people ended up in hospital. I’m surprised I didn’t. At the end of school, several students from the other school saw me leaving and proceeded to chase me. One had a baseball bat. The others had snowballs. You can see why I had to run and not stop. It was going well until I jumped over a fence and badly hurt my head on very hard concrete I slipped and landed on. There was blood, but I got up and carried on. I had to run across a main road, causing the traffic to screech to a halt. I avoided most of it. However, a bus caught my backpack as it was stopping and nearly ripped my shoulder off. That was a bad day.

I hate snow.

American writer and Nobel Prize laureate, William Cuthbert Faulkner (1897-1962) once said: “Pointless… Like giving caviar to an elephant”.

Peace Out :|:

(I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post. You can leave a comment and/or like this post below, or by clicking the little bubble on the top right if you are on the Archives Page. Feel free to check out my second and third blogs. Likes and follows greatly appreciated. Thanks)

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