Applied Idiocy

I am an idiot. In thought, in word and in deed, to pinch the phraseology of the prayer book.

This is a good one. I forwarded the "Stop Grieving It's Only A Chicken" story from Andy Ward's Blog. In case you don't have the good sense to read Andy's blog I'll quickly explain that it's about a chicken foetus being mistaken for a human one, and a spontaneous outburst of Scouse grief.

It was at least 5 seconds after I sent it that I remembered that the two people I had sent it to were expecting a baby and therefore probably not in thrall to miscarriage jokes. "Dumb fucking luck"

Like I say...

Content theft

This should all be my own work. But it would be wrong not to share this with you, although most people who will understand it are part of BadBeat's inner circle and will have read the original email.

"The best answer was from Matt the Jug though.

"In both these situations there is only one viable option - the same option as in every tornament - shovel it all in as quickly as possible. Either get lucky and dominate the table or get lucky by being knocked out of another interminably dull experience, surrounded by sweating imbeciles, faithfully watching their lives dripping slowly away card by card, chip by chip.

The latter is a better choice really, as at least you stand the chance of encountering a human relationship not dominated by selfishness compulsion and sickness. Maybe a functional and fulfilling life waits just around the corner, who knows?"

Matt is having a little break from poker."

Been awake too long

"Kerala's finest batsman, Balan Pandit, was a hair's breadth away from playing for India in 1955-56, while KN Ananthapadmanabhan, their best spinner, toiled away for 17 long years without gaining national recognition."

Whimsically I can't help but imagine the Indian selectors (whiskered, ex-military men) of the 1990s applauding the fine spin bowling from the far end and, turning to one another, asking "What's that chap's name? Is he qualified to play for India?"

And by the time the helpful Keralan official had got halfway through

" Karumanaseri Narayanaiyer Ananthapadmanabhan - he was born in Trivandrum (now Thiruvananthapuram)"

they'd given up and picked Anil Kumble again.

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POSTSCRIPT
Can you imagine being a Keralan cheerleader. "Give me a 'K'"!

There's a 3.45 in the morning these days.

I should know. I've had to set my alarm for it three days this week. Clean teeth, throw on nearest clothes, make coffee and then straight into the shiny new used Zoner-mobile and off to work for the ICC Super Series One Day Internationals. It takes about half an hour to swish across most of London at that deserted hour but what really makes it enjoyable is that I've off to do this fantastic job, punting someone else's money.

And this week has been great. Although the ICC World XI has been thoroughly smashed up by the Australians the cricket has been entertaining enough to a bleary man on his own in an office at 5.20 am. The market has been at times utterly bonkers and as a result even a half-witted chancer like our hero has been able to win a small fortune for his employers.

This won't continue. Before too long I'll be doing the midnight-7 am graveyard shift, watching deeply one-sided Test matches which will doubtless be devoid of value. It will be very cold and grey and I'll be trying to drive home in the rush hour and keep my eyelids open. I've already lost control of my diet and must get it back as soon as possible. March sounds about right. (In fact I think I vowed to come home today and go for a run, which of course means I'm playing a 900 runner poker tournament and blogging, two great wastes of time.) If I bloat again I think I'll top myself.

Worst of all I will have almost no social life. This is my winter work schedule and it isn't pretty. So much midnight or 4 am cricket which means no time to meet friends, enemies or girls. Since Jude and I split I've realised how much I missed out on when I didn't have a girlfriend (i.e. all the rest of the time) and how I need to at least try for a while to meet someone else. But you can't date someone before driving off to go to work. Can you? Of course being me I won't meet anyone, or won't make the right advances, or just bottle it like I normally do.

Did I mention the 102 I scored against Takeley in the League?

Obviously in a little spurt of writing today.

Do I dare tackle the one big subject I've been meaning to blog about? The blockbuster, all-encompassing retrospective?

Oh go on then.

2005. By far and away the greatest year of my life.

1. Lost four stone. The way that routine, exercise and healthy eating got me past ingrained laziness and depression has stunned me. Special thanks to Tesco for the free GI Diet book. Saved me at least 6.99 that has.
   
2. Got a dream job in the gambling industry which now means I am encouraged, expected and paid to watch cricket, not to mention contractually obliged.
   
3. Had a lively and quite lovely 3 month relationship. It ended with a bit of a bump but that's the only dark spot on the year.
   
4. Saw my father make it to the top of his field. There isn't anyone who has done what he has in making it to the very top of the City and now to a pinnacle of academic life in a completely different discipline. The Samuel Hall Chair of Philosophy at the University of Manchester is very remote from the FTSE 100. He's earned that Maserati. Twice.
   
5. Seen a lot of old friends. Lord and Lady Miros are married. Tom and Alice, the charming couple of whom DY seems so insecurely unaware (see below) will be married on Dec 16.
6. England won the Ashes and Theydon Bois won the League. Of course this matters less than the transformation of my life and the continued happiness and health of my friends and family. Just not much less.
   

Now I was going to tie that all together and make more of it but I like it as it is. Go on the me!

The Mighty Boosh Series 1 DVD

Massive thanks to Jim Peake for giving me this. I wish I'd seen it before getting into Series 2. Most excellent.

Jogging around the blogs

It's been a long time since I bothered writing anything beyond a two line comment on this blog. Partly that's because I want to write stories more than self-analysis. The high-falutin' self-absorbed hypenated descriptive prose which flows turgidly from my keyboard... well, you get the idea. Can't be pushing that around and about. Adjectives are not my friends. I really must try to cut down my ellipsis addiction which would rage to about 40 a day if left unchecked.

No, stories are more the way forward. Many of my friends have blogs and that was a major influence in me getting a Blogger account. Of course I don't want to imitate them but I was in awe of the fantastic writing my friends produced. I envy the wry comedians, like Lord Miros or Ed Fife who share the ability to produce clear and funny pieces with maddening regularity. I'm bitter about the acuity of Rob's take on London lawyer life. And there are lots and lots of other people, like Jo Haslam, Andy Ward, The Bald Beast, Matt and David Young, whose blogs I read and enjoy. They express themselves clearly and seem to suffer no shortage of inspiration. I commend them all to you. Hell, they probably are you.(...)