Getting Old 2: then there'll be tears

'We're very sorry ladies and gentlemen, the next Richmond train is not
for another 15 minutes.'

Sod that for a game of soldiers. I'm out of work on time, there's a
match on telly and I've got a red wine thirst on.
Off the train at Turnham Green. TG terrace. Get to the T junction.
Sure it's quicker to turn right than left for the bus stop. Turn
right. Bullet across the High Road. Fast walk for the bus stop.
Simple.

Getting old.

My R Whites secret lemonade drinking days are over.

Last night at the usual hour of midnight, I sneaked down stairs for my nocturnal fix of citrusy sugary pop. Naturally the light was off for fear of being discovered.

All was still. Somewhere a wolf howled. A distinct thud of the neighbour's size nine hitting fur. Somewhere a wolf whimpered.

Navigating the Dead Zone

Some would say it's divinely right. Others would say it is pure coincidence. I would say it comes down to poor planning.

Mary Carpenter (your one out of the Joseph, Mary, baby Jesus and the donkey fame) claimed to have been a virgin. I'm not going to question the fact that as a married woman, she had not consummated her vows and whether legally this meant that she was married to Joseph nor the implications on the status of their child. Perhaps they were heading to Bethlehem for their honeymoon when whop! she was nine months pregnant. Joe was possibly still the worse-for-wear following the reception when much wine was turned into water and this possibly explains why he was searching for an inn and not a hotel when arriving in town with his heavily pregnant virgin bride. I should imagine that this led to some arguments between the newlyweds right up until they set up shop in a stable, thereby ensuring high December straw sales for evermore and a million illiterate Project Mangers with squiggly blue lines.

I am a fan of fiction and have read a fair amount but cannot claim to be familiar with either testament. However, as I understand it, the story goes that Mary was impregnated by God, apparently with the permission of a very understanding and hungover Joe. Let's not argue over the details, by the way, as they are not central to this post. I've never understood the appeal of Star Trek yet there are millions of Trekkies out there and we are able to live our lives harmoniously with our paths crossing but rarely. The crux of this biblical beginning - the Genesis of this blog, if you will - is that God chose to have Mary C. popping on the 25th of December, exactly one week before New Years Day.

This seems to be to very poorly planned. While I can understand the thinking, I cannot help but think that God has messed up his Gantt chart. 'Let New Years Eve fall but one day afore New Years Day? Perfect! Have a sherry. Now, wherefore shall one place the birth of the little baby Jesus? Late October? To fall equidistant between the August Bank Holiday and the New Year? Hmm, no. I can imagine that the Americans will get on their high horse about that once they have been invented and start giving thanks in late November. April? No, that will get in the way of Easter. Another sherry should help me think. What about in early February? Ah jesus, I've only gone and forgotten about Valentine's Day. Second Monday in May? Bugger. The French will go on strike as they've already got their workers' holiday then. Oi. OI! ALFIE!. Give me another sherry. In fact just leave the bottle; it's alright; here are my keys, I'll walk home when I've finished my calendar. It was Christmas Eve babe, in the drunk tank, an old man said to me, won't see another one. And then he sang a song; the rare old mountain dew, I turned my face away and dreamed about you. Dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum dum-dum.

Time at the bar, ladies and gentlemen please. Oh God, come on, let's get you out of here. I bloody love you, Alfie. You're me best mate. Just let me sort out the birth of Christ and then I'm off. Have you got any pork scratchings? Ah sod it. The week before New Years Eve; that'll do. It'll give them all a week off work and they'll thank me for it in the end.

Fast forward a couple of thousand years and here we are approaching the end of the year of our Lord, 2011. This is the thirty-somethingth time I have had to consciously navigate the Dead Zone and I am pleased to report that we are almost there. Between the turkey wearing off and the first glass being poured on New Years Eve, this can often be the most trying time for families and factually results in more pointless arguments than at any other time of the calendar year. Today alone, early results from a MORI poll indicate that door slamming peaked at 3.20 this afternoon when half the nation stormed upstairs, indignant that Indiana Jones had been chosen over Big. This will result in a slight rush tomorrow morning as DIY stores across the globe sell out of one of the festive season's most popular items: wood glue. In some extreme cases where Big was overlooked by Indiana *and* the Angela Rippon dance with Morecombe and Wise was chosen ahead of the You've Been Framed Festive special, entire doors will need replacing. This will result in a peak in door sales the first Saturday in January as the entire population will first attempt to repair the doors with wood glue before resigning to the inevitable: the door needs replacing.

However, this year, I am particularly pleased with my Dead Zone Performance. This could be anacronymized into DZP though I will refrain from doing so as I will only use this term twice more in this blog and then never again for the rest of my days. To shorten Dead Zone Performance into a more manageable DZP would therefore actually cost me more time in the long run. If I thought it was going to be adopted on a national or even global scale along the lines of the anacronym gods (ASAP and OMG) then I would utilize DZP on a more frequent basis but it won't so nor will I.

My Dead Zone Performance has been of a highly proficient, close to professional, level this year. I have applied almost the perfect combination of alcohol, fresh air, food and friends and have therefore only lost one day (a mere 25% of post-turkey-wearing-off time) to the sofa and mundane televisual options. 'But there are almost two entire days to go, man. There's no way you should be making such mildly self-congratulatory and wild claims when you are only two-thirds of the way to the goal', I imagine you are thinking and you'd be right. Partly. Chronologically, your thoughts are accurate. It is 7.33pm on December 29th and there are indeed 52 and a half hours remaining before we sing something about auld acquaintances being forgotten (along with all the other words in the song) but I have a trump card up my sleeve as tomorow I am attending a New Years Eve Eve party and navigating the Dead Zone is almost complete. All that remains is for me to publish this post, put the laptop down and head downstairs for a celebratory beer. 2012 is in sight. See you then. Cheers.

Happy Christmas you arse

Was out with Martin tonight. Been a while but you catch up as best you
can. You try hard but the inevitable topics crop up; do you mention
the wedding you didn't invite them to? Do you avoid the party you know
they attended but you were missed off the guest list? Or do you just
plough on and forget the past, enjoy the present and try to ignore the
future?

I have found my calling

I am sure that I am not the first person to see the light at
Christmas. While all around are celebrating the birth of the little
baby Jesus by stripping the high street of gadgets, toys and pestles
and mortars while pouring as many mince pies and pints down their
throats as they can manage, I have humbly found my path.

It is a noble trade which brings joy to millions. I will be revered in
the highest of high places and riches will bestow themselves upon me
as never before. I do not mean the riches of monetary craving though
this will undoubtedly be a by-product but the riches found in the love
and respect of those with whom I come into contact.

I have been drawn to the career of a car salesman. Not just any cars;
oh no. But cars which have been pre-loved. I passed my interview with
flying colours. I collected my disciple from a local train station,
his chariot of choice gently spluttering in an endearing manner. I
took him for a crawl through a traffic jam, ably demonstrating the
flexibility of first gear. I talked of how there are four other
forward gears which are equally useful. I drove him to my house and he
bought the car.

No haggling over price. No look under the bonnet. No kicking of the
tyres. No questioning whether the radio worked. Not. Even. A. Test.
Drive.

I am the Golden Child. I'm going to start my own company.
IBuyAndThenSellAnyCar (DotCom). This time next year I'll be
billionaires.