Not my accident

Now in many ways this is irrelevant.  If I were 100% at fault, 50% at fault or a tiny bit at fault, it still goes down as an accident on my record, I kiss goodbye to my no claims bonus and my premium goes up.  The point is that I object to being told I’m the only one in the wrong when a motorbike rides between two lanes of moving traffic.  Yes, it was careless on my part, but it really fucks me off that motorcyclists gets all high and mighty (“THINK BIKE!” FFS) about road safety, while seemingly being a law unto themselves. 

I’m not tarring all motorcyclists with the same brush (in the same way I have to tell myself that some lorry drivers might not be cunts), but…  well, I’ve forgotten my original point.  I’m just pissed off at the moment and need to vent my spleen a bit.  Oh, and did you know that whitelining/lane-splitting/whatever you want to call driving in between lanes of moving traffic is illegal in most US states?

Anyway, this weekend I took on two demons which, as you may have noted, have plagued me somewhat in recent weeks.  I went to a wedding on Saturday where I drank all day, and, remarkably, was neither violently ill nor embarrassingly drunk.  At least not as far as I’m aware.

I’ve not been overly-healthy this week so far, but I haven’t been especially bad.  Until today.  Friday night we had a lovely meal and a few drinks with friends at Archie’s restaurant, then obviously Saturday involved a lot of canapés and beers and that.  Sunday we had a pub lunch with some other friends at the brilliant Navigation Inn in Breaston (I would very much recommend the beef or lamb Sunday lunch option and would advise steering clear of the stuffed mushrooms and risotto.  The former went down a storm with the boys while the vegetarian options were less of a hit with the girls.)  Today I’ve been a bit of a pig.  I made myself an egg sandwich for lunch, then went to Tescos and bought some salt and vinegar crisps.  And some beefy jerky.  And a bag of Marmite-flavoured cashew nuts (really not that nice, perhaps unsurprisingly). 

The reason for this apparent gluttony is that I’m playing football tonight and I don’t want to have any tea beforehand.  Last Wednesday night I was hungry when I got home so rushed a toasted cheese and marmite sandwich (my sandwich of choice at the moment, FYI).  Fifteen minutes later I thought I was going to sick up said sandwich after the first tiny bit of exertion.  So no food tonight either before football or after, when I will go to the pub and drink Diet Coke whilst watching Peter Crouch stumble around looking lost in an England shirt.

And if you’re a motorcyclist, THINK CARS for a change.  You know — those big metal things with four wheels that pay more road tax than you that you weave in and out of.  Yeah, that’s them.  And if you see a black Ford Focus I’d suggest you give it a wide berth because it might be me trying to run you down.

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But anyway, it was a minor blip, I told myself. This week I’d be better. So, on Monday I made my way back to Boots to find I’d gained two pounds. That’s right. I’ve been telling myself I’m on a diet, cutting back, being sensible etc, and I managed to gain two pounds. Again, a moment of reflection on what I’d consumed that week: large (20) meatballs and chips at IKEA (Tuesday), three bottles of Peroni (Friday), sausage bacon and egg torpedo, four pints of Guinness, two bags of Doritos and two Peroni (Saturday), bacon, egg, cheese and harissa sandwich, enough canapés to feed a small country, beer, several pints of Guinness (ten at a guess), three course meal, wine, champagne, sausage cob x2 (Sunday—it was a wedding to be fair).

Feeling depressed upon realising I’d gained two pounds I did what any sane person would. I went for a curry and a couple of pints. Then last night I went for a carvery. And had a Guinness. And a can of Red Stripe.

In conclusion I need to make active steps towards losing weight. Annoyingly, it would appear that I need to start exercising. And I hate exercise. I’ll also keep trying to shame myself by posting details of all the rubbish I allow myself to eat.

I’ll finish with a dream I had last night; an epiphany of sorts I think.

I dreamt I was in Tesco, and they’d installed a drop-in medical centre. So I went up to see the doctor, who, it turned out, was Jason Donovan. I asked Jase to have a look at me. He loudly announced that I might have a tumour but I was too obese for him to be able to tell. He told me to go away and lose some weight and come back.

I’m no expert on dream meanings, so I tried http://www.dreammoods.com/dreamdictionary/ which offers the following insightful comments:

“To dream that you are fat, signifies a fortunate change in your life or you may be overindulgent. A more literal interpretation of this dream is your fears of gaining weight. You have an skewed perception of your own image which may stem from low self-esteem.”

They have no entries for Jason Donovan, which I’ll be honest, is the part of the dream I’m more worried about.

The plan for this week: just do better.