Happy birthday Paul!
Paul has reached "the death age" of 27, the age that men are most likely to kill themselves and also the age that a lot of celebrities died. Janis Joplin, Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Metal Mickey and Richey Manic maybe all passed away at the age of 27.
I'm sure Paul will be fine though, I can't seem him choking to death on his own vomit. Somebody else's maybe but never his own.
We are going paintballing this weekend. This seems to be exciting everybody, we've all been waiting for the chance to shoot each other for ages. I've been looking on the internet for some way of turning a tin of emulsion into an anti-personnel mine. No luck so far though I have hit on the idea of attaching a paintbrush to the paintball gun to use as a bayonet.
It'll probably all end in tears, with screams of "Don't Die PJ!" ringing around the arena as ambulances arrive to take away the dead and dying. I've been trying to put a bit of playful rivalry in it, I'm worried Woody Johnhouse may take this the wrong way and actually try to murder me with a paint gun.
Later on after the paintballing, we are going to The Mill. I've got a sneaky feeling that some people are going to be in a right state by then. Hee hee.
It was a quiet weekend, Marie stripped the spare room of wallpaper and did an ace job, and I spent some time in the garden. That doesn't look too bad either, it still has a lot of work to do on it but we could enjoy some of the sun on Sunday by sitting on the grass. When I say, "enjoy", I actually mean, "tolerate". After about 15 minutes in the sun I can feel my mind starting to melt and gibberish tends to come spouting out of my mouth.
It was the first game in this year's Inter-departmental football tournament last night. I am hopelessly unfit at the moment, but thanks to the fact that the manager is my oldest friend I got picked anyway. It wasn't the worst performance I've ever put in, there were however some mistakes that I wish I hadn't of made. I think Nick now knows that I was lying when I said I was in peak fitness.
My legs really hurt today, it feels like all the muscles in my thighs have been stretched to breaking point. It hurts when I sneeze as well. Ah well, I suppose I shouldn't complain at the pain involved in increasing my fitness.
In an effort to ensure that I would make it through a ninety-minute 11-a-side football game, I went for a series of jogs over the weekend.
I was running through Moor Park on Friday when I passed a library card on the path. After another 50 metres or so there was a gas charge card on the path. I carried on but when in another 20 or 30 metres I found a credit card, I stopped and made my way back to check the other cards.
Over the next ten minutes I found about 10 debit, credit, library and charge cards, not all for the same person but it seemed to be for the same family. They were scattered over quite a wide area, like somebody running had chucked them one at a time. I pocketed them and Marie phoned the police when I got home. They took the cards to fingerprint them and/or return them to their owner. Well, they'll find my fingerprints on the cards. Shit, they'll then be able to trace me to that spate of attacks on bus stops a couple of years ago. Fuck, I'd better go into hiding.
I got quite excited last year when two new indieish magazines were launched, Bang! And X-Ray. Both sadly it seems have gone to the fucking wall. Bah, every magazine I've ever enjoyed has fucking fallen apart; Zzap 64, Sky, Melody Maker and Select. Fuckers still buy Metal Hammer, Jazz Wankstain and Old Muso Cunt magazines though don't they?