Torsoner of Leek

He ain’t dead, he was just trying to fool ya,


It’s Puerto Rican sex-ghoul Raul “Man’s Name” Julia

The above is in honour of his sterling work in 1994 Jean Claude Van Damme vehicle (and deliciously cynical videogame tie-in) Street Fighter. Kylie Minogue drives a speedboat and does kungfu kicks. Where she shouts “KICK!”

And yet Schindler’s List won Best Picture that year. I ask you…

So hello from the near-present, I eschewed drearing you out with a new blog last week as I really only have 3 blogs worth of news per month. It’s some weirdly exact maths. One in the eye for the Americans there.

So my last two weeks have been reasonably pedestrian: work, sleep, wash my little butt-butt, repeat.

My June is sure to be more interesting than my May as it is ramjammed with work travel and opportunities to encounter general free-range madness. I will be hitting Frankfurt, Lille, Helsinki, New York, Brussels and a child on the train accidentally on purpose.


Tarquin needs to put in Tarquin’s earphones, or Tarquin is going to get a clip from my shoulder bag full of rocks. He’ll miss being able to count to 5.

Speaking of trains I socialised on Friday. With work humans. Meg had to sign a form as I’m so close to 30. Still claiming to be in my mid-20s largely for the angry reaction I get. Largely.

My workplace has become insanely diverse after our move into London. We have an Australian, Nepalese, Zimbabwean, Irish (not a clean people), American, Mexican, Serbian (via Norway) and a few English types (albeit one of Indonesian/Pakistani descent). It makes the conversations about upbringing and travel more interesting, but utterly impossible to agree on a setting for the thermostat. Apparently not many countries share the ethos of “Are you hungry? Eat an apple. Are you cold? Put on a fucking jumper. Mark.”

Anyway, after my court-appointed 2 hours of post-work Friday boozing I hopped onto my train home a few hours later than normal. Looking around me feeling pretty much like the Daddy (“you fools wouldn’t survive this crap between 1700 and 1800 hours,” I take pride in lame things) I realised I was in fierce need of a 3P (post-pub pee).

So I wandered over to the 2T( train terlet) and my hand went up to open the door, and for a second paused hovering over the “open” button. The reason is that I know from other occasions it’s possible that there might be someone inside, who didn’t realise you have to hit the lock button to stop toilet intruders. I have walked in on pee-er and poo-ers alike and as much as I may feel bad, I let them to stumble across the stinking booth and close the door themselves. They’ve earned at least that dignity.

So I bonked the open button and lo and behold there was someone inside, but as he was standing by the sink I figured things were relatively less awkward that they could have been.


Because things can always get more awkward.

And more awkward they am.

The chap inside, was a dignified sort. Tweed jacket. Silver hair. Face and torso soaked in thick brown vomit.

Eyebrows raised I hit the “Close Right Damn Now”  button and the door slowly started its inexorable grind across the floor track. I turned away from the mahogany slopshow to an elderly lady sitting on one of the fold down chairs. “He’s been in there since we left London.”

Giving here a rye smile I started to remark “I hope he’s going to lock the…”

I quickly broke off my sentence and smile. “The smell just hit me” I blurted and vanished into the next carriage. And then into the next one. One wasn’t enough.

Moving on, as a fatty-fat (the medical term) I have decided to start running again and have rediscovered all my bad running habits. These include excessive road-gobbing, using my index finger as a wiper across my forehead and then flicking the sweat on walls and emitting a loud “WOOO!!!” when a good song come on and I start beasting uphill.


Images of self in mind may not be as awesome as they appear.

My running started as a way of stopping myself going completely nuts during exams in Maynooth, but it’s turned into all that keeps me being a physical burden on the state. Discovering baked camembert seemed like a win at the time but, I dunno.

The downside of running and for that matter, all exercise is that it immediately robs you of pride in your physical appearance and dignity. Going for a cycle? Here’s a crash helmet and some tender bumps on your undercarriage. Trying to do push-ups? Hope your flabby belly needs some air (as that t-shirt is rolling up no matter your own views on the matter) and dogs will step on your face if you attempt to do it in fresh air.  And running will find the little bit of once-was-food in your system, however deep it might be buried in their and shake shake shake it loose. As Swifty has eluded to.

The practical result being that the last km of many of my runs is spent tensing my abdomen, feeling cold sweat collect on my overheated brow and wondering whether my underpants would catch it or would it just drop or streak down my leg.

I would like to tell you that my track record with these things was 100%. I really would.

In other news, Meg and I went into Weybridge to do our little errands on Saturday . Picking up my bike from the repair store I had decided to bring my bike lock along as I might need to stop in somewhere. Furious that I was wearing it over my shoulder and not in my rucksack, she came out with the following “Do you think you look like you think like you’re a Terminator!? No. Not that one. A Predator!?”

She was right. I did think that I looked like I thought I was a Predator. She’s perceptive.

Torsoner of Leek

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