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Monday, July 11, 2011

sods

why are there no famous male models, where is the male equivalent of kate or naomi. where is the male superstar model who throws a strop and gets hassled for being drunk and drugged up? there must be one, but why isn't he in all the newspapers?

why arn't there superstar women darts or snooker players? seriously why can't they play against and beat the men? just a case of aiming and letting go, it is just hand-eye coordination and as women can multitask they can play the game while having a chinwag with their mate in the third row.

why don't the laces in my plimpsols stay tied up? no matter what the knot i tie, no matter how tight it is at some point in the day the lace will come untied. when i tie it iup again that is a sing for the other one to come untangled. forcing me into a series of stopping, bending, knotting as i walk down the road.

why am i the poster boy for messy? i used to work with a chap who could wear anything and make it look suitable, appropriate, trendy and comfortable. it didn't matter what he wore he looked good in it. he also tended to be obsessively neat and precise, some would say anal (yet he wasn't the worst in the office, just the next in line) everything on his desk had a place and that place was neatly laid out in relation to all the other things that were on his desk. the complex laws of the universe laid bare in the positioning of a few pens and pencils.
his other super-power was that he was very much like 'the man in the white suit': dirt avoided him. he came to work wearing a very white coat, he wore it for a few weeks. never once did the coat look anything less than perfect shimmering white. it was an astonishing feat.
i am the total antithesis of this. not only am i the definition of messy, the concept of mess made flesh. around me are pools of chaos that turn organised desks and workspaces into jumbles and piles that remind one of those old fusty dusty second-hand bookshops where piles would tetter totter and the book you always wanted was in the middle of some impossibly high tower of books and yet somehow the wizend old man could pull that book from the pile - well my place is like that, except the piles wobble and fall when you go near them - forming a new ecosystem of mess that you have to learn to navigate.
when it comes to my white shirts (yes i have a few - hope springs eternal) i just set myself up for disappointmnet.
there i was today looking quite smart (for me) (for once) in a very white shirt. the boss came in with some very gooey doughnuts. i managed one (well it might have been three) without damage to the shirt. later on i was drinking coffee and bish bosh bash two fucking great big drips and i might as well be a hippy in a tye dye. oh well. crack on with work i think.
another cup of coffee (no drips this time) and another doughnut. ooops. out sploshes some strawberry cream and plonk down the other side of the shirt.
cripes i am looking like the mad english teacher who knew all the works of shakespeare but was never sure how to button his shirt or tie his laces.
i am a dirt attactor and a chaos magnet.
i think i am going to stick to t-shirts.

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