NOT A REEM DREAM

The ray of sunlight piercing through the curtains hits my weary eyes like a tonne of bricks.

What just happened?

I indulge my dormant limbs with an immense stretch, until I look like I’m genuinely having an epileptic fit.

Was that a dream, or did that genuinely just happen?

Wiping the sleep/dream spunk out of my eyes, I try to recollect whilst fondling my morning glory. (HAHA I joke, no morning glory for me, I do possess some decency. Besides, the erectile dysfunction prevents that.)

I just got into a lift going to hell with Lenny Henry because neither of us could pass a fitness test.  

So, in summary, this did not occur.

Nevertheless, the unexpected potency of some dreams, no matter how absurd they are, can confuse a sleepy mind into briefly believing they’re true. Oneirology, or the study of dreams (yes I did have to Google that ludicrous sounding word), has been a hot topic for centuries. I’m quite certain that humankind for some millennia has been puzzled frequently by their nightly imaginings, regardless of there being a word invented to represent the study of these strange things. Some dreams are, apparently, quite easily interpretable when they include precise elements or situations. A regular theme amongst those who dream is nakedness, as well as the mortification of realising people can see your saggy genitalia, third nipple or whatever may personally be put on show without the concealment and comfort of clothing. Often, ‘oneirologists’ relate this to feelings of shame and panic, whereby you may perhaps be hiding something and are afraid of people being able to see straight through you. The vast majority of us have at one time, perhaps more, experienced the sensation of flying in our dreams; however, the interpretation surely must be dependent not on the actual motion of flying, but the way one feels when doing so. If you’re struggling to stay off the ground, or encounter obstacles, then I assume that implies one must be avoiding certain issues or uncomfortable situations in everyday life. If you’re soaring above the clouds effortlessly, without a care in the world, then that therefore must suggest something totally dissimilar.

None of this takes into account the smorgasbord of dream theories, theorists, psychologists and other variables that contradict each other so ceaselessly. Despite or, perhaps because of, this uncertainty, the concept of dreaming retains an allure which never seems to dissipate at all.

Now, cutting the bull and back to the ‘unorthodox’ dreams which plagued/amused me last night.

Failing a fitness test in heaven and joining Lenny Henry in the depths of fiery hell.

As some of you probably know because I won’t shut the hell up about it, I’m intending to run fourteen marathons in as many days across northern Spain, in a little over two weeks. Recently, I’ve been a wuss and unable to train due to injury. This has made me anxious to a certain extent, and thus failing a fitness test in my deep subconscious doesn’t really surprise me. As for Lenny’s inclusion, God knows.

Getting in a taxi in Venice, before being offered three possible destinations: Alfred Molina’s house, Elton John’s mansion, or an image of three sheets of wobbly Perspex. When the cabbie asked me what the glass sheets were about, I said they were recycled Cybermen from Doctor Who because they were environmentally minded.

Yep, I don’t have a clue either.

Going on a fishing trip with a group of celebrity chefs including Jamie Oliver, Gordon Ramsay and James Martin amongst others. When I accidentally lobbed the wobbly Italian Antonio Carluccio into the sea, he transformed into a pink swordfish, before attempting to stab me in the eyes with his long pointy nose sword (or a bill, to be correct).

Really, I’d like to have an oneirologist interpret that one.

Getting pursued by a red-haired, lesbian giantess in a German techno nightclub.

What can I say, my mum likes dance music.

BOOM BOOM ;).

Ciao for now. x

I Think It's BBQ o'clock, Don't You?

There’s something about BBQs that stimulates the inner carnivorous caveman within all of us (excluding vegetarians, perhaps). Whether it’s charring a baby lamb chop to the point of cremation for your fellow man’s culinary enjoyment, or consuming more protein in one day than the average bodybuilder munches through annually, the brilliance of a BBQ is evident in its primitive simplicity. Or so I thought; try hosting one, then it suddenly gets inexplicably more complex and painstaking.

Reason one: spiders. More accurately, daddy longlegs which appear to have been feeding on creatine rather than small houseflies and the like. When an entire army of the cute little critters tries to lay a cobweb on your face because you’ve disturbed their nest, kinda’ ruins the summery feel good vibe.

Reason two: the cleaning. After a couple of unfortunate years of inactivity, my once brand spanking new BBQ-a-tron 3,000 has been lying dormant like a volcano for some time. In addition to the venomous insects being housed within it, there seems to be some sort of stubborn pig cartilage clinging to my tongs.

Reason three: buying the food. I’d forgotten quite how violent hungry people can become when racing around Sainsbury’s on a hot, balmy day. Picture young mums wrestling over the last pack of Wall’s sausages and middle-aged men employing loaded trolleys as battering rams to escape the supermarket quicker.

Asides from these minor misgivings, I am most definitely looking forward to some dangerously undercooked chicken thighs, a few chilled beverages and the likely possibility of getting burnt to smithereens. However, as I continue to soak up the afternoon rays whilst scrubbing the utensils like a Victorian housewife on heat, the fun times seem just a smidgeon too distant to celebrate yet.

Until then, I’ll defrost an ever larger array of meat and attempt to banish the last of the tarantulas nesting in my hair. Patience, it seems, is most definitely a virtue.

Toodles as ever,

G

Marathon Man

Over 24 blissfully restful hours have passed since 35,000 determined runners doggedly completed the London Marathon; as you probably know by now, I was one of those people. I didn’t dress up as Superman, or in a leopard print mankini like one particularly colourful gentleman I encountered along the route, yet nonetheless I was one of many who can tick it off life’s endless ‘to do’ list. Essentially, I’m left with some vivid memories, temporarily demented hamstrings and an overwhelming desire to detail my experiences. As well as several pressing questions, of course. Namely, was it all worth it? Would I do it again? Can I be proud of my achievements?

As I write this blog, the complementary medal that I received hangs haphazardly from the corner of a mantelpiece. It inspires a plethora of emotions within me; from sheer relief when I finally crossed the finishing line, to the subsequent frustration I felt when remembering my target time wasn’t achieved, or even pleasant surprise at the manner in which ordinary Londoners got together along the route to heartily support us. What I can guarantee for certain is that no other single event within a period of time encompassing only a few hours has ever motivated or perplexed me so much. Marathons are infectious, addictive and nerve-wracking, a drug which I feel inextricably addicted to. And I’ve only just completed my first! Undoubtedly, I will be completing several again very soon indeed, as my Spanish running pilgrimage looms ever closer.

Nevertheless, despite being proud of completing the race in a respectable time (4:17 approximately), an uneasy voice lingers at the back of my mind. I was over half an hour too slow for my target time of 3:45, an achievable threshold which I genuinely believed could be accomplished. Initially, my pace was good; in fact, that was the principle problem. Sticking with a pacemaker who was above and beyond my ability, I was regularly notching up 7 minute miles before halfway; inevitably, this was impossible to replicate and I struggled after an hour and a half of the race. Firstly for energy, consequently when attempting to find a comfortable speed which I could adhere to. In addition, I found the Lucozade carbohydrate gels very difficult to digest; perhaps it would have been sensible to at least sample one beforehand to discover whether or not I liked them and get accustomed to the taste whilst running. Yes, I raised nearly £1000 for a wonderful charity in Children with Leukaemia, who were very supportive and helpful both during the build up and on race day itself by the way. I’d thoroughly recommend running with them. However, there’s still a sizeable marathon monkey on my back which taunts me, as well as the unsatisfactory performance I turned in. Though this unfinished business can wait; the mistakes can be rectified in the future.

Asides from pernickety moaning, running a marathon is all about togetherness and team spirit. London, undeniably, is a vast and remarkable metropolis, a capital city which on the whole we can all marvel at and be proud of. Yet it’s often the case that many of us seem to transform into distant, unfriendly creatures when frequenting the capital; think of cramped, awkward tube journeys, or the manner in which homeless people are habitually ignored. On the other hand, the camaraderie and encouragement espoused by runners and spectators alike was extraordinary. In fact, it’s the one element I’ll remember most fondly in years to come. From a fancy dress party blaring out music in the Charlton region, to the brass band playing the Rocky theme tune ‘Gonna Fly Now’ along the final few torturous miles. High-fiving people on the sidelines, getting clapped on the back by fellow runners when I felt like it was impossible to continue, all of these ingredients combine to give me a bit of a cheesy, warm glow.

Naturally, getting overtaken by pensioners in places felt a bit humiliating and unnatural, but the pace of some competitors is deceptive. I spoke to one gentleman in his 70s, who was running his 26^th marathon, which is remarkable considering he only completed the first after retiring a few years ago! The spirit and dedication of all sorts of people, young and old, large or small, is something which is more impressive and important than achieving personal target times. With hindsight, I can appreciate this.

And so it is, that when I reflect initially on my first London Marathon experience, I realise I can be relatively proud of my personal achievements. Conversely, there’s still ample room to improve! Was it all worth it? Without a doubt. The mental barriers which I overcame and saw people conquer themselves were astounding. The concept of regular, everyday people coming together for one event, for whatever personal reasons they may have, to overcome something as difficult as the London Marathon, is quite simply inspirational. Well done to all of you who competed or were involved in the race, be you a runner, spectator or organiser. Congratulations on helping make the occasion so brilliant; same time again next year?

Peace out,

George

The Unfortunate Case of the Inadequate Spring Onion

As I stumbled groggily downstairs this morning, dodging a Jenga style pile of washing near the bottom step, I adhered to tradition and jabbed at the kettle like a comatose Joe Calzaghe till it miraculously turned on. Piping hot filter coffee to me is the equivalent of a Bargain Bucket of crack cocaine to Pete Doherty- slightly enlivening and a real necessity in those first few difficult minutes of being awake.

The looming spectre of today’s Daily Mail is perched on the kitchen table and, as the kettle still hasn’t boiled and I don’t fancy ice cold Nescafe, I meander over to see what amusingly middle-England propaganda it’s produced today. A Romanian asylum seeker who enjoys eating small children and closing down village post offices? ALAS, NO! The following greets me: FREE packet of spring onion seeds for every reader!

The rapid decline of decent complementary gifts is staggering. My girlfriend recently noticed on a Kinder Surprise advert, that the infamously poor, probably poisonous plastic toys are all laid out on a table by some squeaky clean and cocoa-addicted little child. There is no SURPRRRIIISE, if the said surprise is shown to one and all on the advert. Not that the ‘gift’ was ever much of a pleasant revelation in the first place; you’re almost always going to end up with a faulty giraffe that falls apart and reeks of polythene.

One of the best free promotions I can remember has to be from Walkers crisps. Opening a packet of cheese & onion to be greeted by a £20 note, or even a free voucher in a bag of smoky bacon flavour, pushes my buttons a bit more than growing something in my garden which I can buy for pennies in a supermarket. Perhaps this is because I haven’t yet discovered the joys of gardening and cultivation; or maybe it’s due to the fact cold hard cash trumps muddy vegetables in your shed every single time. Even better, if you’re in the privileged yet very paranoid position of having an MRI machine at hand, you can employ it for crisps-searching purposes like the guys in Green Wing: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mkinruG0hbk

The kettle is now steaming like a bubble bath and, urgently requiring my caffeine kick, I indulge in one last disdainful look at the Daily Mail headline. Free spring onion seeds, or cheese & onion with an opportunity to win money? No contest bambinos.

Peace and love to my posse,

George Charles Young Esq.

P.S. I do actually enjoy the Daily Mail, but its attempts to pander towards a panicky middle-class English population occasionally take the proverbial biscuit.

The Perils of An Imaginary Gary Glitter

Running in the dark is a curious thing; constantly checking over your shoulder for potential sex attackers is commonplace, as is excessive squinting. Unfortunately my efforts to replicate a bat’s sonar capabilities have fallen pretty short, and my paranoia regarding possible rape means I stare cynically at every thorn bush like it’s concealing an aroused Gary Glitter. Nonetheless, there’s something brilliant and humbling about pushing yourself through mile after mile of physical discomfort and psychological instability. The desolation and independence of your steps echoing on the barely visible gravel path whilst having only the full moon above (and Gary Glitter in the undergrowth) as company is, in essence, empowering. No interruptions from lethal sausage dogs, no nine year old yobs with ASBOs trying to set you alight, just your own deepest and darkest thoughts surfacing as you stomach the ceaseless punishment of a reluctant human body. It’s simultaneously the ultimate physical detox and the best method of working through anxiety; I recommend it to anyone and everyone, excluding paraplegics and the mentally retarded of course. That’s just not feasible.

Once I pass the mystical two hours barrier, that’s currently when everything starts to get a tad more surreal. My vision begins to suffer, which combined with the fact I love to run in the dark, effectively makes me Stevie Wonder with some dodgy trainers and a sweat on. In addition, my hearing diminishes and improves on an unpredictable scale over which I have no control whatsoever. Yet astoundingly, any ability I possess to concentrate on thoughts and ideas seems to increase exponentially as time drearily tumbles along. The only ever occasions on which I’ve felt quite so lucid and enthused have been after reading The Outsider by Albert Camus, as well as The Trial by Franz Kafka; the clarity and uninhibited intellect espoused by both, within the restraints of two very short novels, astounded and amused me in equal measure.

The wear and tear hasn’t truly set in yet, despite indulging in a pretty arduous program. Any pain or soreness seems to extend only to tender buttocks and obscene clamminess for hours after I’m done running. Just a week and a smidge to go till the big M now; any subsequent training should be limited to next Wednesday, when I’ll be assisting a unique and inspiring athlete named Chris Blackabee. Born without any sight at all, Chris is a shining example to us all of what can be achieved against genuine adversity. Despite my tongue in cheek Stevie Wonder comment above, in all seriousness I can’t wait to provide assistance on his tandem bike, and get to know the man himself a bit better.  Keep watching for regular updates (naturally, I’ll be spamming Twitter to let you know regardless anyway :P)...

Danke schon as ever,

George x

The Blushing Cheeks of a Reluctant Catholic

I have noticed recently, how T.V. advertising execs illustrate a propensity to air commercials for thrush cream and all matter of female itchiness cures whenever I’m watching tele with my mother. Note to self, as well as said executives: Vagisil is not exactly a great conversation starter between mother and son. If we were liberalistic anarchists, it might inspire a detailed and intriguing debate about how female health has been advertised with increasing regularity since the advent of feminism.

For a semi-Catholic family of Irish descent, it’s just effing awkward. It was night-time so we couldn’t even go for the classic ‘oooh what’s the weather like outside, overcast again is it’. Instead I mumbled something about wanting biscuits, evacuated to the advertising bomb shelter of the kitchen and waited it out. Upon returning, I lacked even a single custard cream and had a sheepish look on my face. Thank you very fucking much Canesten Duo and co.

Perhaps this is partially why I often perceive religion and Catholicism to be slightly perplexing. I’ve always found it to encourage awkwardness, whilst discouraging emotional interaction. Although I’m sure there are some wonderfully nice people out there with a strong grip on religion, when I draw from my own experiences the Catholics I’ve met tend to be quite antagonistic if you disagree with them regarding the almighty Jesus. Once in junior school, I suggested to my teacher that it seemed a tad farfetched for Monsieur Christ to turn Evian into pinot grigio and that whole vajazzle. Judging by the constipated expression on her chops, you’d have thought I’d just done a crap on her shoes or something. Cue a very awkward few seconds where my sphincter tightened and I wished for the ground to swallow me up (not an easy feat, I was a very chubby little troublemaker).

And there I am again, looming on the threshold of our living room with my sheepish grin and blushing mother, the vague echo of Vagisil reverberating in our ears. Perhaps we should have been Satanists. Alas, I bet they don’t get embarrassed when genitalia remedies pop up on tele. Instead they must cackle wickedly, sadistically revelling in all of the unhealthy fannies in the world.

I’ll stick with being an agnostic then.

P.S. (In full Peter Griffin mode), you know what really grinds my gears? Nick Clegg still deriding the ‘leg-up’ culture in British workplaces, whilst being the worst person in the world to protest against it. Considering the regular assistance his millionaire banker father provided when he was a young, befuddled and bum-fluffed idealist. Daddy’s connections ensured he was gifted a prestigious internship at Postipankki Bank in Helsinki during the summer of 1989; I am not insinuating this to be an awful process, because this sort of thing is inevitable and unavoidable. Not to mention, I’ve benefitted from a similar dynamic myself; it’s often not what you know, but who you know (as the infamous phrase goes). Nonetheless, if as a coalition government you’re intending to instigate a mass war against social immobility, it would be tactful and astute to employ someone more appropriately placed in the cabinet to be the figurehead. Clegg is already unpopular with his own party after accepting a role as Dave Cameron’s right hand biatch; the already waning popularity he possesses with a wider public will only continue to diminish, if he persists in such grave hypocrisy.

Much love. x

Georgie the Dancing Queen

WE STILL BELIEEEEVE... WE STILL BELIEEEEVE...

The epic tomes of English footballing past ring in my ears like it was only yesterday.

IT’S COOOMING HOME, IT’S COOOMING HOME...

Mental images of pot-bellied Three Lions fans crying into their lager.

FOOTBALL’S COMMMINNG HOOOME!

Naturally, of course, it didn’t; the pinnacle of world football is still very much abroad, just like good weather, authentic paella and dodging rampaging bulls in the home of the current international champions, Spain. That, however, is neither here nor there. The reason nostalgia drags me back to 1990s catchy football songs is because, upon retrospection of some old family photo albums, I found a particular picture of me japing about with my dad at a family birthday party. This was nearly fifteen years ago remember, so expect iffy 90s clobber and floppy David Beckham bowl cuts before he got too trendy.

Put quite bluntly, the way we’re dancing makes us look cataclysmically smashed. Bearing in mind I was 7, I’m guessing I hadn’t been on the voddie. Although I wouldn’t put it past my parents to dose me up with liquor, as long as I shut the f&$k up and fell asleep, something suggests to me that it was the mere exuberance of the occasion which makes me look like I’m swaying about. Oliver Reed, eat your heart out. I can almost hear me leaning into my pops to mumble “you’re my bessshhht maaaayte you are”... *shudder*

Nevertheless, the ease in which my dad jives about like a demented ballet dancer is astounding; clearly, he was dancing/spasming everywhere in a self-deprecatory way to ensure his young son felt no embarrassment when being a smoothie on the dance floor. Unless... No, surely, it cannot be! No, come on, I’m being stupid. Without doubt he doesn’t actually bust a groove like that. But then again, in the picture he IS attempting a new age can-can with his arms mysteriously flexed, inviting all of his ancient aunts for a view of the Gary Young guns show. Was I merely a convenient vehicle for him to showcase his body-popping, break-dancing, hip-thrusting, bicep-curling, ‘jazz hands’ routine?

The origins of the peculiar cult of ‘dad-dancing’ are unfortunately ambiguous... Saying that, I can quite readily imagine a senior Neanderthal getting woozy off excessive mammoth meat, before collapsing in a hairy heap as he tries to perfect the Macarena. I expect there is such a phenomenon as humiliating ‘mother-grooving’, yet as women tend to be a lot more subtle and less idiotic than men, it’s a great conspiracy that’s kept under wraps. Like the Stonemasons, or the Bermuda Triangle.

Cordially, I invite you to enjoy/tolerate the following clip. Such a sterling example of big poppa booty cannot and will not be ignored by this blog: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MaaG66xGfDg

Casting my reminiscing eyes back to the photo once more, several other distinct impressions begin to form; firstly, my hair is awful (no change there then). Secondly, all of the adults are decidedly thinner. Not quite Auschwitz survivors, but certainly substantially less podgy than in their present chubby forms. Overwhelmingly, however, the look of unabated joy in my dad’s eyes is infectious, charming even.

Then I think of my grandmother’s 80^th birthday party just before Christmas, when Gary got up to grind to Sade’s ‘Smooth Operator’... And how I decided to join him, happily, willingly and eagerly. Several bottles of Corona naturally encouraged this noble and brave decision.

Even so: the humble tradition of embarrassing ‘dad-dancing’ looks set to continue for at least one more Young generation to come.

Danke. x

Friday, I'm In Love

It’s Friday, Friday, gotta’ get down on Friday... Rebecca, I couldn’t agree more my sweet; right now, however, all I want to do is get your sh*$ty song out of my head. For the purposes of maintaining my sanity, and ensuring I don’t begin to sing aloud as I run through the darkening woods of Hornchurch Country Park. No one, or nothing, deserves to hear me panting out the lyrics of a warbling 13 year old girl whilst I trek the outer perimeter of a seemingly endless dirt track. A dubious squirrel fondles a nut from afar; I hum and whine ‘everybody’s looking forward to the weekend, weekend’ imperceptibly, not wanting to offend the little critter. I’m barely able to see the clammy hand in front of my face, yet can’t help focusing on not offending a squirrel. This isn’t traditional madness, though nonetheless a slight queasiness overcomes me as the incline increases and my hamstrings implore me to stop being a douche and have a rest. Hell, have a beer. Don’t bother with the jogging. Fancy a Bargain Bucket? SUREEE, go for it. Deep fry a Mars bar as a dessert whilst you’re at it boss.

After the amount of painstaking training I’ve invested, the ease in which I can ignore these shoulder devils of greed has increased remarkably; nevertheless, the London Marathon looms large at the forefront of my mind. Manifesting itself as a gigantic foam hand, like the ones you see the crowd waving in American sports, the fingers are preparing to deliver me the most almighty of bitch slaps if I don’t complete the race in a respectable time. I grit my teeth and grunt like a horny rhinoceros as the hill levels out and a truly beautiful sight tiptoes into my vision: the blessed reprieve of a downhill trail.

Some heavy duty drum n’ bass, intended to distract and ultimately inspire my lagging muscles, can’t prevent me from thinking of how even supposedly brilliant songs can illustrate the worst examples of failed lyricism and idiotic wordplay. Take Sting, for example, of The Police and dodgy Cockney accent in Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels fame; a member of the esteemed Songwriters Hall of Fame, as well as the more commercially recognised Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Achieving worldwide renown and popularity over a relentlessly successful career of making piles of cash, winning countless awards and selling out the biggest arenas in the world, whether individually or side by side with his Geordie band members. And yet even he attempted to merge the secular Russian author Vladimir Nabokov and the line ‘shake and cough’ into a rhyming couplet. Shakira, the booty shaking Latina with a global fan base and countless chart hits, eloquently chimes on her smash hit ‘Whenever, Wherever’: "Lucky that my breasts are small and humble, so you don't confuse them with mountains." Brilliant introspection there dear, the majority of mammary glands indeed do NOT, repeat not, resemble Mount Kilimanjaro. Bless the lord for your overwhelming observational intelligence.

This isn’t intended to completely debunk and discredit the work of the above artists, as well as countless others with questionably dim-witted lyrics (Kesha in ‘Tick-Tock’ springs immediately to mind); instead, it’s a concise and valid indication that even the most respected of performers can suddenly be overcome by the strong urge to write a load of crap. Worse still, to assume their own genuine talent warrants them to pretend it’s any good. When all of the countless Grammy and Brit awards begin to pile up on one’s bulging mantelpiece, there’s still no excuse for concluding your breasts aren’t a mountain range. Please kindly desist from patronising me by singing a record outlining this.

So, ultimately, as I turn another nondescript corner in the hazy moonlight of early evening Essex, the guilt I formerly experienced when belting out Rebecca Black’s questionable debut at the top of my lungs has all but dissipated. It’s awful. She’s no Shakespeare, granted. John Lennon won’t be turning in his grave, afraid of an awesome artistic legacy being overcome anytime soon. But if Michael Jackson can open ‘Bad’ with the line: “Your butt is mine”, then young Becky can frankly continue to offend everyone’s eardrums for a while yet.