Blog On The Motorway

Today I attempt the impossible. No, not trying to balance an egg on it’s end at the equinox. Not sitting through an episode of Big Brother without curling my fists into a ball while a rage sweeps through my body. Not even trying to explain to George Osbourne that poor people are still people too. Today, I will attempt to avoid all mention of the England game for its entire duration, and watch it on V+ when I get home. Yes, I know I said yesterday that I wouldn’t mention the football, but hey, it’s my blog, and this is going to take up my day.

In order for this miraculous feat to occur, several things will have to work in my favour. Firstly, since I came into work early today, I can leave at four o clock, meaning I have to get through the first half and the half time coverage without anyone in my office alerting me to the score. Sadly, since I work on a huge open plan floor, this is unlikely. In order to minimise the risk I have asked everyone in my immediate vicinity not to mention the score, and I am going to stick some brutal metal in my ears and avoid the internet. Of course this does nothing for the other people I don’t know well enough to approach, nor does it rule out the fact that there are probably a few people I work with who would see it as hilariously funny to destroy my day. I am however slightly aided in this by the fact that most of the die hard fans have already taken the afternoon off. The only reason I haven’t is that I am a dumbshit who only thought to do it when it was too late.

Come four, I will leave work without talking to anyone, and I will cycle home. This part shouldn’t be too bad, given that most people will be off the roads, although I will have to be pretty lucky to avoid honking horns and pubs, and laughing or crying children. The last obstacle will be that I will arrive at home at roughly the same time as the match finishes, and given that my whole estate is currently decorated in thick blankets of red and white (seriously, there’s even bunting), there is a good chance that any celebrations or desolation will spill out into the street. Once home, should I make it, I can settle in, ignore my phone, and watch the match on a two hour time delay.

What’s the chances that all of this will come off? Slim to none, obviously, but it’s worth a shot.

Oh, and today I stole Ellen’s snazzy new bike and cycled to work, which took only 30 minutes and was thoroughly pleasant, if a little nerve-wracking in places. But at least I wasn’t stuck on a bus of doom, reading a really shit book. When I was a lot younger I used to love reading John Grisham, since I was only about 13 and didn’t know any better. I haven’t read any for years, but last time my parents visited they brought a new one up, The Associate, which they said was his best in years, so I thought I’d take nostalgia out for a bit of a spin and give it a whirl while I wait for Ellen to finish Cloud Atlas. I really wish I hadn’t. The book itself hinges on a ridiculous premise, whereby the main character is supposedly trapped in a complex tale or blackmail, but I have so far thought of about 10 different ways he could avoid being ensnared, and the fact that he is supposed to be a world class top-shot lawyer and he can’t think of any is staggering. And the whole thing is draped in a thick veil of misogyny that is quite shockingly forthright. The blackmail revolves around a rape, but any sympathy for the victim is utterly absent, while any other female characters are treated with nothing but contempt. One female associate, when faced with the same gruelling lifestyle as the men around her, actually faints! Those poor feeble women, eh? Nonetheless, although the book makes me have to temper the rising of bile, I still really want to know what happens at the end, so I guess it’s been pretty effective at that at least.

So wish me luck, and if you are one of my friends, please resist the need to text or call me this afternoon. Cheers.