Man stuff

I have to devote some time this year to man stuff. I’ve really let it go recently. I haven’t gotten effeminate or anything but I have certainly allowed my manly pursuits to slip.
I haven’t put my weights up in months. I wondered why lifting was getting boring. Clearly the mundane day to day workout is far too easy. It’s not been engaging my brain. My thoughts have been wandering. Not good. I have to re-capture the fear again.
I haven’t feared my weights in years. The time has come to start benching again. Dumbbells aren’t cutting it anymore. They are well and truly maxed out. I will never max the bar. The bar is un-maxable.
More weights can always be bought. More weights can always be added. There lies the fear.
Ten years ago eleven stone of iron came down on my throat. I was pinned alone in my living room slowly realising I could die there. Choked by free weights. How embarrassing.
I’m pretty sure I can go higher. Really I need a spotter. The Girlf refuses out-right. Like football, watching me lift weights is boring. Clearly she’s never minded the results. She LIKES the results. However, helping the process is beyond her tolerance.
I need more discs. Another four five kilo should suffice for now. The curling bar needs a new lease of life. My biceps have to feel the pain again. A pair of tens would be nice as well, give the bench-bar a treat seeing as it’s a new year.
I should also be taking more of an interest in Tottenham seeing as we’re having, so far, quite a good season. We’re healthy in the league, right up there with the big three and have the opportunity to increase our lead over the dirty scouse next Wednesday. It’s our best season in years and I’m so womaned up I’m missing it.
Women and football just don’t mix. They can’t relate. A whole ninety minutes a week that isn’t the slightest bit about them. Their brains can’t fathom where they fit into it.
Sorry ladies you don’t.
We love you but football came first, Tottenham came first and you can sit there whining and moaning as much as you want but it won’t change how we feel and what we feel is a deep, burning desire, an actually fundamental need for you to shut the fuck up and let us watch the game.
Kranjcar’s quite pretty. Look at him.
I know a lot of women are true fans, bigger fans than a lot of men in-fact. They go to games, even away games. A lot of women play football professionally (bless). These, however aren’t the women that I meet. The girls I meet haven’t got the slightest clue.
One woman tried to convince me she was a Liverpool fan.
‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Name your first eleven.’ Quite a simple question I thought.
‘My what?’ she replied. Her boyfriend started to chuckle.
I re-phrased it.
‘Name your best eleven players. Your ideal starting line-up. You know there are eleven players in a football team don’t you?’
‘Of course I do,’ she snorted
‘So who are they?’
A pause.
‘Mmmm,’ she stuttered
‘Ok, ok,’ I said going easy on her. ‘Name your back four’
Stunned silence.
‘Your defenders,’ chipped in her boyfriend.
‘I don’t know,’ she said quietly.
Already enjoying my victory I decided to be magnanimous.
‘Tell you what,’ I said. ‘If you can name me your goal-keeper I will except that you are indeed a dirty, work-shy scouser.’ Obviously I didn’t really say that but you get my point.
She stared blankly at me for a few seconds as her boyfriend collapsed into a fit of laughter.
‘Alright,’ she finally grunted. ‘I’m not really a football fan.’