Exercising in pubic parks

It seems like that every new year ushers in nonsensical ideas of losing a few pounds by placing one foot in front of the other at varying speeds.  Incentives are definitely in order for this sort of thing.  Perhaps some company in the form of females clad with a second skin of lycra treading the same path as myself, only, I must add, at a greater and steadier pace as my own lacklustre lollop across one of London’s pitifully few green spaces.

 

You’ve got to love the choice of attire generally chosen by Today’s women in their quest for pertness.  It’s reported to be made of “fabric which provides great freedom of movement and excellent support for the dedicated athlete.”  Or, in other words, the high lycra content sticks to and accentuates anatomical parts which make most men thank God for female vanity (and good eyesight).  I can’t help but think that there’s an element of irony at its cruellest with this attire: just think about the sweat of the little Chinese kids working in penny-a-piece factories churning out running wear for Western women to sweat away in public parks.  Downer.

Anyone aware of joggers’ etiquette knows about tbligatory post-run stretches.  Confronting me the other day as I started my morning exercise was a young strumpet who took it upon herself to cock one leg up on a nearby bench, thus making a near-perfect ninety-degree angle as though offering her pubic bone to an invisible man sitting on the said bench.  Another comely wench nearby was also practicing geometry with her legs by using an ever-so phallic waste-high post. Deportment lessons would be wasted on these legs akimbo lasses.  If I ever get the opportunity to haunt a particular place, I guess park benches are looking pretty appealing right know.

Unfortunately, while out for my daily exercise-cum-totty-spotting session, my eyes are usually confronted with men who think that lycra’s for them, which generally hampers whatever illusion I’ve conjured up when faced with lyca-clad crumpet.  Man, these guys have got to realise that tights are for girls.  (The only blokes I expect to see wearing tights are fellas leaving banks with shotguns and bags of cash.)  Considering the neck of the woods I live around, these hapless fools are probably ambitious, sharp elbowed city-types taking some time out from shafting people to shave a few tenths of seconds off their “Personal Best”.  Thankfully coronary complications and articulated lorries have the ability to shave off the rest of their vacuous lives, which will help clear the parks of a few endorphin junky, lycra boys.  Just think, the next time you see a lycra-clad man running with the confidence of a pimp in a brothel, he may be acting as mudflap for a lorry sometime soon.

           

If you’re a light-footed maiden that dons lycra and heads for green spaces, but doesn’t like the thought of chaps copping an eyeful, perhaps check if Nike make jogging Burkas.

Brand new year same old hangover

Yet again I found myself drinking as though the Four Minute Warning had been sounded.  The next time I come across a patriotic Polish barman out to convince his punters that vodka from Poland is the best in the world, I’ll just take his word for it and not insist that he proves a heartfelt conviction by handing out complementary samples.  In short, I can strongly advise not to attempt a Pepsi Challenge-like experiment with Polish rocket fuel, although it was pretty fucking funny.

Didn’t have the foggiest what the fuck was being drunk.  Spotting an angle in the overly generous barkeep’s experiment, I moved the subject up a notch by discussing the merits and pitfalls of potato- and grain-based vodka.  Seizing the opportunity, my friendly Pole broke out more grog and insisted on further attempts in tasting the difference. 

Alas, the barman spotted some inconsistencies with my connoisseurial powers of peasant juice when he handed me another shot of clear liquid.  It was definitely grog but after some more utterances of nonsensical bollox about distilling and subtle hints about nature's herbs and spices, he explained that he’d given me a shot of Bacardi.  Realising he’d just given away a shit-load of vodka to me and chum who’d join me for some new year’s shenanigans, he intimated that being unemployed did not form part of his game-plan for 2011.  I sort of guessed that he’d escaped this sort of existence when he decided to leave some Polish shit-hole, like downtown Gdansk, in order to feed his fourteen little sprogs (you’ve gotta love the Catholic libido).

By chance, while I was blagging free shots, my chum had struck up a conversation with some strumpet from Essex.  Dear Lisa Maria (Elvis fans for parents) said that she worked for a hedge fund as a PA (read this as a “Pussy & Ass” for a bunch of useless overpaid wankers).  I really don’t know what the fuck they put in the water north of the Thames, but they do know how to churn out slappers that have a tendency to snag equally brain-dead humans with wallets fatter than the wheels on their yellow 4x4’s. 

After imparting some deft observations amongst Lisa M’s dwindling number of brain cells, she realised that: (1) by chatting to a couple of chaps in this particular part of London, (2) her depth of facial makeup, (3) continual sprays of powerful perfume, and (4) her monotonous drone about how her tits looked in various garments, she was probably leading our fellow drinkers into believing that she could be a pro.  Wanting to rid this perception from everyone’s mind, she decided to treat my homeboy and me to some G&Ts which helped perpetuate our sweet state of complementary intoxication for a while.        

Subsequent to my chum proving that he’s still got it, i.e. slipping her his tongue (thankfully outside away from sensitive eyes), Lisa M realised that he didn’t own a yellow 4x4, nor did he live in Chigwell, so she decided to leave and give her credit card a rest – the G&Ts were really flowing by this point.  Coupled with the fact that our Polish barman wasn’t as friendly as we found him (the spectre of Gdansk was probably looming large in his mind), I thought it was best that we’d leave for our respective homes to herald in a new year, and prepare for the god-awful hangover which was waiting for me the next morning.

Farewell 2010, long live 2011.