Hold On

I arsed about with the layout and that, one night while I was somewhat worse for wear. Christ knows what I've done.

I'm going to talk a bit about Blues and a bit about me. I've tended not to talk about me on this blog, but I've not been very fucking well, and I'm told that, in trying to introduce a bit of change, it's good to keep a bit of a journal. So, I will use a highly public forum to shame my bastard self.

Perversely, it's a good time to be a Blues fan. No pot in which to piss, a team made up of players who have been tossed out of the bargain bin into the skip outside, and I am enjoying watching them more than at any time since the Jim Smith years, and so is every other rational Blues fan. Even those who were not born in the Jim Smith years. Our neighbours, as I said at the time, did us a massive favour taking Eck off our hands, and while I am not grateful to them for much, I am grateful to them for that. We may have lost a manager and practically a whole premiership squad, (not to mention an owner) but we have gained a soul. Football can be fun, and it can be exhilarating. Who'd have thunk it?

Right. I have an ego, but I'm not a vain man. I don't worry over much about my appearance, and never have, so, as I got older, and fatter, it didn't bother me; there was always another size of waist band to aspire to. But I get migraines, I always feel like shit, I don't tend to sleep well, I am a snoring bastard, and I keep getting fucking gout, painful, disabling gout.

My employer sent me to occ health, because, when I can't stand, walk or drive, I don't go into work, although I do turn up when I can hobble, however painfully. Last time, I got a lift in, could barely weight bear, but got there. Not good enough, I had taken 2 days off, which work found intolerable.  The occ health was a bit of a curates egg. She agreed that I couldn't help it, told my employer that they shouldn't be harsh on me and should do all they could to help, said I was covered by disability discrimination act (result!), but also gave me an almighty and lengthy bollocking about my lifestyle.

I could have been dishonest about my lifestyle, but it would have been pointless; you don't need me to tell you about it, you just have to look at me, and the story is there, in glorious technicolour. She wasn't the only one to issue a lengthy finger wagging, the GP did too, a couple of weeks ago. Went in for some gout tablets, she took my BP, it was really, really fucking high, So. I am fed up of getting bollocked by women who I don't happen to be wedded too, and I'm a bit fed up of being a physical wreck, so, I'm having a go.

Not much of a go, to be honest. I'm getting stuck into the vino as I type, but great oaks from little acorns and all that.

A go is a go though. Last Thursday I made a huge salad. A raw veg salad. Dunno what was in it altogether, but it included cauliflower, peppers, chicory, fennel and fuck knows what else (I can feel a recipe book coming on) all chopped up small and put in a box, ready for dinner at work, with a simple sumac dressing that I took along. It was delicious, but took some munching, it took about an hour to get through it, but it filled me up, and I didn't feel all bloated and lethargic. I've done a similar thing twice this week. It's not much, but it's a start. I've even bought a groovy little lunch box, with 3 compartments and  an integral little pot so you can take your dressing with you, rather than let your leaves go all soggy and revolting.

I'm not revolutionising my diet: fuck that for a game of tin soldiers, it's too hard. It's much harder to prepare a load of raw veg and make it nice than knock out a bacon and egg sarnie, and I'm a busy man, but I will make some effort, a bit more than a token effort. Today I had a bacon sarnie for breakfast, a load of raw veg followed by loads of fruit for dinner and a huge, fuck off bag of Doritos for my tea. With wine for pudding. And supper. Believe it or not, this is progress, by my standards.

I should exercise too, but at the moment that seems like a scary step too far. The truth is, when I eat all this raw shit, I feel better, and  energised, but I just love all the shit stuff too much. I can't see me ever giving it up………. but I do intend to balance it with good food, proper good food, food that feeds, and nourishes, rather than fills, and I will try a bit of exercise too. I've tried before, but it's always been my guilty secret. This time I've gone public, and I shall share and I shall be brutally honest with myself.

Should be fun.

Now, does anyone know where I put that hair shirt?