Excuses

Eleven years ago (was it really eleven years ago? [yes, because it was 2005 and basic mathematics dictates that was eleven years ago from now, fucktard]), the people in charge of the Olympic and Paralympic Games gave the hosting honours of the then-prospective 2012 event to London. Being a teenager at the time and not really knowing any better, I boldly proclaimed that I’d go to the capital at some point during the Games, to maybe see some events, to soak up the atmosphere and generally be in the vicinity of the whole spectacle. I figured: ‘I’ll be 23 then, I’ll be an adult and able to do anything and go anywhere I wish at my own leisure.’ I suppose you could say I had dreams then.

When the summer of 2012 came around, I watched coverage of the Games on TV in a tiny, oddly-smelling flat my dad lived in at the time. I was on a summer break from university, although “break” might be pushing it a bit, since I was back in my old job in everyday discount retail in the midst of one of the hottest summers imaginable. My evenings were spent (literally) stuck to the sofa, mostly in my pants, breathing heavily, eating obscene amounts of instant noodles and crisps while watching people infinitely better than me in every way imaginable. Then a few weeks later, I did it all again only this time the people who were inadvertently mocking me with their athletic prowess often had amputated limbs.

As much as I enjoy both sporting events, they seem to be tinged with hints of melancholy, dissatisfaction and laziness. Not on the part of the participants, mind – it’s simply all directed back at myself. I tend to enjoy getting mesmerised and fascinated by what I’m going to ignorantly refer to as the “minority sports”. I don’t know the rules of judo but it’s interesting to see. I have no idea how gymnasts find the strength and dexterity to perform somersaults and swing around bars. I used to dabble in archery but nowhere near the level that I’d be any decent competition. Ultimately, I feel woefully inadequate compared to what I see. Rather than feel down about it, I should probably get up and out, try and do something with myself. But I don’t, and that serves to make me feel even worse.

In recent years, the importance of exercise and physical fitness has nagged at my brain in the hopes that getting active would boost my own pessimistic mentality. I always had an excuse not to do it though. The biggest of these was the idea that gyms are far away and I couldn’t reach them easily. This would be resolved when I was qualified to drive a car whenever I pleased. Now that I’ve passed that milestone, the excuse seems to have shifted to the cost of a gym membership. That and I don’t own any sporty clothing. Ever see a guy on a treadmill in a hoodie and jeans?

I’ll always come up with excuses, and that doesn’t make me feel any better snout myself either. I often wonder how will I ever feel good about myself ever again, but then I remember I’m whirling around in constant vortex of doing nothing and any hopeful prospects I may ever have will only end up abandoned. If only they gave out gold medals for consistently failing to better one’s self, although to be honest, I probably wouldn’t show up to medal ceremony anyway.

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Other than simply saying ‘I like this’, I’m really struggling with these musical interludes now. It was a nice idea and I do still look forward to listening back to a year’s worth of collected tracks. Maybe I’ll recall something from February and wonder what the hell I was thinking choosing something then. Who knows? That’s the fun. No-one else is reading this anyway, you donkey.

You’ve not heard much of a contemporary take on country this year and there’s something mildly calming about it, even if the only line you actually remember and can sing along with is the recurring one with a swear word in it. Seriously mate, sort your life out.

Slow Club – In Waves