Well after putting on 3Kgs in December it is time to take stock, I need to lose that three plus more if only to keep my endocrinologist happy. I sold my soul to the good Doctor Lourens 18 months ago and more than anything in my life I cannot let her down. So we, that is my pencil slim wife of over 40 years, have decided to go back on the original low carb diet that proved such a success back in 2013. Basically it is no spuds, no pasta and no bread, plenty of greens, reds and fruit.
Alcohol is a source of dispute however, wifey says dry, I say showers. My normal intake is 500 mg glass of 25% vodka, 25% freshly squeezed orange juice and 50% sparkling water. It tastes just like the bottle of Jusoda I used to take to Old Trafford as a kid to watch the likes of Alan Wharton, Peter Marner, Ken Grieves, Malcolm Hilton, Roy Tattersall, Brian Statham and sadly Cyril Washbrook play, all those years ago. I say sadly because Washbrook was an obnoxious bastard. A creation of the 30s which was out of place in the 50s and early 60s. What great memories those first six names give me but I digress.
So my apero around 4.00pm is this comforting 3/4 of a pint of fortified fruit juice. I then sit down to my evening meal at around 5-5.30pm and having lit the fire previously I settle down in front of its all embracing warmth, having been finely victualled, with a book and a bottle of Malbec. That Argentinian wine that I consider the best value for money wine there is these days courtesy of the Aldi supermarket in Carrick on Shannon. This gentle cocktail puts sand in my eyes by 7.00pm and shortly after that I head for the stairs, to arise normally at about 3.00am. Fresh as a daisy and ready to read my e-mails and trawl the net to find out what is really happening in the world. As regular readers already know, we have no television, nor do we buy newspapers. Our minds are pure to absorb the truth and not the shite that is the content of main stream media.
I digress again, I apologise. Well wifey wants me to give up both apero and digestif and I feel that I am not for turning but to please her I have decided to forgo the Malbec. I can hardly give up the fruit juice because of the massive Vitamin C hit it gives me. I am happy with the compromise even though I have not yet broached it to her.
Anyway, cutting out the Malbec will give me a few more hours writing space, something I have neglected these last few months. I sometimes feel the muse has deserted me. After four years of writing about child abuse with now every man and his dog contributing on the subject, I feel that I am abused out. No longer does the sexual abuse of minors shock me with even the main stream media covering the subject these days and with even the abuse getting more and more sickening by the day. I cannot get shocked therefore I can no longer write about it. But I can sometimes poke fun at the cretins the establishment put up to investigate our sadness. Like that eejit Butler Sloshed the other day making us realise that this Official Inquiry into child abuse is not going to work. I say leave it to Michael Mansfield’s unofficial inquiry which was established before Christmas and Bill Maloney’s gathering of retired detectives, pressmen and lawyers who are at this moment stirring up a witch’s brew of delights for these establishment perverts. By late summer the shit should well and truly hit the fan.
The thought of reducing my Malbec intake is already making me inattentive and for the third time in a few hundred words I have digressed. Yes I was talking about Dry January and weight loss. This dream of mine to get under 16 stone or 101.6kgs will become a reality and dare I say 99kgs a possibility. So its 6kgs I am looking to shed, its nothing, six bags of sugar, just over 13lbs, almost a stone. Easy peasy.
For the year ahead, I am going to Morocco in the spring and to Gallipoli in the summer. More than enough sun in both places to restore my Vitamin D imbalance for the year. Marrakesh to see by then 55% of my grandchildren who must be friends of Islam by now and Gallipoli to remember the fallen of the 5th Battalion Connaught Rangers whose centenary of their massacre is in August this year. A good % of those unfortunates were from Yorkshire, men from the Rotherham , Doncaster, Barnsley triangle who had volunteered for the Yorkshire and Lancashire Regiment and were sent to their regimental HQ that was then in Limerick and 350 of them were snaffled by the powers that be when they disembarked at Dublin and sent down to the 5th Battalion that was being formed in Fermoy in Cork and although they at the time did not know it but were about to be thrown into battle against the powers of Islam or the Ottoman Empire as it was known as then.
Funnily enough that triangle of Yorkshire has a fair share of those of the Islamic creed and in fact I have a grandchild of Islam living up the road in Bradford, shortly to be joined by another in late spring, my son having conjoined with his lovely Bangladeshi wife to bring fresh new blood into that aging beast that is Yorkshire cricket. And to bring you fully up to date, my third daughter is hoping to produce her second child in May, this one to be neither Islamic or Christian but hopefully god-fearing with a mind and a conscience untainted by constraint.
So by summer the tally should be nine grandchilds all with their own little inquisitive minds spread between Lancashire , Yorkshire and Morocco. Let us all hope they take the best things from their Islamic, Agnostic Christian circles and work out a world that is fit for human consumption and not the shit heap our generation have conjured up for the people. At least in the course of our journey we have all jettisoned the Catholic faith which held the most of us back these past years.
Where was I, oh yes my dry January, I have been digressing again. My New Years resolution must be not to digress, concentrate on the attainable and hope the perverts get their just deserts. A red hot poker up their jacksies preferably.