I Have A Dream...

I have reached a point in my life that I think most, but not all, men in this country go through. It's a difficult period. It can happen at any time, but usually is most at the fore in the average male around the age of 30. I'm obviously an early developer, but it's a serious issue that the less fair sex face. In fact, I would probably go as far as saying that this state of mind can be the catalyst for a great deal of mid-life crises. It's rarely talked about, and there is something of a taboo about the subject. Ladies, your gentlemen friends may be suffering in silence, and I won't stand for it any longer. It needs to be brought to the light, and I am willing to be the one to bear this burden. Here goes:

I will never be a professional footballer.

Never will I prowl the wing at packed stadia up and down the country, nor will I be sworn at with increasing vehemence as I don't kick the ball right.

I won't ever be able to use my celebration (well rehearsed and practiced since childhood) for THAT winning goal, or any goal for that matter.

I won't be able to talk about how "at the end of day, we got the three points, and that's what matters. We-gave-110%, couldn't-ask-for-more, dodgy-offside-call-but-ref-does-a-hard-job, I-just-love-my-football."

I shall never be lampooned in the national press for not running fast enough or running too fast or being in the wrong place or being in the right place and failing to do anything about it.

At the grand old age of 23, I shall hang up my hypothetical signature series boots and call it a day on pretending to still have a chance at being a professional footballer. I will never be talent spotted, mainly because I have no talent. I have matured significantly enough to see it is just a pipe dream, a whimsical thought and a pointless charade. It is merely a chasing after the wind.

Now, where did I put my guitar? You don't need talent to be a rock star, right?

A Perfect Specimen

From Jesus Needs New PR.

Any thoughts?

As Funny As Cancer

Early today, if you had spied me walking along my road towards Waitrose, you would have seen me pause for a moment, make a fist with my right hand, and punch the palm of my left before pressing on with my journey and wondering whether to blog about that moment.

Y'see, in that moment, I had a regret.

The best part of 8 years ago, I said something stupid. And it's one of the things that whenever I remember the moment, I go all cold inside, and wish the earth would swallow me up. Even now, 8 years on. I doubt anyone else remembers it. I've apologised for it, and I have kicked myself - literally and metaphorically - for it many times since.

I suppose I wish the humorous pay-off to all of this was something merely inane and pointless. It's not. It was a joke about cancer on the day of a friend's relative's funeral. Who had died of cancer. To my friend's face. Which, as you can probably imagine, is about as funny as... cancer.

I can't even remember particularly why I did it. I could claim I was trying to lighten the mood (with jokes about cancer?! Yes, that's HOT stuff, right there) but I probably wasn't. I'm fairly sure I was in the eternal pursuit of a laugh, which is something that has trailed me through me life. Presentations? Sermons? This blog? All done for laughs.

Yesterday, at a birthday party with old friends who have seen me go from cute little nerdy kid to the person I am today (make your own jokes...), I was asked several times what the future held in store for me. I struggled, on every occasion, not to make light of their concern. They genuinely wanted to know how to help, how to pray, what they could do. All I could do was respond with sardonic grunts and jokes about becoming homeless.

Which, when I think about it, is kinda funny. Well, funnier than cancer, anyway.