Well, tomorrow I return to school...

... after another eventful and well spent Easter holiday. I really feel that I have used my free-time well and have definitely not sunk deeper into the rut into which my life has ground itself. No, seriously, I think I have matured and grown up as a person in the past few weeks and am now my existence is moving on in strange and exciting new directions. Who knows where I'll be in a year's time? The world is my mollusc! I mean, just look at the wide gamut of life-changing decisions I've made in the past week ALONE: (For fun and jokes, I have made up ONE of these items. HAVE FUN GUESSING WHICH)

• My bed broke, so I moved my mattress onto the floor and slept on that instead.


• I have started playing Eternal Darkness: Sanity's Requiem on the Gamecube again. It's quite good. There's this one bit where you play all the way through the level, then in the final level cut-scene this huge monster appears and you're like "OH SHIT I'm gonna have to kill this mofo, why didn't I save in the last room?" but then he just squishes your character into mush without batting an eyelid. Except he didn't have eyes. Hmm.


• I started reading the book Crime and Punishment. I just read past the (surprisingly gory for a 19th century russian novel) crime, now time for 700 pages of punishment. Judging by the first chapter, I predict that the words: "He felt miserable for no reason and had a headache" (or something to that effect) will feature more than once.


• I wrote a CV. I put my picture at the bottom. I then removed said picture. I then filed said CV in a draw somewhere deep in my room, never to be seen again.


• I ate half a tube of toothpaste.


• I watched about 15 solid hours of snooker coverage on BBC2, not withstanding the fact that it's all pretty identical EXCEPT FOR THE RELATIVE POSITIONS OF SOME BALLS ON A GREEN TABLE. Without fail I have cheered for the trailing player. I also renamed the chinese player 'Fu Man Cue'. Snigger.


• I decided to go a bit mad and try out Diet Coke WITH LIME. It was pretty good.


• I found this old lamp, right, and I rubbed the lamp and AN ARAB came out. "I AM A GENIE" he said. "MY NAME IS MOHAMMED". "Wow" I replied "THE Mohammed?" "YES" said the geniehammed. "I have been hiding in this lamp for the past four centuries until my followers stop being such dickheads. But anyay I'll grant you ONE WISH. What do you want?" But I couldn't think of anything and I panicked so I just asked if he could have a little band following me around playing "Forever Young" by Alphaville on loop for 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Turns out, that song gets kind of grating after the 2nd repetition.


• I decided to go a bit mad and wear shorts. I combined these with some stripy football socks which I have worn day in day out for the past week. They now smell kind of like the sort of potatoes that you find growing in the nostrils of dead jewish comedians.


• I bought some aviators for £2 from Primark, best shop ever. I also bought a £2 wifebeater for comedy retro value. This led me to wonder whether or not anybody (other than law enforcement officers in Texas) wears Aviators any more in a non-ironic way. My guess is... no.

Yep, that's it. Wow I have been busy. Do you notice the lack of "I revised for my many very important exams" or "I went out of the house other than to go rowing" or "I made even the most tentative attempts to get a job"? You should have done. Because I didn't do any of those things. I have been feeling strangely unmotivated in recent times. My only explanation for this is that I'm having a midlife crisis of some sort. Which is pretty depressing as I'm only 17, meaning that I will die at some point in my mid 30's. YESSSS.

Perhaps I should start driving around racing cars (when I pass my driving test, something that seems as far off and distant as the penis of a black man with no legs; my recent lessons have been less than successful, especially when I accidentally shifted down to 2nd gear while going down a dual carriageway at 45mph - the car was not impressed) or jumping out of planes or dating supermodels. You know, the usual stuff for a midlife crisis. Perhaps I should do all three at the same time; kidnap a supermodel, staple her to the bonnet of a car, tie a tablecloth to the back of said car then drive it off a cliff ONTO A PLANE. That'd be awesome. This is a pretty depressing post. Quick, I'd better do something to lighten the mood. A ha, here e go, a new cartoon what I drawed. That'll be sure to cheer everyone up:



Wait, that didn't lighten the mood. Damnit.

...

Ok, thinking about it, I have decided that I need to do the following things in order to not be slow:

• Get a girlfriend again. One with emotions other than 'cheerful'. (Ducks)


• Get a job, perhaps. Or perhaps I'll just pretend to get a job. You know, I'll write fake letters to myself saying 'CONGRATULATIONS YOU GOT THE JOB AS THE ICE-CREAM TASTER IN THE NAKED BIKINI MODEL FACTORY, YOU ONLY HAVE TO WORK 1 HOUR A WEEK AND YOU GET PAID A SQUILLION POUNDS AN HOUR' and then I can go "Hey look Mum I got a job now stop poking me with a broom and calling me a lazy bum."


• Leave the house. Other than to go rowing. Ok, I get it, I row, but my social life is a nervous beast and I'm pretty sure if it experiences even one more night sat up til 12.30 playing Eternal Darkness, it'll shoot itself in the head and stick
  its penis in a blender.


• Paint an oil mural of a half naked beauty at a lake in the twilight light light.


• PASS MY FUCKING DRIVING TEST. Then drive to my instructor's house and run over her head. Stupid woman, take 24 lessons to not teach me the reverse park very well, will you? WELL HOW ABOUT I CLUTCH CONTROL YOUR FACE? Ooh rinsed.


• Beef up enough so that my wifebeater doesn't look so ridiculous that it causes passing motorists to park their cars, then get out and point and laugh at me.


• Choose which University I want to attend: Oxford or Cambridge. And then which college. Personally, I like Wadham, but apparently the fact that it's a hotbed of left-wing political scheming and PC lesbianism that only allows 3 independent school pupils to enter per every 10 applicants has put my mother off it. And as she's the one who'll be attending the University, she's the one who gets final word.


• Get a haircut. Perhaps I'll just shave it all off and use the hair to stuff a voodoo doll.


• Stop writing blogs that just consist of lists of things.


• Forever young! I want to be forever young! Do you really want to live foreverrrrrr? Forever! Forever young!!!

Comedy Mohammed No. 22:

Everything makes so much more sense when I'm wearing my aviators. You can really feel the £2 build quality in the way that the metal seems to bulge every time I put them on.

I just threw up over my own leg for no reason

Why wouldn't you want to know that? The vomit was red. Orange. Reddy-Orange ish. Whatever.

Hey, look, I did a new cartoon, following the massively positive critical reception of the last one:



Shall I do cartoons now instead of Comedy Mohammeds? The relative levels of comical density are about equal, to be honest. Man, I still feel ill; I really shouldn't be eating all these chocolate eggs. DAMN YOU CHOCOLATE CHICKENS.

Comedy Mohammed No. 21:

Mmm... Overlappy.

I'm ill.

Yes, again. I don't know what the fuck is going on with my immune system. I can't believe it's failed me TWICE IN ONE YEAR. YEAH I KNOW. It's a shambles. Immuno-Crew, sort your fucking lives out. But I can't be too harsh on them; perhaps they have some sort of complicated and exciting plan in letting me get sick again. I'm going to assume that my cells are going through a long protracted exciting storyline (a la that one in the Spiderman TV show where he kept mutating and eventually turned into a horrific Spider-monster before being reversed instantaneously by ONE INJECTION) in which I keep getting ill and an important main-character cell gets killed off just before the season finale (probably involving the bird flu) which will raise as many strange and enigmatic questions and it answers but will eventually end up with the status quo of the immuno system restored - BUT FOR HOW LONG???/1/??!//jiohm m m mjmmmmm k :'(

:D

Oh man I'm not well. Firstly, I've made up a tv series about my immune system. Then I've gone off on a random tangent. Then I USED SMILEYS. NOTHING I'M WRITING IS MAKING ANY SENSE. I PREDICT THAT I'M DELIRIOUS. AND I MEANT TO TAKE THE CAPS LOCK KEY OFF ABOUT 16 (or 15 and a half) words ago. Maaaan. I have been pretty feverish in recent days, as you may or may not have noticed from the level (or lack thereof) of coherency in my 'writing'. And I haven't slept much, a fact that may explain my artistic secretions later on in this post. The other night was particulary bad; I was convinced that the top of my bed was the top of a deep, deep valley made of ice-cream, filled with strings (but for some reason, the ice-cream was boiling hot and very very sticky). And attached to each string was a medieval lord having some sort of religious crisis. And as I tried to sleep I would sink into the valley and get entangled in all the strings and I would have to figure out the religious crises of the various characters. And if I didn't get it right they threw how blankets on my head and screamed at me. I don't know why. IT WAS A DREAM. But that didn't stop me from trying to figure out the crises in my feverish way. I just got very confused and my brain started to ache. And then, of course, the only way to climb out of the valley was to kind of roll out of bed and get back in again, at which point I would just sink back in to the hell-hole valley of the strings. Christ.

Meanwhile, my father (running London Marathon on Sunday) has started avoiding me like the literal plague, refusing to eat dinner with me, leaving the room when I enter, disinfecting my shoes with fire, making a sign of the cross and throwing holy water @ me, injecting hot acid into my eyeballs, ETC. But that doesn't stop him from drilling really loudly in the room just under mine, which creates a grinding sensation in my sinuses akin to having a dentist's drill going off in my face for TWO SOLID HOURS.

So yeah. I've basically been moping around, watching the snooker, and not doing homework. Seriously, I have some sort of pathological fear of starting my homework. Or revision. Or anything, really. I have done literally nothing for the past three days since getting back from Amsterdam. It's not like I haven't tried to be non-lazy. I mean, today I decided to Get Down To Some Work No I Mean Seriously This Time I Really Will Crack On. But then I realised my desk was messy and I had to clear it up. So I did that for an hour. Then I updated the calendar on my wall. Then I got distracted with all the bits of paper (I have many bits of paper) I'd unearthed during the aforementioned clearup, and I was forced to read each one individually, then file then away. I found this awesome picture that I doodled during an English class a while back. It was the result my initial brainstorming to make my own awesome Internet Comic for this blog, á la Goatse or Tubgirl. The idea never came into fruition (it will do in about a year when I've run out of all other ideas and have resorted to Photoshopping penguins into porn to get my literate and alliterative kicks) but there's still this first bad-boy of an initial comic to go on. Check it out, it's awesome:



You see, because I'm drawing the comic strip I AM GOD in the milieu that this character exists in, so therefore I can smite HIM for the rude thing he said about me. Aren't I great? Isn't that an ironic subversion of established literary principles? I think it is. And check out the tie on that guy. That thing took some drawin', I'll tell you that for free.
When I found this Da Vinicist work of pure art, I felt somehow... revitilised. I felt creative and decided to blog. But what could I blog about? I surely couldn't just write a long rambling blog going nowhere in which I kind of talk about what I did today, could I? Absolutely out of the question, ducky. So I opened photoshop and made the following picture. It was literally the first thing that came into my mind:



If you look carefully, you'll see that the entire concept of the masterpiece is pinned upon the basic tenet of the similarity in phonological patterning between 'AIDS' and 'GRENADES'. You get it? It's cool, eh? And I even made a jingle. Just sing the following words really loudly to whatever tune you want. But sing the last word in a really high pitched tone, like I would be doing right now if only my throat wasn't filled with phlegm and I was able to speak in anything but a girlish whisper

AIDS GRENADES! LIKE NORMAL GRENADES BUT FILLED... WITH... AIIIIIIIIIIIIIDS!

So yes, this is what I chose to do instead of attempting to further my education. I made a picture of some foreigners being pelted with explosives full of a deadly viral disease, and then wrote 1,104 words on the internet talking about how I made said picture.

I should make a promise to myself that I'll never be creative again.

Comedy Mohammed No. 20:

I like snails. They rule. So much more than their evil compatriots, the slugs. Aidan. And Michaela.

People of the world, you can breathe easy, for...

Nope, can't be bothered to blog. I'm back, though.

Comedy Mohammed No. 19:

Well, it's official. My wrist is rotting off.

I went to the Doctor the other day about my wrist. I didn't want to, really; it's my opinion that only the weak seek medical advice. Real men just tough it out, suck the poison out of the bites themselves, kill those germs with their own manly immune systems and cauterise their own gushing wounds using hot pokers, fireworks or piping hot cups of Macdonald's coffee. But to be honest, the state of my wrist was no joke and anyway, my boatie coach said that he didn't want to see me again until I'd been to see a proper quack (apparently the school nurse, a middle aged woman with dyed red hair who greets every medical emergency with "so what's wrong with you then, eh?" and usefully spends most of her time not in the medical room, does NOT count as a trained medical expert in his book - good call).

It was probably a good thing that I did go and see the doc; I'm pretty sure that my wrist would have actually broken off if I'd put off the visitation for much longer. Following an exciting weekend when I'd been seat racing/punching a brick wall/cagefighting an angry bear on LSD riding an alligator, my wrist was starting to display some somewhat unsavoury symptoms. First off, it had swollen up and gone black. "Hmm", I thought.
Then I started to get shooting pains up my arm every timed I moved it. "Hmm", I thought.
The final symptom was the GRINDING SOUND COMING FROM MY WRIST EVERY TIME I FLEXED MY FINGERS. And I don't just mean a little creaking sensation. I literally mean grinding. It was like somebody using a loudspeaker to magnify the sound of them using a cheesegrater to castrate Michaelangelo's David while listening to the fingernails-on-a-blackboard voice of Gnarles Barkley singing 'Crazy' remixed with the CD of The Best 100 Windmill Sounds... Ever! Continuing the theme of inappropriate similes, it also felt like a bunch of little indians were playing tug of war with razorwire inside my precious precious left arm. Conclusion: it hurt like a cunt.

So we went to the doctor. Boy, what a guy. That Doctor sure was a genius; you could tell just by the way he looked and the way he comported himself. He looked a bit like what you'd get if you took that rotten evil corpse guy from The Mummy (John Hannah), set fire to him, put out the fire with a dusty carpet-beater, then threw him in a peat-bog for a century and a half. He had the air of a man who has seen and cured every kind of illness ever known to mankind a thousand times before and is now so good at his job that he doesn't even have to think about it and has thus taken up heroin to pass his time. Or opium. Or shrooms. Some kind of hallucinogen anyway, because I am pretty sure that he was high the entire time. He never really acknowledged me, just stared into empty space for our entire conversation, and his eyes had a disconnected futility that told me that the lights may be on, but not only was nobody home, the entire building had been abandoned years ago and was now inhabited by a couple of crackhead hoboes.
Of course, there's a good chance he thought he was just trippin' and imagining our entire conversation. That's a distincy possiblity: there were plenty of longggggg gaps of silence when I stared at him and he stared into space and I drew another ten seconds closer to my eventual death. Or, due to the adrenaline gland he'd just consumed, his retinas and earlobes had detatched and he really couldn't see us and the fact that his drug addled crazy words just happened to make sense in the context of our conversation was just a massive coincidence. I could believe that. And if it's true, then I really really don't trust the pills he gave me for the "tendonitis" disease that he told me I had. The pills are called DICOLFLEX RETARD 100mg (not a good start there; sounds like something you'd give a mental to increase his penis size), and they're small and brown and suspicious. And according to the documentation, they also cause the following possible side effects:

• Stomach pain


• Indigestion or heartburn


• Constipation


• Bleeding in the stomach or intestine


• Vomiting or shitting blood


• Headaches


• Dizziness


• Drowsiness or fatigue


• Disturbance of taste, vision, hearing, sensations


• Sleepnessness


• Anxiety or confusion


• Depression


• Skin problems


• Hair loss


• Blood disorders


• Liver disorders


• Kidney problems


• Mouth Ulcers


• Becoming more sensitive to light


• Acute inflammation of the pancreas


• Severe abdominal pain


• Water retention


• Diarrhoea


• Nausea or vomiting


• Swollen tongue


• Swelling


• Breathing difficulties


• Other symptoms not listed above may also occur

Thanks a lot, Doc. Although that does pose an interesting question: did the drug company garner those side effects from a whole group of people over a prolonged period of testing, or is there one really unfortunate son of a bitch lying in a hospital bed somewhere who got all those symptoms AT THE SAME TIME? That's an interesting question. Actually, no it's not.
Well, after the NHS had failed me by providing me with Dr Demento there, I decided to seek the advice of the only other univerally trustworthy source of medical advice in the world: THE INTERNET. After a long period of hard research, I found out a lot about tendonitis, which apparently IS the condition I have. So perhaps the doc wasn't just a junkie, he was one of those wise junkies who make really good guesses. Like House.

Tendonitis is a condition that affects, in my case, the tendons of the wrist. Usually these slide around nice and smoothly in their little sheathes. However, when the dreaded TENDONITISO SPIDER bites someone, the sheathes swell up and the smooth egress of said tendons is hampered. The muscles then swell up with the introduction of millions of antibodies. Then the inside of the wrist fills with a pungent pus called "Tendon sap" which has an aroma of sour oysters and bile. This pus then congeals itself into the bloodstream, causing widespread blood clotting and a particulary nasty immuno-deficiency disease called SMAIDS (like AIDS, but with added explosive diarrhoea, the dreaded 'pH 1 acid saliva' and eyeballicular bleeding). This then leads to a coma, a loss of all bodily functions, the alien hand syndrome, and finally bloating, explosion, and death. Thus is the fate of the tendonitis sufferer. Well, sort of. The bit about the sheathes was true at least, and, well, we can only hope that the rest was a falsification (nb: it was).

However, delving deeper, I found some more interesting information on my condition, in particular the following article that fitted my circumstances so perfectly I felt that I just had to include it:

Because it's your free weekend, you're asked to accompany the boy scouts to Moab. You dust off an old hardbody bike then drive seven obnoxious 14-year-olds to Moab in your Suburban. After banging your antique bike down 14 miles of the Porcupine Rim trail trying to keep up with those hyperactive brats, you hurt everywhere. A few days later, most everything is feeling better. But your wrist still hurts, and it goes "scritch, scritch" when you move it.

Hmm. Yes, that is totally applicable to me. Go on, Mr Internet, I pray. We then go on to discuss the various forms of tendonitis:

Most common is "De Quervain's tendonitis" of the thumb extensor tendon. It often follows biking on rough surfaces: gripping the handlebars tightly while multiple shocks slam your wrist.

What? De Quervain's tendonitis? What the fuck is that shit? My wrist is rotting off and they tell me that it's named after some fruity french guy? Why can't my disease be named after somebody cool? Like Dr Von Cancer. Or Vicar Weirdbaby Anencephaly. Or The Right Honourable Lord Leukemia. They had cool names and thus they had wicked diseases that everyone loves. But De Quervain? Ewwwww. I feel dirty. HOW DO I CURE MYSELF OF THIS CONDITION? PLEASE TELL ME, INTERNET MAN!!!!

After a few days' rest, begin stretching exercises. Put the joint above and the joint below the painful tendon through their full range of motion. It may help to warm-pack for 10-20 minutes before the stretches. Repeat four times a day. Return to your activities gradually. In particular, avoid the activity that started the tendonitis. It may take 3 to 4 weeks for tendonitis to resolve.

Ok. So what I'm being told here is that I shouldn't do any rowing for three or four weeks, and then only slowly let myself build back into it. Ok. Ok. Yes, good. Ok. I understand. Ok. Ok. Ok. Good. Unfortunately, we might have to be a touch more conservative with that time estimate. 3/4 weeks is too long. How does, uh, A DAY sound, before I go off to Ampsterdam for an intensive 8 day long rowing camp? Solidly doing the activity that caused my wrist to be this fucked up in the first place for FIVE HOURS A DAY? How does that sound, eh? Good? Sounds good to you? Good. Goood. Because that's what's going to happen.

I'm going to die, aren't I?

WHAT KIND OF CRUEL GOD GIVES ME THIS CONDITION TWO DAYS BEFORE THE MOST STRENUOUS ROWING CAMP EVER? I'LL TELL YOU WHAT KIND OF GOD: A CUNT OF A CRUEL CHRISTIAN GOD. I bet this was cos I made fun of his mate Mohammed. Man, I wish I was Buddhist. That buddha never does any of this malicious shit to his minions. Plus, he's fat and cool, like your favourite uncle who later turns out to be a child molester but never ever made a move on you so he's still alright in your book.

I have to get up at three in the morning tomorrow. I should have gone to bed about four hours ago. Maaaan.

Comedy Mohammed No. 18:



So yes, I shaln't be blogging until I get back on the fifteenth. Have fun without me. Keep me updated with news. I love you all. But not you.
You know, I just had a deep thought. If, during these eight days, I am somehow killed, these will be my last words. I'd better make them good ones.

Rowhammed would be very appropriate in this situation

I was watching THE BOAT RACE on TV yesterday. "Which boat race?", I hear you ask. The boat race between Oxford and Cambridge. Yes, that boat race. Which boat race were you expecting, the boat race between the Jets and the fucking Sharks? Dickhead.
It was jolly exciting, in my opinion. Especially seeing as, for once, I had much more knowledge about the subject matter than several of the commentators. So I was able to yell abuse at the screen and make pseudo-intelligent remarks about the stroke rate, catches, coxing and course of the two boats.

(Transgression: In fact, I rowed this exact course in early March. Except the other way round. So instead of starting at Putney and finishing at Mortlake, we started at Mortlake and finished at Putney. Yeah. But the important thing was that WE WON. And we beat Shrewsbury. Bunch of fucking cunts, they think they're so smart with their fancy boats and their stupid blue oars. HOW SMART ARE YOU NOW WE RAPED YOU BY 23 SECONDS? NOT VERY SMART AT ALL. HAH. I hope Shrewsbury's lead coach reads this and starts crying at the amount we raped their team. And when I say raped, I mean RAPED. Like:

Kidnapped-beaten-up-with-a-rubber-penis,
stripped-naked-covered-in-engine-oil,
tied-with-electrical-cables,
bent-over-a-table,
then-not-too-kindly-anally-penetrated-with-a-pool-cue
a-bag-of-lemons-three-pineapples-two-blades-and
several-live-partridges-two-pear-trees,
all-WITHOUT-LUBE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

That's poetry. William Wordsworth would be proud. Poof. But anyway: Fuck you, Shrewsbury, we dicked all over your heads. Losers. LOOOSERS. I know what you're thinking, though. How did Thomas get to be SUCH a good winner? It all came naturally. I am a good winner. A very good winner. I win the good-winner race.)

But where was I? Oh yes. Well basically, I was far more knowledgeable than the entire ITV sports team, many of whom were totally incompetent. My cat could've reported better than them. And my cat has been dead for three years. Before he died, his foot swelled up to twice it's previous size and he threw up on the bed.
The presenter woman was like "And look at the nice Cambridge team, with their pretty blue sticks, they seem to be pulling their boats along quite nicely, although I think that they might sink," and I was going "IT'S CALLED AN EIGHT, YOU STUPID BINT. AND THEY AREN'T STICKS, THEY'RE CALLED BLADES OR OARS. AND ROWING IS A MATTER OF PUSHING FAR MORE THAN PULLING, YOU STUPID-ASS WOMAN. AND YOUR HAT MAKES YOU LOOK LIKE A FLOWERPOT. AND IN THE ENTIRE HISTORY OF THE BOAT RACE, ONLY THREE BOATS HAVE EVER SUNK AND IT'S NOT GOING TO HAPPEN TODAY, YOU MORONIC OESTROGEN-CHARGED BLONDEFACED HAIRSTYLED VAGINA."

Meanwhile, while we were watching the race, ITV decided to keep us updated on everything else that was going on in the race by using a set of nifty blue captions flying across the screen. These captions gave us a host of interesting information, including the average stroke rate, average height of each boat, average weight of the oarsmen, times, best times, personal bests, and location on the course. As well as these nuggets, they included a little animation of a man rowing. Just in case we didn't know what rowing looked like. And for some reason they chose to give their little animation a really bad rowing stroke. Like, he didn't tap down at all. OMG.
ITV are crap, by the way. And did you know that the boat race was sponsored by XCHANGING? I hadn't noticed, what with the total lack of XCHANGING on every boat, oar, piece of clothing, banner, river, tatooed on the back of every oarsman, burned into the collective retinas of every viewer, drawn on the trophy, attached to the center of the logo, etc. What does XCHANGING even make? Probably dildos or something. It had better be something pretty special, just to abstain themselves of the fact that they have used "X" instead of "EX" in their logo. Dickheads.

But now that we're on the subject of rowing, I thought that everybody might want an update on how my own personal battle with the rowin's goin. Because I know how fascinated you all are with the image of me, sitting in a boat with seven other sweaty boys, wearing my lycra, thrusting my long piece of hard black wood towards a midget in an anorak and bellowing obscenities.

Actually, I'm pretty sure that nobody wants to hear about that at all, but hey, already started typing and I'm in extreme physical agony at the moment, probably exacerbated by the typing I'm doing to complain about said agony, so I'll be fucked if I'm going to delete what I've typed. Screw you lot.

Whatever, dude, here's a picture of my hands:



AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH.

LOOK AT THEM. MY FUCKING SKIN IS ROTTING OFF. I mean, look at the bottom of the little finger on the right hand hand. That's blood, that is. Real honest to goodness BLOOD. And that wound wasn't caused by me accidentally cutting myself or anything. No, nothing that simple. I was just rowing along and I RANDOMLY STARTED BLEEDING OUT OF MY HANDS. I must have the plague. It's the only thing I can think of. Well, either that or my hands have died and have started to decompose. Which makes sense. You can't see on the picture, but on Saturday I also accidentally sliced a huge hunk o'thumb off my hand after an encounted with a sharp bit of boat. There were flaps of skin hanging off it and everything. Blood spurted everywhere. It looked kind of like this:



... except gorier, and I ain't no pussy like Roger here, who was unable to fight off TWO zombies in a lift. What. A. Loser. But on the other hand, there was loads of blood, and blood is cool. I must be a closet emo or something, but I gain immense pleasure from bleeding everywhere. I smear the blood all over the place and draw warpaint on my face and then flick it at people and scream NOW YOU HAVE AIDS.

I really am not going anywhere with this. I just wanted to show off my fucked up hands. Plus, my wrist has suddenly gone dodgy. The muscle has swollen up to twice the size it should be and has gone brown. Admittedly, this may mean that I have started to turn into a black man overnight (cases of white men turning black and black men turning white are uncommon, but they do happen. Just look at Michael Jackson), but it seems to me that my hand is about to fall off. And that was after ONE WEEKEND of hard racing on a rowing lake. I'm going to Amsterdam on Friday, where I'm going to spend a week doing hard rowing on a lake. I will probably come back with no arms at all and will be forced to type this blog with my penis.

Oh, woe is me.

Comedy Mohammed No.17:

I actually did make a 'Rowhammed' picture, but I figured that it would be too appropriate in this situation to properly fit in with the ethos of the rest of the blog, so instead I chose to include a picture so hopelessly esoteric that only me and about two other people worldwide will ever understand it. Oh well. Ooh, and I'm back in the Second VIII again. And I got invited to a party on Wednesday. That was what I originally blogged to tell you. Good, eh?