Let me apologise in advance to Antonio.
Here’s a question you probably won’t be able to answer: ‘Any other JAM fans out there?”
Ambiguous on a good day, but the capitals add another dimension of uncertainty. If I say that I’m listening to an MP3 called JAM69, you take another step into the darkness, because of the long-defunct Hersham-based, hairless, raucous beat combo of a similar name. In fact, the audio is BBC’s Just A Minute, though with arch naughty boy Kenneth Williams in the class of ’69, hardly more refined than the yearnings of dissatisfaction produced by the punky skin’eads of Sham 69.
Anyway, I got thinking about Just A Minute because in a recent episode, the subject was roller coaster, and someone stated that they hated roller coasters, not for the expected reasons for hating roller coasters, but because their existence had bequeathed an awful cliché to the language, robotically reached for by anyone wanting to express a measure of short term variability in their fortunes.
And so I won’t describe the last week or so as being in any way similar to those objects previously mentioned. But in less discriminating social circles it would have been a handy metaphor, as the previous seven days had been characterised by features normally likened to the movement of said fairground ride in which ups and downs are experienced in rapid succession. A little while back I was bursting with positive vibes but then Saturday happened which saw me dash off to IKEA to buy a shelf and some kitchen tongs plus an implement for removing fish from frying pans, though only the first of those three items had been on my shopping list, but as it was that particular point in the week it coincided with the start of the new Premier League season, meaning I was in a rush, not that this should have mattered except that I decided to wear my new MBTs, which of course have somewhat silly convex soles designed to stretch the calves a bit and generally separate the contents of the wallet from the foolhardy, a community of which I am a leading light, but back to that large Swedish store, along whose endless, maze like aisles I was tottering with increasing urgency, then panic, worried I’d not be back in time for the beginning of QPR’s latest festival of relegation, stopping here and there to collect a long, flat, white piece of MDF and some cuisine utensils, details of which have been already provided, but I did, managing to get past the cashier and into my car and home with ten whole minutes of peace before the match began and so I should have felt relieved and pleased but next morning I woke with a swollen ankle and a pain throbbing through that joint but as I lay in bed considering the pain both in my lower limb and in my recollection of the sporting event I’d witnessed, gloom weighed heavy like a second duvet until I thought, but wait, I have a novel aid or two for cooking with and hang on, what about the egg-decapitation device I purchased in Baden… Wurttemberg not a fortnight past and still in its packaging: a thought that cheered me as I hobbled down the stairs, determined to evaluate the item BZZZZT!!!…we’ve had item before…. Nooooo, we had items plural…. Yes! He’s right, and so…. PHEEEEEEP!!! Hurrah!
Let me apologise retrospectively to Antonio — and heck, everyone else.