Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Macbeth's rather depressing sentiments might have intended to express his indifference to the suicide of his misses, but it's also a prophecy. An eloquent soliloquy of my inevitably poor performance in Luton tomorrow. I'm really not motivated people.
I'm running bad. Imagine a hybrid monster comprising Paula Radcliff's top half and Heather Mills' bottom half, running away from it's destiny. That's how badly I'm running. I'm impotent, plagued by doubt and rendered defenseless by my own predetermined resignation. Woe is me.
I'd rather not bother playing to be fair to me. I'd rather stay home and watch telly. With £300 I could have bought an enormous bag of sweets and watched the Weber Cup in my dressing gown. The Weber Cup as we all know is the kingpin of all international sporting competition.
The Ryder Cup is just a prelude to the Weber Cup. The cartoons before the feature film if you will; the fries before the Big Mac; the trickle of piss before the huge dump. Ten finely tuned athletes at the peak of physical fitness, trying to out-wit each other in the heat of battle they may not be, but they don't know that and who are we to tell them?
Instead, I'll be mincing about in Luton finding new and interesting ways to disperse, unprotesting, my chips amongst my table mates. Now whether it be bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple. Of thinking too precisely on th' event — A thought which, quarter'd, hath but one part wisdom and ever three parts coward — I do not know why yet I live to say this thing's to do, since I have cause, and will, and strength, and means to do't.
I have left myself open to a Munsoning, unless...UNLESS..unless I can summon the spirit of Big Ern; release the McCraken.
I'm running bad. Imagine a hybrid monster comprising Paula Radcliff's top half and Heather Mills' bottom half, running away from it's destiny. That's how badly I'm running. I'm impotent, plagued by doubt and rendered defenseless by my own predetermined resignation. Woe is me.
I'd rather not bother playing to be fair to me. I'd rather stay home and watch telly. With £300 I could have bought an enormous bag of sweets and watched the Weber Cup in my dressing gown. The Weber Cup as we all know is the kingpin of all international sporting competition.
The Ryder Cup is just a prelude to the Weber Cup. The cartoons before the feature film if you will; the fries before the Big Mac; the trickle of piss before the huge dump. Ten finely tuned athletes at the peak of physical fitness, trying to out-wit each other in the heat of battle they may not be, but they don't know that and who are we to tell them?Instead, I'll be mincing about in Luton finding new and interesting ways to disperse, unprotesting, my chips amongst my table mates. Now whether it be bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple. Of thinking too precisely on th' event — A thought which, quarter'd, hath but one part wisdom and ever three parts coward — I do not know why yet I live to say this thing's to do, since I have cause, and will, and strength, and means to do't.
I have left myself open to a Munsoning, unless...UNLESS..unless I can summon the spirit of Big Ern; release the McCraken.
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