An Article I Was Never Supposed To Write

Conor Collins

Conor Collins is an expressionist painter, Opera singer, actor and former Southern England Irish Dance champion. He has recently completed his undergraduate at the Royal Northern College of Music and has had his art shortlisted for the Outside in National Art Prize as well as the Saatchi Showdown 2011 drawing prize. Follow @Conartworks

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I am furious! I was half way through writing a new article about a model of mine (which shall now have to be presented next week) when I receive a message saying ‘mozilla is experiencing technical problems and has to close….blah blah blah’. SO I LOST 50 MINS’ WORK.

Furious.

So I shall say sod it to what I was writing before and hello to this fresh and springing rant about computers.

Today’s incident has made me increasingly aware that the Old Testament God and my laptop follow the same tonnes-of-senseless-rules-and-no-buggering-mercy ideal. My laptop cost hundreds of pounds no doubt and now all it is a combination of a Game Boy Colour, Facebook and a CD player. It is undoubtedly a smart invention as it so easily beat me at chess… but I beat it at kick-boxing.

The simple truth is that these clunky machines just aren’t cool, they are lies! I bought my Laser printer 2 years ago and still haven’t worked out how to set it to stun. Surfing the net is a joke, it’s not bloody surfing… it’s sitting down and typing. I don’t trust the internet however as it has everything. If you were to type in ‘people who fall down wells in the hope of having sex with an anteater who is ablaze’ you will then have to specify if it is a male or female anteater. Furthermore internet porn seems to have removed masturbation from its definition as a leisure activity and now you end up scheduling wanks as a reward system in your essay routine. There was rumour too that voting should be done by email so that all people could vote as opposed to those turned round by polling booths. However, this would surely end in our next government being the ‘These pills gave me a 10 inch penis!!’ Party.

Being sat in front of my laptop I have begun to notice the slow disappearance of my six pack and the gradual arrival of my Keg. Diet is a factor I MUST CONSIDER. I’m noticing in the mirror that my body shape looks like someone poured me into my skin and I forgot to say ‘when’. However, I am not too big, I have met some people that have the ability to make all things tight around their waist including armchairs. I have nothing against people who are large but people who are disproportionate fascinate me. I know a girl who has a perfectly normal upper half, however her lower half looks like she is shoplifting duvet’s. I mean this in the sense that if her bottom were perhaps a bungalow she could never afford the mortgage. I did meet some amazingly large women when I was working in women’s wear in a fashion house in Knightsbridge… the sort of ladies who could pinch an inch on their forehead. Though this is a good time of year to put on weight as technically you are not fat…you are festively plump! Those diets in women’s magazines are a joke though. I fail to believe that in one month you can change from a lady whose dress would suit Big Ben to a rather well dressed thermometer. I gave up on protein shakes. They are an awful thing where you take powder and mix it with water to create a drink that tastes of powder mixed with water. The last 3 months I have been on a diet where I can eat what I want, whenever I want… I haven’t lost any weight but I’m doing very well at sticking to it. People do accuse me now and then of having a bit of a beer belly, however, I do not. I have a Prosecco belly and it cost a considerable amount more. But I have noticed something on Canal Street: within every fat man is a thin man trying to get out, and where there is a thin toned guy there is a fat man trying to get in. I don’t turn down desserts though as there were bound to have been people on the Titanic who turned down dessert… never miss a chance! I mean you must live life! No one on their death bed has ever said ‘I wish I ate more Rice cakes’.

I have joined the gym in town though, and yes I do mean ‘The Gym’ for any of you readers in Manchester. I, struggling with exercise, don’t really pump iron. I can hardly pump a bicycle. Frankly I find even  blinking exhausting. I couldn’t buy any exercise equipment as I would just look at it and try to work out how many drying shirts I could fit on it. The one machine I do use frequently in the gym is the vending machine, but I’m too uncomfortable in the weights area being surrounded by men with necks as wide as their heads. If I jog it is only to make the treadmill feel needed, as frankly there is no such thing as a fun run… that’s oxymoronic. I don’t bother with the aerobic classes either… that just came to be as gym instructors decided you can’t charge people 20 pound an hour and call it ‘jumping up and down’. Because let’s face it, you can eat well, exercise regularly… and die anyway.

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