While my athletic endurance is building up to a level worthy of the enthusiasm of the Flight Centre captain, my muscular strength remains low. In my dodgy neighbourhood, this means I can likely succesfully integrate myself into the civic consumer-entrepeneurial economic microredistribution of wealth (ie nicking handbags and doing a runner), before working my way up to crimes involving actual violence. The fag in my subconcious just intercepted my train of thought and is now whinging that I should make an angry metal “grab-n-run” iPod playlist before I even think about starting all this.

Speaking of the Flight Centre captain, isn’t the Mk II Flight Centre captain vaguely creepy? Did the original Flight Centre captain get busted in a toilet cubicle with one of the air stewards halfway to Fiji or something? This new captain, though, you don’t want to let him out of your sight for fear he’ll slip his hand down the back of your pants while you’re innocently perusing travel brochures. At this rate, the next Flight Centre captain to creepily wink at me from the telly and nod his hat at me will be John Burgess.

But… something needs to be done about my muscular strength, it’s definitely bootown at the moment. Of course, living with another dude who can’t walk through a doorway without expanding his chest and shoulders to make the point that he’s so muscular, he can barely pass through without the aid of vaseline… probably doesn’t make for a realistic goal.

It’ll probably put me through agony, but I’ll have to start doing weights properly soon. I’d ultimately like to get involved in team sport, but the only problem is my bung eye - makes for some really shithouse coordination on my part. Still, I’d be interested in actually playing AFL footy as opposed to getting tanked and yelling mindlessly at the players on the TV.

Adam, on the other hand, looks all set to reach his boxing goals in June. After a long stretch of training, he’s now ready to enter his first boxing tournament in years - he originally got distracted from his boxing and gym work when I moved in with him and we started fucking endlessly. Can I just point out this proves how great a root I am, that I succesfully distracted a highly focused athelete in peak performance to the point where he abandoned all training and gym work for three years? Of course, he totally blamed me, and used my torso in leiu of a punching bag where appropriate for a while there, but now he’s back in tip-top street thug fighting condition.

It’s looking like he’ll be entering a fighting tourney at somewhere appropriately dodgy, like the Blacktown RSL or something. I’m hoping he ends up on one of those dodgy Western Sydney fighting nights which Fox Sports 2 broadcasts on late Friday and Saturday nights. We’ll probably get a table together of mates and watch Adam punch on. I’m providing helpful coaching of some sorts, mostly insisting that it’s a bad idea for him to pretend to rape any straight guys he beats after he punches him down, and bellowing that “you got punched out by a faggot”. Because truly, the odds are there that his opponent’s perfectly comfortable with gay guys, and may even be a repressed ‘mo taking out his aggression.

Boxing’s probably not for me, but perhaps some other team sport.

I’ve been great with my diet, too - even managed to lay off the beer a little lately. Someone mentioned I should drink some of that low carb beer which Carlton was shouting about last year, but I never quite understood the point of it. Do you get shitfaced then go for a jog around your local footy oval? Don’t get it.

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