Cheers Brain. That was a stupid thing to do!

About a month ago I applied to do nine mystery shops in two weeks, something I was grateful for at the time as it meant more booze and food for me. Unfortunately, in my mass hysteria of applying for visits, I went a bit too far in the delirium and accepted a shop in Horsforth, just next to Leeds.

‘Excellent’, I thought, imagining unbound riches to be had from Horsforth’s Tesco Express, ‘I’ll do it on Sunday. Hey, I could even bike there!’

So Saturday night came and I had a more detailed look at the map to see just where I was heading. Oh crap. It was nowhere near any station, bus route or airport. It was also a six-mile trip from Leeds centre. I was screwed.

‘No worries’, I again thought (I’ve had a lot of those thought things recently as you can tell) ‘I can just bike it’.

Now, a word of advice for all those who fear physical exercise; don’t do it! (In opposition to Nike’s old slogan there) After a Saturday night out of birthday celebration in Leeds and only four hours sleep, I got out of bed to play a bit of football. Mistake number one; playing football for the first time since Christmas after a hefty night out is not a good idea.

Football went on for too long. Half the players got sunburnt. That’s right, you can get sunburnt in March! I think I escaped the monstrously powerful rays of Apollo, and so was in good spirits when it came to my bike ride. Unfortunately, I had eaten nothing that day, it was getting onto 1 o’clock, and I had six miles to ride until I could eat.

And something else dampened my mood in more ways than one before I left for Horsforth. For some idiotic reason, there was a dog show on in the sports hall down at the uni. I walked past it and it stank! Like wet tarmac on a hot day. It was disgusting. I looked in to see a hoard of dogs all groomed and plucked and walking at their masters’ heels. It was like the regional qualifiers for Crufts. Possibly one of the most disgusting, pretentious things I have ever seen. Dogs with glittering collars, expensively preened coats and even one shitty little Chihuahua sporting a beret.

It was a horrible, smelly sight. The thing is why do you have to treat your pet like the goddess of the house? How can you spend so much money and time and effort on a thing that licks it’s own bollocks? Why do you want to show off the fact that you own an animal that in some diverse, definitely disturbing way is meant to look beautiful and elegant? Have these people seen what dogs do? They slobber about everywhere, panting like a fat London Marathon runner in a Scooby Doo outfit, and lick your face with the same tongue that’s been on its arse!

Dogs, in general, are disgusting creatures. But what makes them worse are the owners. Pampering the beasts with coats and hairstyles, collars and shampoo. Do you ever see a goldfish with a bow tie on? Has anyone ever seen a cat with a permed fur-do? Do you ever see a hamster with Dutch clogs on? NO! Because animals are not humans! They do not think like us. They do not act like us. They don’t look like us, smell like us, taste like us. They are as alien to humans as the apple I’m eating as I type. So why do people treat them like us?!

Anyway back to the journey. It all started badly as I realised I had parked my bike next to the dog show. Luckily none of the hellish creatures had pissed on my bike, but I did see a trickle from the wall across running down under my front tyre. Great, so I have to bike with piss in my face.

Those six miles were the longest I have ever ridden. It took an age. Gravity was the only thing pushing my feet down on the pedals. Cars in traffic jams were going faster than me. Me, with my head and shoulders slumped over the handlebars as though I was asleep. People walking their dogs were going faster than me. Me, gasping for air as though I’d just resurfaced form the bottom of the ocean. A learner driver even overtook me. I was so embarrassed.

Eventually I got to Horsforth, rode past the shop twice before finally finding it, bought myself a pint of milk and a sandwich, and enjoyed the best meal I’d had in a long time, sat in the Yorkshire sunshine.

I was hot and tired, but had a six-mile slog back to Leeds to deal with, and then another trip up to Ilkley on the train. Why the hell did I accept to do these visits on a Sunday?!

Eventually I get back to Leeds, aided by the fact that there’s a lot more downhill on the way back. I parked up in Leeds station in time to catch a departing train, and settled in to read a bit of the old Chaucer.

Having got to Ilkley, I bought myself a cheeky bottle of ale and some red onions amongst other things, and got on the next train home.

By this time I was shattered. I had eaten an entire sandwich all day, my stomach felt bad but not hungry, I was nevertheless energyless, and I couldn’t understand a word of this Chaucer.

What made it worse was the actions of a little old woman. Now, I’ll admit at this stage that no, I shouldn’t have had my feet up on the opposite chairs, but I was so tired and my shoes were clean and I wasn’t hurting anybody. But no, my terrible seating position still led to a wiry eyed old bint marching up to me, tapping me on the legs and proclaiming “Oi. Feet!” pointing at my raised limbs.

I couldn’t be arsed with a witty reply and so just put them down, sarcastically saying “sorry”. She replied with this by telling me I would be, and then walked, head held high, back to her seat. The thing that really annoyed me was that she acted as though she was tackling the youth of today head on. Yeah! go get those horrible miscreants that quietly sit on trains and read English from the 14th Century! Those guys are the scumbags of society. No worries about the twenty or so kids who hang around on street corners all day. Nah, just target that unruly academic instead.

So, with me very pissed off, very tired, stomach hurting and feet on the bloody floor, the train set off. Just to brighten up my day I got a text off my mate Tom, gleefully explaining how England were demolishing France in the 6-Nations. Great, so the best game England have played since the 2003 World Cup Final and I’m missing it.

I got into the station and quickly sprinted home on my bike, hoping to catch the last action. I worked out later that I biked 16 miles that day. When I finally got into the flat France were just scoring a try. No worries though, cos surely England were going to score more.

No. Of course they weren’t. 34 points and I saw none of them. So, with my tired legs, beaten morale and confused insight into Middle English literature, I headed for the shower, only to be dragged out to the park for another hour of football.

An utterly knackering day that I am still recovering from. It’s now Tuesday.