I'm a woman

I'm a woman
Photos copyright Laurence Gouault
No reproduction on other media without the photographer's permission.

Tuesday, 26 July 2011

Paying your Dues, by Stevie ‘at your service’ Haston.

Steaming up hill

I am a selfish man, but I believe in community. I am a lazy man but believe in accomplishment, so like alotta folk I swing both ways. So the other week I had blisters and thought it stupid to make them worse by running a 100km mountain race, so I decided to be good by being at a refreshment station on the 55km race, and thus accruing some ‘Brownee points’ with that fictitious God that still lives in the back of my mind. Anyway there was a slight motive, as if I run in the race I wouldn’t see it as such, as I would be well down in the pack. By officiating I would see the good runners, see their condition, and judge them and myself. The refreshment stand was at three thousand meters staffed by three women, and served water, coke and some energy stuff. These women had walked up there along with another girl and a man who did the runner checks, in addition there was me, and all the stuff that had been flown up there by helicopter. There were alotta these check/point aid stations, and that’s why I decided to help, to be part of it all, not just a user. Anyway you understand, you have probably done this kindda thing yourself, you may have just taken home some litter climbers have forgotten, it all counts. So on the 55km the initial climb is a separate trophy in itself, it’s called the Pascal, named after a local guide who died in an avalanche. The climb is particularly gruelling, 2000 meters of very steep path over 9kms, it’s a mean montée, but if you have a history of alpine mountaineering you might understand it’s got an attraction to climbers, even if you cant do it! So the first lad got to the stand in 1hr 45mins, and I gave him some coke, 1hr 45mins, jee wiz! It was a humdinger of a race, cold with a very competitive field. In fact more than a few burnt themselves out, and didn’t finish the 55km. 
Laurence resting
The 100km with 5000mts of up, was won in just over 12hrs, and the second guy was 1st in the Tor de Géants last year, very impressive. Anyway lots of runners very little litter, and what litter there was  taken care of by me. So that night I stayed at the hut, and was feeling great about myself, running, and humanity in general, until along came some youths, who proceeded to shit within a meter of the hut, and keep me up passed my aged bed time. If for some unaccountable reason you wish to visit their graves they are under the big cairn, and I have planted some Edelweiss to help their passing. Never hesitate to tidy the mountains up, keep em clean, stay mean!

Monday, 18 July 2011

Mid life crisis number 329, by Stevie ‘over ripe’ Haston

Shiva and his own way of recycling.
There was a bit too much trash in my bachelor flat, and it was starting to smell a bit, so I very sensibly thought I’d take the trash out. Well a few days later when I finally did take the trash out it was raining, so I got the turn-ups of my trousers wet, as I wore slippers instead of shoes, and my bare back got an unexpected wash, which admittedly was a plus. Anyway, thinking about what a tosser I was, I then for no accountable reason threw my keys with the trash into the recycling bin. Didn’t even know what I’d done till I returned to the locked door. Double Tosser! I searched around for the keys, ‘like you do’, not wanting to face the fact that they were in the big, deeeep recycling bin, I patted each pocket and searched the path 5 times. No joy. Looking thru the squeezy slot-why is it not bigger- I spied my keys, it’s still raining, but there was a silver lining in the shape of a roll of wire left by some workmen. So it’s raining cats and dogs, and there I am fishing with my wire line for my keys, 4 people I know stop, and ask me what I’m doing. Great! Just as I am beginning to seriously think about posting myself to the fictious recycling heaven, thru the slot, I catch my Keys. And they don’t fall off the hook, then a big audible sigh of relief escapes my chest, as I hand over hand the stiff wire back out of the deeeep bin, I don’t relax as I have been fishing for about an hour. In fact, I don’t relax until I am back in the cocoon of the flat, after all a meteor attack could strike me down. I have always hated recycling bins, they are normally lies to make you feel good, and lies to make you fink that some one is doing somefink about all that fooking cardboard and plastic you use. But I gotta tellya folks, none of it is working, we are doomed, so get some trail running, or climbing done before we are covered in garbage.
Organic food in plastic wrapping is not organic, Dolphin friendly tuna is not Tuna friendly Tuna, and even if it was, it comes in a fooking plastic coated can, man! So I go back to the Flat soaking wet, dripping in fact, there’s a puddle around me as I strip off, and hit play on my computer. I have the film American Beauty on, do you remember it, it’s about how shit and empty suburban American life is, and I am such a sad looser, that I am watching it again, but this time with various smug commentaries, by overpaid grovelling actors, producers, and thankfully only one director. They are all doing the Dream Canyon Handshake. It’s a well done film, but it’s not really what they are all saying, the message is clear, everybody in the film is living an unrequited life, and it’s a tragedy, it’s really fooking depressing and terribly sad, there’s no bloody hope. It is just what I don’t need, so I attempt suicide by eating a whole loaf of toast-I am in Italy but the soya beans for my fru fru loaf are imported from china, WTF, anyway no butter of course, cos I am too fat and I am off animal products this week. The ingredients of the loaf start to freak me out, and I work out that my loaf is made up of ‘stuff’ from four different continents! Half way thru the film I realise that a Philosopher prof mate of mine uses some of the lines in American Beauty as part of his speech patterns, Jesus, what does that mean, and do I care, I just want it to stop raining, and there’s nothing in the fridge except some furry yogurt left. It’s funny how you need to have something to think about, but you don’t really want to think, and what do you do with the conclusions anyway if you are clever enough to come up with any. That’s why people have Kids, TVs, microwaves, dishwashers, jobs, haircuts, so called friends, climb Everest with oxygen,;;;:::===Every morning I wake up with a hard on, what for, I should’ve been neutered, like my dad advised. Everyday I think weird stuff, what for; I should’ve been lobotomised, like my dad said. I desperately need to get out of the flat, off this continent, off this planet. Yep I need to go running for at least 4 hours. But what for? Tell me oh great Guru what for? Guru speak to me, please. And that’s when you go in search of your Guru, swish through the bead curtains, and find him watching American Beauty, but with the sound turned off, the Finnish subtitles on, and a heavy scent of a suspicious smelling Jos stick wafting around on a non existing breeze. He turns to you and says ‘bro what's up, check it out’ and he Frisbees Suzie and the banshees album cover at you. Yea so you are transported back by that internal warp drive function you secretly have in your frontal lobe, and yes you are in Croydon watching Suzie nad the aforementioned §Bannnsheees, its 1978 or something. And you know what, you aint got no worries anymore, cos you just wanna get it on with this girl in front of you with the Mohican, it’s like a tequila sunrise plume crest. So that’s what the hard on is for, cross-pollination with extra terrestrial species lets get it on. Her name wasn’t Stella from the Astral plain, it was Sharon from Millwall.
 The Guru breaks you out of your reverie with;‘The World is just a great big Onion’, title for a song, this is your starter for ten points, 10 points makes you eligible to win an inflatable family, ‘you'll never walk alone’. Please read the disclaimer tattooed on the inside of your helmet. What u don’t have a tattoo, well get one dude. Or jump the queue on next years fashions, and get a wooden disque inserted inside your lower lip, this with baggy trousers should ensure you only get laid by a giant Duck Billed Platypus named Pax Mobiscum.