Ice, Ice, baby

I've now been ice-skating. I've now added ice-skating to the nebulous list of activities I ain't doing again, along with driving and alcopops.

Iceskating doesn't appeal to me, because it's "Let's strap blades to ourselves and then try to go fast on a slippery surface". The sensation of ridicule, strangely, didn't worry me- although I was anticipating a little extra chargrin as the fingers on my left hand were sliced off by a pre-pubescent travelling at fifty kph. What with the red lights on ice and booming voice of Rachel Stevens, the experience was thoroughly reminiscent of a week I spent working in the meat production business. The punchline is that my clothes are, as then, bloodstained. But enough of that.

If you've never been ice-skating, here's a way to recreate the experience:
1) Develop a motor neurone disorder
2) Run laps of a disco

The selling point, presumably, is that unlike MND you can still go to the shops afterwards without all that wheelchair hassle. In other words, the quality content of the ice-skating experience is that it stops.

I don't want to say that ice-rinks have anything in common with savage beatings, but, well. You know.

i want to clean up my head