New best friends...

Why is it that because I'm in a cast with a broken ankle, everyone thinks that they are my new best friend because they have at some time in their pathetic lives broken a bone which means that we now have a deep emotional connection.





















Don't get me wrong. I'm all for a bit of sympathy. I like sympathy from my girlfriend. I wouldn't mind sympathy from Jessica Alba. I'd love sympathy from my girlfriend and Jessica Alba at the same time. Sorry, I digress..





















Back to the point. Yesterday I was asked "What happened to your leg?" more times than Richard Ince is going to have beers at Forries on Saturday. These random muppets (the people asking about my leg, not Ince) I can deal with but its when people feel the need to start up a conversation that I really start to lose it. Can you tell I'm bitter? I feel bitter.

The cake was taken (and in the one girls case eaten) by two characters. The first accosted me as I was scaling a flight of stairs, not a easy feat when on crutches. "Hi...Hello...You...Crutches boy" she whined. Crutches boy? Who the fuck are you. If we were labelling people by their looks, physical attributes or things that they used out of necessity you would be known as ugly, one leg shorter than the other, shouldn't wear a skirt if you weigh more than 70, vibrator girl. Anyway, she asked what happened and then decided that rugby was not a good enough story so advised that I should tell people I was attacked by a shark (yes because that breaks your ankle rather than ripping the flesh off your bones you stupid skank). However, she also noted that it may be difficult to remember such an elaborate story when I'm drunk (Difficult for a cretin like you maybe. Are you drunk right now? What the fuck). Her final pearl of wisdom was that I should paint my toenails to make fibreglass encased foot pretty (You should paint your face but even that wouldn't make it pretty).


















The next pearler came very near the end of the day, just when I thought I was safe. This time I was crutching down stairs when I heard the priceless, "Ha. Right leg. Only bone I haven't broken." (Oh god, I'm guessing you've had your nose broken repeatedly.) "Ankle" I corrected. "Would I be stupid to ask how it happened?" (Apparently you don't need to ask that to seem stupid, moron). "Rugby" I answered with one word again. In retrospect this was a mistake as it opened me up to the rugby conversation..."What position do you play? Oh you're tall for a flyhalf. What team do you play for?" After more one word mumbled answers, we parted ways but not before he left me with this beauty..."Ah. I wish I could go back. Think I'm a bit small to still play flank though." Amazing. Go back where? Standard 5? Under 9 Cs? A bit small, you're the size of my bicep (which I must say are getting bigger from the crutching but are still far from sizable).

I feel so much better after that rant. Its good to get things out sometimes children. Thank you for indulging me.