Naked Old Women At The Gym.

Dear perverts; those who have found this link through a random google search, using elements of this article's title. I know you are there - behind your shady looking screen in a darkened room, expecting to see links to a host of movies and images of grannies exposed in some randy capacity. But sorry, you are all out luck. However, before you wander off to the next port of perverted pleasure seeking, I ask you to drop those slightly sweaty tissues, lift the trousers from around your ankles, lower that duvet shaped like a tent, and take a second to note how you have just aided me in a personal, social experiment.

You see, my name is Lee Gunnell. I am a writer, and I work very hard at my craft. I have posted a total of 132 articles on this website since Early 2011; a mixture of poetry, random musings, thoughts about varying elements of life - and even an imaginary children's story. In my account, I am able to privately view how often each separate post is clicked on through searches on google. And while I would love to express how the most read are the stories in my back-catalogue about how we miss miracles, the value of a glass of water, life as a game of chess, or the hidden beauty of a woman very close to me, the reality is the most read blog - no thanks to you dirty buggers, and which carries twice as many readers as any other, is this...

http://leegunnell.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/naked-old-men-at-gym.html

I initially chose a career in writing, as I desired to emulate echoes of Shakespeare, Freud, Einstein, Orwell, and a whole host of deep thinking, anthropological types - even if for only a fleeting moment. I know doing so would help me understand for certain - that deep down, the human race all seek answers to the deeper questions within the universal theme of existence. And yet the most popular post I have, is nothing more than a short afterthought, about an old man at my gym - in his birthday suit, drying his nut-sack with a hair-dryer. In making this such a popular piece of work, you have begun to make me believe that ardent philosophy, will never override the suppressed perversions of you web hounds. I guess this is a good thing; having sex produces babies - talking about why reproduction happens in the first place, does not... but you are still a little warped for wanting to look at photos of naked old men.

So to my loyal readers, and those who arrive here using more well meaning searches, forgive this piece; for it is nothing more than a social experiment to discover how many perverts use this title as a google search; exposing how tragic, yet funny, the underbelly of humanity truly is. As an aid to you other one armed keyboard jockeys randomly arriving here, I write the following terms to bolster the chances of being found. So if you arrived here searching these terms, don't expect to be sated; boobs, cocks, large penis, Lady Gaga, latent homosexuals, transsexuals, ladyboys, midgets, anthropomorphic threesomes, Gilf, Milf, naked mature, lesbians, and hardcore porn. There, I believe this is an adequate list of searches for the hairy hand brigade.

Oh and the picture is of Sofia Loren; because she is an old woman who looks like she still goes to the gym; I don't know if those who enjoy seeing naked old women have standards or not - if they even exist in this category. Thanks perverts, I am grateful you managed to come to the end - I couldn't resist that one...

Lee.

At One Together, All Alone.

Do men build walls or walls build men

We know we'll never know

Is it success when life suppresses 
Sacred honest souls

Our senses sleep the more they lie

We laugh as empty tears run dry

Selected feelings forced refrain

A lonely walk, of silent shame

Does fear provide or hold us back

We fight to never fight

Is it absurd when lives are heard

In only memories light

The mind remembers to forget

A heart which wanders through regret

For in this world we all find home

At one together, all alone.

Lee.

Subbuteo Was Rubbish.

As a child, my elder brother loved Subbuteo. He would endlessly collect varying finely coloured teams and add-ons, to this rudimentary pastime - assembling a fine collection. I guess it was for this reason I embraced it too; going so far as to receive a Subbuteo set for Christmas, back in 1991. He was employed with a weekly paper round - which he would regularly deliver to our garden shed. Therefore - unlike my ten-year-old self, had money to burn - or at least, blow on Arnold Schwarzenegger posters, WWF Hasbro Figures, and of course, Subbuteo teams. 

Often I would join him as he purchased these little bastards at the Beatties store in Southgate, and gaze up in wonder at the vast collection of little men with their coloured kits and cemented feet; like miniature Mafia snitches, who karma had finally caught up with - minus the coloured kits. At home he would take my set and perfectly flatten out the green square canvas, corner flags, goals with own netting, and standard ball, all for another battle of bro versus bro; I didn't mind, for even though I look back now and wonder if he somehow duped me into wanting the game as a gift for his own uses (Which was pretty damn clever if he did), I was sure each game would be a barrel of fun and labour of love, which would last me a lifetime.

And then, I played it... 

For want of a better word, I was awful. I mean, I was all sides of shit when it came to Subbuteo. Every player I flicked fell to the floor like a suicidal lemming. My stubby fingers sidelined more men than Vinnie Jones; I must have snapped at least three sets of ankles each game. I was clumsy, devoid of tactical nuance, and no matter how hard I think back, I cannot remember scoring a single goal. My brother, on the other hand, was a natural - and in 100% of occasions we duelled, I managed to lose every last sitting. 

*As a side-note, losing to your elder brother bites hard as a kid. And the sweetness of victory is soured by the threat of a physical beating when you do; in my case, my reward of being punched for pinning his Ultimate Warrior with my Big Boss Man, whilst playing Wrestle-mania Challenge on the NES. Though such beatings have been passed downward on my side, so I can hardly lay claim to playing the victim.

Anyhow, pondering this portion of my history, it has made me consider a list of pastimes I would undertake, only to openly criticise as being rubbish, pointless creations of ethereal God, and human nature; a few - but not nearly all, include:

Basketball

Hockey

Where's Wally Jigsaws

Pool

Crosswords

Musical Chairs

Backgammon

Megadrive Battletoads

Anagrams

Juggling Balls

Javelin

Screwball Scramble

Karaoke

Backgammon

In truth - much like each item listed above, Subbuteo wasn't rubbish... I was just rubbish at Subbuteo. Unfortunately, Instead of accepting the fact, I decided it couldn't be true the great Lee was a mere mortal of limited skill - so used criticism as an immature defence mechanism. Subbuteo was a fine, simple invention, which afforded me and many pre-internet generations, hour upon hour of memorable, carefree moments; it is still one of the most memorable Christmas presents I ever received. 

I am glad I stink at many tasks I undertake. It is a healthy soul, which carries an internal list of specific personal uselessness, to serve as a reminder we are all human; life would be pretty boring if we weren't...

Lee.

Free As A Bird.

A three-year-old boy stands five feet before me in Harrow Starbucks. He haphazardly motions his body in a fluid mixture of funky disco dancing, and random combat with the air around him; like some form of crazed ninja warrior. I am impressed, and wonder what would happen if I suddenly decided to copy his actions? I already know the answer. Another boy of similar age joins in the festivities; creating a force of silent union as make believe superhero air fighters – parading in a sense of reckless abandon. It is a beautiful sight to behold, because it is the one thing in life I always search for, yet rarely find - genuine.

Throughout the rest of the building, around fourty or so adults – of varying societal groups, ages, cultures, and classes, sit with serious expressions; appearing as if they cannot figure out where they lost their own sense of raw energy - or maybe are too wrapped up in the never ending list of adult issues to even think about it, or simply don’t care; It’s hard to decipher those who think for themselves, from those who only think that they do. Right now it’s irrelevant, for all I see are these two children; in this building right now - including myself, they are the only two people, who are truly free.

To these infants, problems are non-existent. Skin colour is meaningless. Power is merely a word they cannot even spell, let alone understand its meaning. Money on paper has such little value in their eyes, you could leave a stack of £50.00 notes beside the empty toilet roll container, and they would happily wipe their bottoms with the Queens face, and then flush it down the drainage system. A pencil or a penthouse, are just toys to pass the time with. They don’t need narcotics or alcohol to hide from reality, only to eventually try to escape the same addictions to regain the same place they initially started from. They never suffer the debilitation of depression, stress, or issues of self-esteem. A copper, a cleaner, or the President of the United States, are all just adults to feed their inquisitive minds, and – besides the parents who create their lives, they have no desire to impress anybody, anywhere, ever. Finally, more important than anything else, to them, image is meaningless - fun is paramount.

I watch these boys play a little more. A decade from now, they will likely enter these walls as moody, sullen faced teenagers; awash in a passive aggressive conditioning to look, think, talk, walk, and act as everybody else does – even if it is nothing like the person they are deep on the inside. Fashion, music, governments, propaganda, media, celebrity culture and the like, will silently dictate the paths of the lives they were meant to live, destroying the freedom via a means of creating reasons to separate ourselves from one another, even though we don’t really desire to do so; dystopia is alive and well, we just convince ourselves we cannot see it. They won’t even know it, until many years from now (and if they are lucky, perhaps never), but right here, right now, these two young spirits are as free as the birds in the trees, the leaves in the wind, and the sun in the skies - in touch with God, themselves, and all else encapsulated within our ever expanding universe.

There is, however, one potential saving grace for the boys; they may find each other through the constant fight of how we really are, versus how we are often expected to be. For this is, in my view, the only real means of feeling any form of freedom in life as an adult; by finding the select few alive in this world who genuinely understand, that the reality of the human race is as beautiful as it is brutal, clever as it is stupid, and as productive as it is regressive. While it narrows the percentage of connection, it also makes each connection much deeper and longer lasting. And even though I am aware we all have to grow up eventually, it doesn't mean we have to go inward too - wouldn't we be all much happier if we could simply be ourselves?

The boys have left now. Once again, tomorrow, they will punch the air and kick imaginary monsters which lie before them. Personally, I hope they never stop dancing to this beat; it has a rhythm all of its own...

Lee.

The Devils Rectum.

I lean down on a despondent knee along the back end of Harrow town centre, as my girlfriend stands beside me, asking if I am okay. It is midnight on a bitterly cold Saturday evening in January. A cathartic crescendo of tears stream down my eyes, as blood streams from a fresh wound upon my upper cheek; inflicted by the base of a large brandy bottle, smashed into my blind-sided face by a drunk and high, teenage hoodie. 

Ten minutes previous, a pulsating headache - which has decided to remind me all day long how in the past six months I have travelled through a consistent, daily form of personal hell - which refused to leave me alone, had finally reached its peak during a cinema viewing of "New Year's Eve"; a movie made for women, by women. On exiting the cinema, Marissa (my partner) and I argue; her, increasingly upset at my illness, and inability to reach a person now deeply lost in a mixture of confusion and frustration. Me, aggrieved at her lack of direct understanding of the sheer pain I am going through, even though I better part of me knows this is a psychological defect of my illness I struggle to ignore. 

I lose my cool, shoot random expletives, then tell her to leave me alone; this is exactly what she does. A few minutes later, reality kicks in, and I feel a guilty prick. I turn a corner and catch her in the distance, as she screams back at four rambunctious  teenagers, spouting racists Chinese ethical remarks, (Even though she is English born, and half Thai). As she screams the term "arse-bandits" at them, red mist strikes me. As I run up to her, I call them all a bunch of fucking moronic cunts, and threaten them. One takes offence, stands, and approaches me as he pulls out a large Brandy bottle, I initially assume could be a knife. He isn't that big, and my sheer anger overrides any forms of fear. But I withhold the desire to release my fists into this kid, for I cannot guarantee me or my girlfriend will be safe taking on four people at once; maybe I need to watch more Bruce Lee movies. The blow is the only physical account through the argument, and the gang turn 180 degrees on me once it hits home I am protecting my partner; wanting to shake my hand, in respect of such chivalry. It is a crazy turn of events, but this is early 2012, and the previous twelve months have taught me to expect the unexpected - much less find it surprising.

  

The tears I cry on my knee, have little to do with the attack. They fall because after nearly six months of fighting a never ending, constant internal battle which I have hidden from practically everybody but the woman who stands beside me, the extreme brutal nature of this awful fucking monster known as clinical depression, has finally, finally, broken me; I am intensely bitter, and cannot understand why nature is punishing me with such ferocity. We drive to the A and E at Northwick Park Hospital, just around the corner; I wear a scowl which suggests I have finally had enough of the human race. We explain the situation to a nurse, who tells me the world is coming to an end, then hands me a couple of codeine containing painkillers to down - which work instantly, even curing the still pounding headache; we take a seat in the waiting room. I tell Marissa she can go home, but she refuses to leave my side; I begin to see where my strength in the past few years has come from, and why my strength of the last twelve months has slowly dissipated.

A few hours pass. During this time, a mixture of Police Officers and revelling accident prone drunks stroll in and out the building. A vending machine swallows our money as it presents an empty coffee cup. A couple of teenagers offer their kind yet worthless help, as Marissa reminds me not all kids are angry and conditioned to hate; she is right, and I think of all the damage done by newspapers and sensationalist scaremongering - but refrain from mentioning it, as the doctor calls my name, They x-ray my skull and face; I quietly hope they will send me for a CAT scan, as my illness continually convinces me the irrational notion, I in fact have a brain-tumour, or potential aneurysm, knowing this will confirm the fact. He tells me there may be glass in the wound, and I will need to return in the morning. He hands me a five day course of anti-biotics, wishes me well, and sends us on our way. I feel no pain. It is 3am, frosty, and we are both starving. 

We drive through 24-hour Macdonalds, then sit in her car and munch on a Big Mac meal; the situation makes it the most delicious portion of junk food I have ever eaten. Marissa drops me home and tells me she will arrive back in a few hours time. It suddenly hits me how this woman may have saved my life without even realizing it, and after seeing me at the weakest moments in my life, is still both right by my side, and on my side. I jump into bed, stick an old episode of WCW Worldwide on my netbook through YouTube, and fall asleep, as Jesse Ventura belittles an obese jobber in comedic acid-tongued fashion. Two aspects of reality change over the next four hours; I find a new respect for God, and lose all fear of human beings. I awake the next morning, tired, confused, and heading off to the hospital. The doctor tells me there is a small fracture, but no glass residue inside. He stitches me up, and we head off into Harrow Starbucks. I do not see it at the time, but on the previous day, my illness had peaked, and from this moment on, clinical depression - albeit very very slowly, will only subside. I have entered the Devil's rectum, lived to tell the story, and am finally exit bound.

Throughout the entire time period of my illness, I wondered why God had taken away everything from me? My confidence, strength, spirit, ability to think straight, smile, relax, exercise, talk to others, shit, even eat regular meals? Then I think of Marissa - my girlfriend, and it all makes sense. Throughout this entire illness, everything I lost was simply being broken down, in order to be built back again as a stronger, more humble force. And the one element in life I couldn't see, and am eternally grateful to have handed to me, is a woman right beside me who, no matter how much bullshit she has had thrown at her from my immature direction, still believes in both our relationship, and my aims of becoming the best human being I possibly can.

Sometimes, a bottle in the face can kill you. On other days, it can bring you right back to life...

Lee.

Twenty Random Things I Have Done.

They say life is meant to be a celebration, as opposed to a ritual. I am still learning this as maturity grows upon me, with the firm hand of nature. Nonetheless, I feel an odd need to list a bunch of pointless yet interesting acts I have completed in my time so far. They all make me smile, in their own unique way - and at the time seemed perfectly rational...

1. Spent a bitter January night, sleeping in a Church.
2. Fallen through a garage roof onto concrete floor.
3. Ran a half-marathon on a treadmill.
4. Trimmed a hedge standing on a yellow council bin.
5. Filmed a wedding drunk.
6. Broken my leg jumping down a snake shaped slide.
7. Worked a shift wearing a name badge titled "Osama Bin-Laden".
8. Mastered the Rubik's Clock.
9. Shaved my entire body.
10. Given a homeless man a Subway.
11. Stolen a pair of underpants from Debenhams.
12. Ran into the pouring rain in front of a busy Starbucks.
13. Been two footed tackled by a midget.
14. Travelled to Alton Towers in the rear end of a small transit van.
15. Sawed a three-piece sofa set into many pieces, in order to fit in a skip.
16. Played a heavyweight boxer in a school play.
17. Cleaned my house naked.
18. Pitched a screenplay to 400 people.
19. Dyed my hair purple.
20. Complied a list of 20 random things I have done.

Feel free to consider your own list. You may be surprised...

Lee.

Lost In The Shadow Of Starbucks.

This time last year, I wasn’t a nice person to be around. This is an understatement. In truth, I was an arrogant, self-absorbed dick-head; lost in a delusional notion that who I was, and what I did, was in some way more important than the day to day lives of any other soul I came across. It wasn't, of course, and is laughable now to see how I viewed myself in such a ridiculous light. But from March to September of 2011, this was my reality; the guy eternally lost in a dark corner of a coffee shop – brooding, mysterious, and quietly sinking into a living nightmare of overworking and under-appreciating life's simple beauty – too ignorant to know when to simply pause, get back to the light, and step outside from the shadow of Starbucks.

Reflecting on the darkness of this period in my life, which both enforced and pre-empted the ensuing six months brutality in fighting a stress related clinical-depression, even Rocky Balboa wouldn't wish to face. I can only assume the unhealthy ascension of my ego - which led me down the highway to hell, initially began as a defence mechanism against a feeling of both losing someone I wanted, and being invaded by somebody I never needed - two separate issues I still don't fully understand, yet exposed my severe lack of emotional maturity. It was all one sour tasting concoction; and yet, a cocktail created entirely by myself - even if at the time, my ego refused to accept it was human enough to make mistakes.

 

It was a time in which I hid from humanity, whilst conversely engaging in it; needing someone to love, yet pushing away anyone who wanted to - afraid rejection would arrive once again, should I choose to open the doors. A time when my relationship was tested to the bare threads of its core, yet survived through love and sheer will of knowing it was always meant to. When I viewed every last experience as being all about me, as belonging to the centre of an entire universe, and thinking I carried some kind of destiny beyond any mere mortals - all the while trying to complete a book I refused to give up on - and thankfully never did. But geez, looking back, no wonder I pissed so many people off - I was a real miserable bastard. The ego has always remained a part of my psyche I am in control of; we agree to help one another, for the benefit of ourselves. But it went too far, and the more unhappy I grew, the more impulsive, reckless, wayward, and ultimately, very depressed, I became. 

Time slowly passes, and 2011 becomes a more distant memory as it does. But I still feel a level of disappointment in how I acted during this period. So to the friends I acted like a wanker to and neglected, yet still called me their friend. The associates who opened their hearts and minds, at a time where I didn’t know where my own really were. And - more than anybody else, the girlfriend I pushed to her limits – yet stayed by my side, no matter how close to breaking point either one of us became. I both apologize, and say thank you. The truth is, none of this was ever about any of you – the stuff I never dealt with in the past simply caught up with me, and you got caught in the crossfire. The experience is one I will in the long run be grateful for, and the thought of where I would have ended up - had I remained lost in that mode of distorted psychological burn out, scares the shit out of me. But it is over now, and the beauty of today, is it allows us the opportunity to view yesterday with hindsight - and hopefully use it to our positive advantage.

More than anything, this period has taught me three very important facts about myself, and the human race in general;

1. Everybody hurts.

2. Everybody cries.

3. Very few people in coffee shops wash their hands.

  

I must go for now, my future needs me…

Lee.

Where's My Willie?

Fourty focus groups. Eighteen arduous months of considerate preparation. A century of Wimbledon, one Rugby World Cup, four Cricket World Cups, a Football World Cup and European Championships, a Commonwealth Games, and two Olympic Games – pre and post World-War-Two. A nation globally regarded as a resourceful contributor to creative expression, and an experienced dearth of history, intelligence, design, and understated credibility on its side. And yet, when asked to create a mascot which encapsulates all that makes England the iron-fisted nation that those across its shores view it as – they come up with these hideous bastards…

"Why Teletubbies and Daleks should never have sex."

The idea of my home city hosting the largest sporting event on Earth fills me with a sense of pride, twinged with a slightly raised curious eyebrow – London has many serious issues; a barren youth, filthy streets, and Boris Johnson becoming mayor, purely because he head-butted a former German professional footballers abdomen in a charity football match, as examples. And yet, even though the media seem intent on harbouring the usual negative scare mongering accounts towards the oncoming games – terrorism, lack of funds, travel chaos, etc. I feel Sebastian Coe and co have organised what should turn out to be an event displaying the true marvel of English passion, creativity, and oddly suppressed stoicism. But for all this, I cannot overlook Wenlock and Mandeville; these two monstrosities, chosen as the official London 2012 Olympic Mascots – for the only real feeling I reach when I see them, is how bloody awful they are. 

The idea for their creation is simple; the elements of each character represent a portion of the games; the letters on their heads, London Taxi lights. Their heads, the Olympic stadium roof and Paralympics circles. Steely Blue skin - if you can call it skin, for a determined personality, and shiny gold to show the colours of the medals of success, and so forth. I guess we are meant to love all these attributes, even though I had to search Google to find out why exactly they resemble a couple of genetically mutated penises, engineered by Mister Magoo. 

It is not that they have been designed as robotic CGI life forms, or their names are as poncey as people drinking Pimms, whilst laughing at irrelevant comedies which attempt to recreate the subtle genius of The Office, and failing miserably, which hold me back from feeling anything for them. It is the reality they look like, or perhaps even are, aliens. And aliens – as evident in movies such as ET, take a lot of work in emotional development, to be accepted as somewhat human in terms of feeling, and therefore cared about and loved; one weekly Beano comic strip, is in nowhere near enough to achieve this.  

"Father Of William"

The former Government should have sacked every last member of these supposedly “in touch” focus groups, and handed me two-hundred grand; where I could have sat on my arse for eighteen months, catching up with re-runs of Lost and old WCW Pay-Per-Views, only to eventually explain to them the smartest option would have been to introduce the mascot of choice as Young William – the teenage son of World Cup Willie; the still empathetically regarded mascot of the 1966 Football World Cup. Animals are living creatures, and we associate compassion with any impression of them. Plus, with Prince William such a popular figure Worldwide, his name is ideal. England are meant to be a nation of brave, ferocious, almost regal Lions – two bland looking cocks with eyes and wind resistant arms, hardly sum up a history rolling from Germanic tribal warriors, to a revolution of popular music; all leading to the creation of what was essentially 20^th century western society.

Perhaps I am wrong, and the modern internet generation pre-teens currently lap up these two fellas; and this whole criticism is merely a reflection of age slowly creeping up on me. But I just don’t like them. Yet again, a bunch of pseudo-intellectual 'experts' have been thrown together in a room full of Marks And Spencer sandwiches, and generation old copies of Whizzer and Chips, and created a product (essentially they are commercial outlets – as evident by the mass marketing surrounding them, even though I can’t see why two Olympic mascots would endorse Macdonald’s cholesterol increasing garbage food), and developed an idea rich in intricate cleverness, and look-closer sobriety. All the while forgetting to stick a heart inside either of these patronising dickheads - shit, even Goleo of World Cup Germany 2006 had a personality. I hope World Cup Willie eats them alive, once they descend to mascot heaven, come the closing hours of September 9^th, 2012.

Lee.