You might not have noticed, but the little known pursuit of kickball is enjoying an international spotlight right now. It’s hosted by the Russians, the international kickball derby, so the winners might not be the actual fair winners considering the location. These are the people that brought us Trump and Brexit. I put some money on them. Given their impunity they’ll probably cheat. Nerve gas or information war or something equally ingenious. This evening, though, I’m supporting England. The England team aren’t playing Russia so they’re safe. They’re playing Tunisia. I’m in a pub with some friends. They’re kicking the ball, the screen people. Apparently that shouldn’t have been a penalty. Naughty kickpeople.


See them run! Some of them are millionaires. They still run lots. KICK IT! BALL! OFFSIDE! NEVER! WHOOOAH! YEAAAH! I’m good at kickball understandings.

But it’s important that we win this because fewer people in this country will attack their loved ones with their fists tonight if we do. Although that pain is just deferred, because it’s against the rules for England to win the tournament, so the punching will still take place. The team have an official job. To get through the group stage and then lose the first match. If they don’t do that they will be cheating. Although the rules might be different this year of course because it’s in Russia where usual rules don’t apply. So maybe cheating is allowed this year…

So we won. By the skin of our teeth. Despite even a rank amateur like me being able to tell that we are better than them at kicking. It all came down to “set pieces” in the end. I’m concerned that these kickballers can’t create chances outside of things they’ve practised beforehand. They did a very good job of killing the handsman of Tunisia Hotspur, but afterwards they couldn’t get anything past the reservey handsman. I think it’s because they were confused by uniform though. They are supposed to be wearing white, but the enemy was also in white so they had to dress in red which might have been confusing, but also useful because Russia is red and red is supposed to win in Russia. But hooray!

I’m done. After the match we all grabbed food. Then we went home. I’ve been trying to write this as I go but it’s been extremely difficult comparatively, because of the nature of the company I’ve been in and their need for attention. For a long time I was with strangers mixed with friends and I’d left the writing so late that it was hard to explain to some of the strangers why I was vanishing into my phone. In that context it would be easier to just carry a laptop, because it’s a familiar machine that says “work”. Writing in my phone looks like texting/leisure. In their existences, work time is work time and play time is play time. They don’t mix it. The saturnalic pattern of the weekdays still means something for them. They are unquestioning slaves to it.

So my attempts to do my due diligence by this blog were eminently interruptible and questionable. I was just trying to fucking write.

I’ve not missed a single day since I started this madness far too long ago. I won’t until I choose to stop. Way way too stubborn.

Uninterrupted, writing this takes about 40 minutes to an hour, daily. Constantly interrupted and questioned it takes fucking ages as I socially feel obliged to honour the conversation you are manufacturing to prove to me that conversation is more important than phone (Just shut up and let me finish if I ask!!! Until it’s done I’m always aware it’s not done.)

I’ve been rebounding off a perfectly pleasant man who wouldn’t let me get it done. Ideally if I’m interrupted I need to read what I’ve already written and pick up where I left off. Until you ask another “I’m interested in why you’re blogging” question. Aaaaagh. It’s easier to edit now though. Amazing wonderful Iona lent me her old phone.

But anyway I have no desire whatsoever to explain or justify why I’m writing this or what it means to me, despite this evening being full of those sickening conversations. I have absolutely no desire to justify myself to someone who lacks the basic understanding of creativity needed to give an empty space when asked for. Ugh. Nonsense. Nice guy. But…

Just kick it. We won the kickfoot which is good. We are on track to fulfil our purpose. The guy that kept interrupting me – I liked him. He liked me. We shared a massive steak. But guys: If someone asks for space give them space. Across the board. I would’ve liked him significantly more if he’d let me do what I needed and then come to him…

Meh. Night all. Be kind. Kick it.

Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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