Cod Almighty | Article

by Alistair Wilkinson

27 September 2003

You know when you can't be bothered, can't be arsed, can't be fussed, can't be anything? Well this is how I found myself on Saturday: not bothered, arsed or fussed, just under a deepening cloud of lethargy.

Sitting becomes an art form, twisting your body into that most comfortable of positions until you're slumped. I spent Saturday slumped, occasionally slumping from chair to settee, but on the whole slumped. I like sitting, lounging, flattening myself into a limb danglingly, slovenly repose. It's nice. 

But what of Town, I hear you cry. I couldn't afford to go – the perpetual excuse of the forever skint. "It's only a few miles down the road, and you made it to Bristol." The accusations of my own mind fill me with guilt. How many voices in there? They're all ganging up on me. Bugger off the lot of you! 

Perhaps it was guilt, and the heavy pull of my empty pockets that forced me down into this slump. The missus and me sprawled across the living room, waiting for Alan Partridge to regale us with news of Town. It's a good job the radio has a remote control or we might never have listened to anything, but the radio's on so it's on with the show. 

Town kick off and I've finally moved, forced by hunger into the kitchen; there's bacon in here somewhere. It sounds like Town have a lively start, going at Wednesday; chances are created. 

Inactivity breeds inactivity. I'm stood in the kitchen and even my mind's shut down. "Where's the bacon?" I shout through to the room. 

"Did you check the fridge?" The missus states the obvious – why it wasn't obvious to me I don't know. It's strange; everything is in haze, Town on the radio, bacon in the fridge. Two of life's constants, two anchors, but not today it seems. 

Not paying attention to football is, it seems, too easy; it's become such a regular facet of my life that, on occasion, I take it for granted. "Town could have been two or three up," Mr Tondeur informs me. "Could we?" The missus and football-listening guest both look at me. "Yeah." It seems I'm missing the action, also it seems my mood is catching. 

Now bacon sandwiched up, the comfort grows nearer and the football drifts further. The missus is reading the paper, guest and me chatting idly, when suddenly a coherent thought enters the fuzzy walls of my head – why hadn't I thought of it before? 

"We've got beer in the fridge! It's right next to the bacon!" It had taken fully twenty minutes for the beer to register, but it was there now. Excellent – bottles and cans cracked open, a liquid refreshment to rejuvenate my attention. 

What does beer do to the attention? Suddenly only snippets of footy were getting through. We looked worse after Cas went off. Cas went off? A freak injury to Pressman, that was me buggered, Pressman has always reminded me of a Ninja Turtle, the rest of the half lost in bacon, beer and a certain cartoon theme tune running through my head. 

It was official: I couldn't be bothered. The pretence was maintained, but the radio was playing to itself; it couldn't compete with beer, bacon, newspapers and random conversation. 

Did I care? At that moment, no, I caught a couple more quotes. "Mid-table mediocrity," declared Partridge. "Who?" I jerked my attention back round. "Both, I think" said guest. Oh dear, then slumped again. "Neither team deserves to win this" –Partridge again. At least I'm not missing much. 

I have missed much, I know and regret that now, Town are there to be watched or listened to, it doesn't matter if we're good, bad or indifferent, I should have listened. I didn't listen; Town got a point but I don't really know how. "What are you gonna put in your poem this week?" asked the missus. 

"Oh I can't be bothered," I replied.