When you’re round a table and only two of you have all your original parts. Fortunaty as some one who has never looked after himself I’m glad to report that I was one of the still intact individuals.

During a heated defence of cyclists a “friend” of mine called me a “sad old git” and that wanting to say “Morning” to people was, I think she was suggesting, a sign of loneliness. The trouble is, as with many of these things, there’s a hint of truth there and for a few days it spun me into a haze of despondency.

The nature of friendship is a complex thing and possibly borders on the spiritual for being something that defies description. The rub for me as far as friendship goes is that the bond that exists should not be too dependent on one side making emotional sacrifices to keep the relationship going (Hey, that’s what marriage is for!).

The difficulty I have with friendship is that my interests rarely coincide with the people I meet, especially in Hastings and the circle I found myself in when I came here. A good example is politics. Very few people seem to view the infinitely complex field of how people relate to one another and the ruling structures that emerge from this in anything other than a crass series of stereotypes where the massively simplified augments of others are taken on board then defended by manipulation of guilt; it was once said to me by a member of Transport 2000 that if I had no objection to 4×4s I must believe in killing children. Whatever the rights and wrongs of things the lazy refusal to engage with the vast subtleties of life with anything but moronic cyphers and blackmail does not just make conversation pointless but boring. Add to this the oozing self righteousness of the unsuccessful artist, of which this town is plentifully blessed, and you have a situation where one either has to nod in agreement while gagging or make excuses and leave.

Me, I like it when someone says “Good Morning” to me, it makes me feel good and I hope the same goes for the people I say “Good Morning” to, no big deal, no harm done…

Patrick plans his escape from the grasping hands of sponging artists.

Last Thursday I hit 15 stone, this was a real shock. Ever since France the diet has not got back on track, I’ve not fully lost the plot but it was creeping up again; 15 stone, or 96 bags of sugar as it’s properly known is a step too far.

One of the main barriers to loosing weight are friends and acquaintances (& Mothers!) saying “You don’t need to loose any more, that would be unhealthy”. What this translates to is “I’ve got too much fat around my own bones and if Steve Hardy becomes lighter and fitter than me I might have to be honest with myself”. Not one person who has said this to me has every looked into it scientifically, put simply the weight I would like to be, 11.5 stone is in the MID range of my optimum BMI (my height being 6.1), not the low end, the mid range. If you are a guy at around 6 foot and you are over 13 stone you are over-weight (I was 18 in January), you can kid your self all you want but you are lying, it’s as simple as that. If you want to live for ever, as I do, and not with your head strapped to a robot, you’ve got to stop carrying around all that excess.

The other thing is looking good naked, I don’t – as a few women can attest from their asylum rooms. And though I don’t really want to put another poor soul through that experience it would be nice to think I could; sadly vanity does not completely die with age!

Old guys giving exercise a bad name (with apologises to the “kid” in this group, Steve Smith)

A couple of years ago my Dad died of bowel cancer, he also had dementia; he hadn’t a clue where he was but thankfully till nearly the end he remembered who his family were. I recount this because the last few days my mind has been working as if I still lived in Eastbourne where I was till four years ago before I moved to Hastings. A few times I have been given directions in Hastings, for instance someone might say “you know where the police station is” and I will think, “yes, by the town hall in South Street”, er, no, thats Eastbourne. As you can imagine I then remember Dads end, inducing mild panic.

A year back I had, shall we say, symptoms of something untoward in a personal place so for the first time in my life I saw my doctor wielding rubber gloves (imagine Rod Hull & Emu), the happy ending was haemorrhoids but it scared me. Now I have Eastbourne, a place I loath, infecting my mind. I expect it’ll pass and, as there’s no such thing as rubber gloves for the head, I wont do anything about it. I can remember being in my late teens/early twenties and wanting to “die before I got old” now of course I want to live forever just at the moment you become aware you can’t, bummer!

Arrggghhh!

Those of us who study world affairs are aware that we are approaching a cross roads in history, I of course do not refer to the looming trivial American election or the comical sight of our own country being led by a wounded bison, no, I am talking about the return of Fatboy. My desperate search for the inner Adonis, the physical perfection that characterised my youth (with lies like that surely Presidential running mate is only a matter of time) has reached a plateau and Fatboy appears to be beginning his return journey. September will tell, if I can’t get into the thirteen’s by the end of the month I’m in trouble.

No daemons here, oh no. (picture by Emily Hardy)