Do You Realise The Power Of Metal?

Metal christmas

Get out of my way! My brow is furrowed and I look angry. My stride is one of power and determination, much like one of the female candidates on The Apprentice. Yeah, I’m a strong, independent woman!

 

I may as well have a large neon sign over my head that says, “Don’t mess with me!” and if I could hear my footsteps, no doubt they would be pounding into the floor with large earth shattering thumps.

 

If I could roar, I probably would but as I’m just getting over a chest infection, it’s probably best that I don’t. (I’m feeling a lot better now. Thank you for wondering and your concerned thoughts that you no doubt had immediately after reading that sentence.)

 

That’s the power of music you see. From my ears there are two white wires leading into the inside pocket of my winter coat. The earphones emitting music, which I haven’t listened to in years. Not just any music. Metal!!

 

I don’t know why it affects me so. But alas, when the Metal is playing I become empowered. When doing the house work, if I have Metal playing directly into my head, then you’d better not stand in my way because I will vacuum straight through you!

 

The only other music to have such an effect is the Rocky IV soundtrack. I made the mistake of going out for a “short” run once whilst having that playing on my IPod. I don’t know what happened because I must have blanked out. I woke up in Aberystwyth, with a flat IPod battery and my trainers smouldering. When I asked a local what had happened, apparently I’d been shouting, “Drago,” a lot before collapsing. It made Forrest Gump look like a work of fiction.

 

Now, as I listened to the distorted guitars, pounding drums and aggressive wailing of the lead singer, who by the way had clearly suffered in their lifetime by the sounds of the screams, although I couldn’t exactly distinguish the lyrics but anyway, I was an unstoppable force. I was walking like a badass and if anyone were to get in my way, like a very large muscular thug, like a gang of racists, like a stampede of Dudley folk on giro day, God help them for they will meet an immovable object; me. Why? Because I’m listening to Metal!

 

“Sorry officer for all of the casualties left in my wake, but I had somewhere to go and I was listening to Metal!”

 

“What’s that? One of the unconscious is Britain’s most violent and highly dangerous escaped convict? Oh right. Didn’t even break into a sweat.”

 

“What? You want to nominate me for a special reward for heroism? Hey, it wasn’t me, it was Metal!”

 

“What was that Lord Mayor? You want to give me the key to Dudley? No, you’re okay thanks.”

 

So what if I was wearing a flat cap? So what if I had glasses on? So what if I was wearing sensible shoes and business trousers and a scarf because of my recent chest infection whilst shrouded in a sensible, thick, three quarter length, winter coat? Image is nothing, mind-set is everything and I was listening to Metal.

 

I was thinking, it could kick off right now and I would be the lone survivor!

 

Get out of my way woman with French stick! Don’t push that trolley into my path old man, you could end up wearing it! Easy there, old lady giving me evils, you could end up in the sprouts!

 

Because I am a man, listening to Metal, in Tesco, with a basket, in search for decent Christmas cards, perhaps some that are labelled as luxury.

 

What exactly is “luxury” about Christmas cards anyway? When I think of luxury, I imagine waking up in a swanky hotel room, overlooking a deserted golden beach, blue skies and calm blue seas. Or I imagine having a Jacuzzi or a bubble bath with a ridiculous amount of bubbles, maybe even scented candles but only for the missus of course!! When I think of luxury, I don’t think of a bloody Christmas card with glitter on it, which you’re begrudgingly filling in the same thing you say every year out of obligation because if you don’t give some people a card, they’ll take offence! Bah!

Anyway, thanks to the Metal I was in and out in about five minutes and when I got home I showed Mrs Grump the fruits of my labour.

 

She wasn’t impressed. She’s said that next year, I should give her the money and she’ll buy them for me. I think they’re alright.

 

Metal, good for aggressive cleaning or for taking on the might of Tesco. Not great for picking a Christmas card that gets the approval of the good lady.

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