I’ve never really been one for making resolutions on January 1st, as I tend to resolve quite a lot during the year anyways. Often I stop drinking alcohol for extended periods of time or engage in sporadic health kicks as a result of an unexpected glimpse of my girth in a misplaced mirror. Or someone kindly taking a photograph of my globulous chin waddle and putting it on Facebook…….
However, of late I’ve been reflecting on my ever-advancing age and the ever-present nagging feeling that I should be doing just that little bit more. More towards ticking some of the bits and bobs off the mental to-do list of things I’d like to do, but as a result of life, am yet to get to-done.
This is no revolution. My to-do list is not grandiose, spectacular or internet meme worthy. There will be no dolphin swimming, no blue-sky parachuting or champagne fuelled hot-air ballooning. I will most certainly not be socialising more, tending a community allotment with the Good Life neighbours, or be adopting a family less well off than mine.
I will, however, vow, in the interests of New Year equanimity, not put the family I already have up for adoption.
I await my O.B.E.
So in the interests of not over-facing myself, or risking falling at the first hurdle, I have selected just one item off the to-do list, which I consider to be the most pressing. The one that has lingered. The itch I have never scratched. A youthful exuberant fancy from yesteryear….
So on this day of January 1st 2017, I hereby do resolve to solve the Rubik’s Cube.
Simply put, I deem no life to be truly worth living without such a marvellous success as this. That my existence will ever be truly worthy unless I can stand proudly in front of my peers and do the Cube with all the aplomb of Paul Daniels with an ace up his sleeve.
I have long longed to master the moves of the cube, but have never found the time. Something I do solemnly regret. Instead, I have allowed myself to be distracted by the foolish fathering of three tearaway children, hell-bent on creating an unholy cacophony. I have taken my eye off the ball and let it rest upon the skirting boards of life…..
……Skirting boards, which if you don’t mind me saying, need a bloody good polish now and again. It’s what separates us from the beasts. Nothing says I have given up on life and am most likely wearing reversed underwear‘ like an untended skirting board so covered in filth it would not look out of place in the Temple of Doom.
But I digress…..
After several strong vodka cocktails on New Year’s Evening and a very satisfying conversation about the Rubik algorithms with a man who works in the backrooms of Apple, I Amazon’d my very own cube. It is currently whistling its way my way….
This alcohol induced stepping stone to my future AMAZINGNESS was brought about inadvertently as I was handed a Rubik Cube without motive. A Rubik’s Cube that had been bought for a small blonde boy, who’s house I was now drunk in.
Fate works in mysterious ways. I was holding my childhood dreams in my drunken and blurry hands.
As the cube and I became acquainted and I slowly put it through my learner driver paces, two things immediately sprang to mind.
One – how much I desperately wanted to be able to solve that bad boy right then and there. To win New Year. To drop the mic and be the King of the World. To have the ladies lay at my feet in admiration. All sparkly and admiring.
The second was that the action on the Cube was SO unbelievably smooth and satisfying, that it brought to mind (what I in an instant now realised was) the knock-off Rubik’s Cube that my appalling parents bought for my birthday back in 1979.
What I had in my hand now was like driving a vintage Austin Martin along Sunset Boulevard with Catherine Hepburn sitting seductively in the passenger seat. The Cubix Rube from Pudsey Market, that my soon to be ex-communicated parents bought me, I vividly remember was like trying to push an Austin Allegro with a flat tyre up Ben Nevis.
Crunching one’s way through the shoddy imitation from the Leeds market in 1979 was akin to being a practising chiropractor. Any child with the finger muscles to be able to solve such a knock-off would have been instantly whisked off to the circus to bend steel bars for the masses.
I could probably have solved the Rubik Cube back in the 1970’s, back when it was cool and I was a kid, had I the finger strength of Charles Atlas. It seems just yesterday that each quarter turn rotation of my cube from hell was like trying to de-lid a jar of pickles rusted shut in a century old damp pantry. Damn my destitute childhood and sacrificed life chances…..
And so the seeds were sewn as Big Ben chimed and the fireworks illuminated the sky.
So I solemnly resolve that as soon as the Man from Amazon delivers my genuine Rubik’s cube to my front door, and my wife takes receipt, I will god damn solve that bad boy like my cantankerous, troubled life depended on it.
I will then post a video to this very website to prove my glorious magnificence and make good for that little lad from Yorkshire with average finger strength and a simple dream.
Happy New Year everyone. Make it count.
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