Have I written before about the 'Radge Factor' and the 'Radge Line'? To ask is to presume that you lap up every single syllable of my golden prose like a thirsty cat to a saucer of Premier Dairies' finest, but I don't care. It's my blog and I'll play the narcissist if I want to.
Anyway, back in college there was known to be a 'Radge Line,' only it was known by my family name as opposed to my moniker here. The 'Radge Line' was the least amount of college work you could do while still doing enough to avoid summer repeats or censure by the heads of the faculty.
I was one lazy fucker but somehow I always managed to wing it to within an inch of a cat's fingernail. Yes, feline metaphors abound in this piece.
My classmates knew that falling below the 'Radge Line' would mean an awkward conversation with Niall - the big boss man - at best, expulsion at worst.
And why did the 'Radge Line' exist? It existed because of the 'Radge Factor'.
The 'Radge Factor' decreed that I would always, always land my arse into a truckload of feathers, or cat hairs, no matter how dangerous the fall. I would have to seek nothing out, stuff just happened to me. Good stuff.
I was one lucky and lazy fucker, at least until college ended and I had to become a proper person like other people.
Today the 'Radge Factor' kicked in again.
Something good happened. And I'm leaving it at that because I know you'll all be back, you shameless bunch of Radgophiles, even if I refuse to engage in closure.