The Scottification of Fatmammyat.

Chumley Finn and I talk regularly about motivation. We do a spot of bolstering and some 'kick ass take names' talk that is sometimes needed to drag reluctant runners and what not out from warm houses into cold damp days to train for things.
Sometimes this works, other times...not so much.
Motivation is a strange bedfellow. I consider myself quite a good self motivator. I genuinely don't need anyone standing over me, or indeed behind me, to make myself do things. All I need is to tune into whatever frequency the 'nagging self' operates on and I'm off. (I can also tune that out at will, and therein lies the problem) This self-motivation gift holds true for work as well as training, and since I work for myself that's a bloody good thing, other wise there would be a whole lot of reading books and toast eating done in this house in lieu of actual work.

But some days that frequency is hard to locate, either that or I am deliberately scrambling it.
Today is such a day.
It was a mildly depressing sort of morning. I should have gone to the gym, but the bed was warm and cosy. I must go and pay my motor tax-this in itself is very distressing as I hate paying motor tax- and this requires me to get dressed and go to Nutgrove and queue-which I also despise. I need to make an appointment for Puddy with the vet, ear again, but that requires me to use a phone. I have a meeting later on, hate those too. I have all these sodding things to do today and I just don't feel like doing any of them.
I am befunked.
I probably shouldn't have read the 'thinking' behind the latest school massacre carried out by another deranged attention seeking fuck-wit, because it depressed the hell out if me. Finland this time, but geography does not matter. Same shit different continent, just another psychotic bullshit attention seeking beta dog lashing out at the world.
Like I say depressing sort of non-day.
Motivation zip.
So it was with wild delight that I perused the pages of the sun and found Scott Alexander, the vainest man in Britain. Awestruck, I read his story

Well I"m flabbergasted. I don't know what to make of it. My experience of chaps had led me to believe that a shower, possibly a shave and some deodorant was all that was required and a man was good to go. It appears not. Actually this guy puts women to shame too.
Frankly Scott has made me feel down right slovenly. I mean, I've never tinted my eyebrows, or used a sun bed and I"m a woman, what the hell is wrong with me?
'"365 days a year I"m in photo shoot condition'" he said Can you imagine that? 365 days a year! What sort of dedication that must take. I still need to go to the dentist and get that back molar seen too, but that kind of arse dragging would disgust someone like Scott. He has B1 white veneers fitted. Look at his hair, nary a split end in sight. Blemishes, bah, for losers.
The man gets up at 6 am to work out. Every. morning. without. fail.
I could feel myself sinking further into my chair at the very thought.
I issued myself a mental slap. Get up Fatcat. Arise! Cast off your fleece and comfy slippers, go have a shower. Tame that mop, make it submit. Put on a full face of make up and face the day. Scott has tattooed No1 on his manly tanned moisturised arm, surely you can draw on eyebrows. Surely you can put on shoes with actual heels? Well? well?
You can do this Melvin!
I'm going to make Scott my screensaver.
Scottify! Scottify! Can I get a witness? Hell yeah, Scottify.