After getting home on Friday evening following another intense yet barely productive afternoon in the fucking office, I decided to ‘check my emails’. Burn wasn’t due over for at least an hour and the cycle home in the sunshine had rather thrilled me. Mid way through a particularly fascinating post featuring a very bored housewife and some Marigolds the mobile went off, it was my boss.
The cunting client who’d been harassing me on Thursday had taken it on her self to forward on all of our complicated correspondence to his mailbox. The poor sod had literally just returned from holiday and was instantly transported to the hideous world of business. He wasn’t best pleased and proceeded to ask me 20 question in one single unending stream of moaning, subsequently my Friday feeling was quashed in favour of feeling fraught as I parried the thrust and blows of what amounted into an interrogation. Protected by a cloak of utter innocence I responded calmly, spoke soothingly, as one would a child who’d dropped his ice cream in their sand pit, and he finally hung up, confused but sated. I received a few apologetic texts and the evening returned to a sense of normality.
I’d not seen Burn in over a year. He and I grew up together as kids, after initial concerns about his politics we aligned and before you know it we were up to our necks in Tequila, hash and magic mushrooms. We followed the same bands and philosophy but Burn being Burn, he took the latter to its conclusion. Whilst I used to dream about doing the whole ‘hippie’ thing, Burn went and did it. He’s just about to build his own eco-friendly property in Wales for his family, an electrician by trade he can pretty much turn his hand to anything practical, his dropping out of college when he was 17 was, in hindsight, a bloody good move.
It’s not surprising then that for fucking years he’s been lending his support, on a voluntary basis of course, to festivals, particularly, Glastonbury. Due to all the running around in the beginning of year and his assumption I’d put all that sort of thing behind me, neither thought to trouble the other. After a good five minutes of head slapping in the local beer garden we’d got so far as to discovering that we were sat a few feet away from each other in the cabaret tent watching Phil Kay.
It was a glorious evening; Burn and I had some time to catch up before being joined by Frank and then James. We sat outside drinking under a warm golden sunset before going back in inside to finish the evening off in the cool of the pub. At one point Burn lit up at the table, I pointed out that he was smoking and he looked at me as if I’d said ‘you’ve got a face’ before realising it was now unlawful and darting outside before the landlord noticed.
After a few more than we should we all wondered off to the Shawarma shop and procured some delicious chicken wraps, Frank took his off home and we three returned back to the flat to continue our reunion. After Burn retired James and I stayed up into the small hours drinking whisky in the full knowledge that we’d pay for our sins on Saturday.
By the time he and I had got up Burn had already gone to see his family, he was wise not to have stayed up after 1am, James and I were fucked. I made some bacon and eggs and we sat about in the lounge watching Friday’s Big Brother groaning from dehydration but our obscene comments directed at some of the female housemates kept the worst of it under some sort of control.
After James left at lunchtime I watched the F1 qualifying, very controversial it was too, great stuff, before heading off do to the bastard weekly shop at fucking Sainsbury. Mercifully I was spared a panic attack and I was in and out in 30 minutes. The rest of Saturday afternoon was occupied by The Guardian, Lara fucking bitch twatting bloody Croft (I unstuck myself and got stuck again almost instantly) before setting off once again to imbibe in the sunshine with Frank.
After 3 sensible pints of Bombardier I got back and made some sauce for a superb home made cheese and ham pizza and hung about the place with a few glasses of Pinot Grigio. I tried to watch a movie but decided to listen to an old Venom album instead. Sensibly I was in bed by midnight so I could have some sort of a Sunday.
I got up at 9-ish, I couldn’t stay in bed, it was already warm and too bright to relax. Myfwt was due over later on so I got some writing done, had fresh kipper with toast and tea and settled down for the Grand Prix.
My intention following the racing was to go for a good scratch on the black bitch. Yesterday it was the World Superbike championships at Brands Hatch, my local circuit and a firm favourite. Dad had called me up on Saturday afternoon to remind me it was on and see if we should maybe go as we have in previous years. I’m not really sure why I declined, possibly a combination of sheer laziness (I would’ve had to get up early and once there walk miles in the baking heat through huge crowds) and OCD, my unbreakable Sunday was planned, I was going to write, have kippers and watch the Grand Prix for fucks sake…
I felt like a right cunt after the GP, actually I was furious with myself and couldn’t even face a ride aware that every decent Sunday afternoon biker would be at the track, where my spirit was. Bollocks to all of it, I thought as I shut the blinds, switched on the PS2 and met up with Lara. Four hours of my life I’ll never get back, the dirty bitch.
I was saved early evening by Myfwt, I must have looked like Gollum when she walked into the near darkness of my lounge. We had a splendid Sunday tea of pates and cheeses, hams, cucumber, coleslaw, potato salad and sun-drenched tomatoes, sliced and salted, with an assortment of breads and crackers. Despite a day of overt slobbery I was happy to continue in the same vein, punctuated with a few G & T’s and some grass the evening slid off towards the fresh crisply sheeted bed in a most conducive manner.
The boss is still very upset about this business with the cunting client, a colleague and I have colluded to suppress his angst and offer some sort of a solution to the matter. Another bloody Monday, let’s just see if this week I can make something of being in this place.
Bloody arseholes. (Not the following)
futile screamings from a git 