the man from uncle

Following work 12 of our company traipsed off to the pub to await our lifts to The Royal Albert Hall, on arrival we hit the bar to wait for the box to open. To my utter joy the box was stocked up high with wines, sandwiches and canapés of exceptional quality, pretzels, crackers and other tasty comestibles. By the time John Dankworth and his mates had shuffled onstage I was already pissed. I got straight into the music, it was well groovey, that was until Dankworth’s wife, Cleo Lane, nearly 90 or something sauntered onto the stage and fucked the whole thing.

The selection of the Prom this year was down to me. The whole thing is complimentary, due to the nature of my work, and I decided that if I am going be given a freebie then I may as well do my best to enjoy the actual rerason to be at The BBC Proms, i.e., to enjoy music, outside of all the free booze and grub. I chose jazz because it’s closer to the sort of music I like, probably. Anyway, my initial delight at my decision was turned over, stripped and forcibly raped by Cleo’s sparkly dressed appearance.

I still remember this berk on Pebble Mill at 1 making a fucking tool out of herself, and whilst she kept the doo dee doo dee doo wa wa dodles to a minimum her ‘singing’ and compromised tunes to back her ‘songs’ were shit. When she finally went off to change her catheter the music improved considerable and I could relax into it again, despite still warily eyeing the wings for signs of glitter signifying her return.

I was very well lubricated when I left; luckily I got a life back with two colleagues and had them both in for coffee. I happily scoffed gin and we ended up nattering until the wee hours before they left at 4. I’d decided way before that I was going to take the morning off.

Dad and I had arranged to meet for lunch but he called at 9am to cancel and to inform me my sister was off to the gynaecologists. I went back to sleep only to be woken again at 10.20 to be informed I am now uncle Piqued.

My niece, Institute, was delivered by caesarean section which means when she’s all grown up she’ll leave a room via the window and cars through the hatchback.

I can’t see her yet though as my sister is all wired up following having her belly cut wide open. I don’t think this was her preferred method of delivery but needs must. Still my brother in law has a chance for a double celebration, he gets a daughter and his wife’s mimsy won’t resemble a livestock related pile up on the M25.

Oh, I’m over the moon by the way. Welcome to planet earth kid

knarly poo

On the bus this morning my eye was directed towards a little scene taking place on the pavement, or rather, in the middle of a crowded London street. A woman had taken it on herself to drop her young sons trousers, produce a potty from her bag and plonk him right down on it, right there and then. She then had the fucking audacity to kneel beside him and quite obviously egg him on. I’ve no idea what the kid was about to pass but his little red face suggested it wasn’t just a straightforward piss. People passing by delivered a variety of expressions from the bemused to the amused, disparagement to utter disgust. I was in the latter camp. What the fuck has this country come to when some women thinks it’s perfectly acceptable to firstly display her toddlers peas to the whole world prior to not only allowing him to defecate in a public place but to actively will on its passage? They must have been Dutch.

It would be a pretty poor show, I feel, if we all carried on in this manner. The natural conclusion to such a break down of societies values would be to make it acceptable for adults to carry on in the same casual manner. Imagine some skateboarder doing an ollie only to remove his rucksack, produce a Tony Hawk signature Vans potty and ‘cack it off’ there and then.

I’m in a dreadful mood, last night I suggested to Myfwt that my hair needed a trim, before I was in a position to say when and where I’d been dragged into the bathroom and set upon by a drunken girl and some scissors. Full of Pinot Grigio I didn’t put up much of a fight, besides if she pulled it off I could save myself a few quid and anyway her confidence had disarmed me. This was an error, after a few snips her deadly serious Paul Mitchell expression cracked into a huge laughing face. I’m sitting here typing this with a flight of stairs carved into the side of my head. An appointment to a professional has been made.

But that’s not the real reason I’m in a bad mood, it’s because, you’ll note, I arrived here this morning by bus. Tonight there is another fucking works do, this time our annual outing takes us to the BBC fucking Proms at The Royal Albert Hall. God, if it’s not bad enough having to spend the most part of a day with my colleagues but to have to spend additional time with them outside a workplace engaging in an activity so fucking dull I’d have more stimulation picking bits of sweet corn out of my own shit with a blunt pencil.

We’re all still waiting for my sister to drop, I demand to know whether I’m going to be an uncle to a niece or a nephew but she’s selfishly late, nearly a bloody week now. I’ve not been an uncle before, the anticipation of my new role is frankly interrupting my routine and I’m too impatient to relax in my day-to-day life.

By means of distracting and to at least do something to prepare myself for the role I’ve already made a small purchase. A bag of Werthers, I think I’m going to be a fucking brilliant uncle, I really do.