I’m still in a foul mood.
My disposition wasn’t helped by Masterchef last night either. Out of the three finalists there were two I wouldn’t have minded winning, the wiry 18 year old posho whose talents were without exception (pssst, she should’ve won, she’ll get her chance, she’s a wee lassie) or the jowl heavy ‘single father of two’ (Christ didn’t they wheel that out at any opportunity) Belfast fellow who, for some reason, I kept expecting to say ‘it’s got spunk in it’ when introducing his sauce-heavy comfort food.
I didn’t have anything against the winner, apart from his ‘Dancing in the Moonlight’ haircut but, without any good reason, resented his being able to jack in his ££££ job as a barrister in order to engage in an early evening TV cook-off. Obviously his gamble paid off, Masterchef has enjoyed unprecedented viewing figures this time round and I’m sure bubble locks will fulfil his dream of owning and running a beach side eatery which may well enjoy Michelin star status within 5 years, the cunt.
Myfwt has maintained her new status as a non-smoker, which is of course great (for her). In order to show support for this wilful, I mean, commendable, act of tenacity I’m having to smoke surreptitiously, as if my habit is like some dreadful sexual deviancy that I wish to shield from my loved ones for fear of serious reprisals. Subsequently, last night, I had one tab, one, leaning so far out of my kitchen window it was only my toes preventing me plunging to my death. Furthermore, to ensure the smoke went out of the room and didn’t blow back in I forced the delicious fumes from my face with such ferocity I could’ve powered Cornwall. It was like being 15 again and living with my parents.
Having a close relationship with a person who has just quit requires Ghandi-level diplomacy. This isn’t surprising, even David Bowie said giving up smoking is harder than giving up smack, but that is of small comfort to both parties when one is looking at the other as if they’ve just done a shit in a cot for blinking too quickly. Any misdemeanour -this can include sitting loudly or having hair- on the part of the person brave enough to maintain their loyalty to Messrs.
B&H in the face of the newly manumitted fumier must be counted with profuse and fawning regret or punishment, nay death, will be swift. This may require the smoker to act out some sort of penance of their own volition, don’t wait to be asked, calmly push the broken wine glass into your liver smiling gratefully. Anything to save the other testicle.
The weekend beckons culminating in Mothers day on Mothers day. I have minor plans before that, some unresolved but the important thing is that I don’t have to be in this fucking office for a couple of days.
Right, the (edited) Friday list followed by an unapologetic offing from a band I loved years ago before going right off them. The singer couldn’t sing (though lyrically there is some merit) the drummer was useless but somehow they managed to pull this off. It’s 10 minutes long and stunning. There I’ve said it. I expect condemnation for this but please give it a shot (bear in mind the song comprises of two very different halves). The video is effective too, mainly because you can’t see the band themselves. Note ‘The Wall’ footage…
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