‘Aaah, great’, I thought as I sat down in my leather armchair, feet up on the stool, remote in hand all set up to watch the ‘Grunge’ episode of ‘The Seven Ages of Rock’.
I was about 10pm and I’d just eaten some of Prince Charles disappointing though more-than-okay Cumberland sausages with some broccoli and peas, a glass of wine sat by my side, the last squeezed drops out of the bottomless wine box. I was genuinely thrilled to throw the fucking thing away.
Yesterday, for the first time in almost a month, I biked in to work on my black bitch, I had some shit to do in Wimbledon at lunchtime (whose wanker quota is worse than usual due to the fucking tennis) and I didn’t fancy public transport, due to the said tennis/wanker equation. On leaving work I noticed that half the sky had turned as black as sabbath and that I was in danger of getting a right proper fucking soaking unless I fucked off out of it, quick sharp. I mistimed my journey by 5 minutes and got soaked to the bone. The fact that my waterproof jacket which has survived all manner of wet conditions failed to keep me dry should act as some pathetic yardstick as to my drenching… If it doesn’t, to announce that the most concealed part of my undercarriage (by that I mean my scrotum) was wringing wet should clear the matter up.
Last night on my return from the pub with Frank I once again got caught in a shower of such intensity that the 5 minute walk resulted in head to toe wetness, during the walk I was pondering on some smut I’d caught earlier, I was literally soaked to the boner. Indeed, last night on the way to the pub, following a change out of the wet clothes from the earlier ride, I got yet another fucking drenching on the way to meeting Frank and his dad in the now smokefree boozer.
The pub has got worse, the number of female senior citizens sat round huge plates of food has doubled, really, sooner or later someone has to say something before they start buying and selling homemade plum jam and shortbread, the old bastards. Had a splendid evening, Franks dad was high up in the British Army and whilst he and I could be seen as chalk and cheese (ironically I was informed of the origins of that term by Franks dad only last night) we get on splendidly, we even undertook a discussion about religion which is a territory I tend to avoid with those of a religious persuasion as I’m liable to cause offence.
Anyway, I was still very damp when I got home after 9, and for the third time in 24 hours, I peeled off my soaking garments and hung them up/threw them in the washing machine. I faffed about with the food, got a few things together for the day ahead, and there I was, just about to settle in front of the fucking TV when this happened…
(Thinking) ‘Mmm, I think I’ll call Myfwt’s first’
‘Yes, do it, call her’
‘Great, I will…’
‘Yes, where’s my phone?’
‘Oh it’s right… hang on it’s…’
‘No, I can’t have left in my trouser pocket?’
‘You fucking cunt’
‘No, I didn’t, I wouldn’t have…’
‘You stupid fucking cunt, it’s in the fucking washing machine’
The cycle had just come to an end, I opened the washing machine door, still in denial, until the phone fell out onto the kitchen floor like a dead fish.
I biked in to work again today because at lunch I have to go to fucking Wimbledon to buy a new fucking phone.
I’m not happy.