I read in Saturday’s Guardian that a Lord Mancroft, a grizzled reprehensible Tory Peer, had branded nurses as ‘grubby, drunken and promiscuous’ during a Lord’s debate following a spell in Royal United Hospital in Bath for gout or something. Being a fucking Tory he couldn’t leave it at that and among the choice insults called them ‘slipshod’ and ‘lazy with dirty fingernails and hair’ and generally crowed on about what a terrible time he had and how lucky he was to be alive blah blah.
Firstly what sort of self-respecting Tory doesn’t have private healthcare? Really, what is this man doing with his gargantuan salary and inherited fortunes? He’s either blown it all on sniff and harpies, is tighter than a wasps arsehole or is a moonlighting Communist. Secondly, and more importantly, how dare he criticise nurses, the backbone of any medical institution (whether it be private or public) without whom hospitals simply couldn’t exist. They are under worked, overpaid and perpetually stressed, especially having to nurse cunts like him. I’m sure some do enjoy a casual drink/shag, so what? Coming from a Tory that’s the pot calling the kettle black if nothing else. It shows such an enormous degree of callowness that ‘Mancroft’ should slip into the English Dictionary as ‘an oafish ignoramus so far removed from any sense of reality due to their being weaned on truffles, caviar and gold, that they still think their plops are made of chocolate and they wee wee lemonade’. I hope his knob rots off.
The weekend was good from the off, even the bike back from work on Friday was the stuff of trophies. I met Swineshead and Frank in the local for a few ales; I love that time of the week, the embryonic stage of the weekend having a laugh and joke with ones pals, the working week behind and freedom ahead -diametrically opposed as I type this, bugger- and I arrived back at flat feeling right nice and that.
I made supper and Myfwt joined me for a few glasses of champagne (I’d been given a bottle at work –I’m not some sort of fucking hooray Henry like that berk mentioned at the beginning of this post) and we ate fresh pasta and salmon, which was delicious but overly plentiful. We then had one of those dead heavy conversations which wasn’t as bad as it sounds before Myfwt, recently having given up smoking, cracked and smoked a tab before being sick everywhere. Bless her.
Saturday morning didn’t happen for either of us, at midday we stirred and following a light breakfast she went off shopping and I nipped off to meet Frank to take some of his old shit to the dump. Fortuitously Frank lives near Sainsbury so I was able to get the weekly shop done before getting back home to get ready for the evening.
I’d not been to Jamie’s place in years; he lives in the middle of nowhere in deepest darkest Surrey and despite him giving me an email containing location instructions I pored over a not very satisfactory map for a good 15 minutes to familiarise myself with a route. It was dusk by the time I set off, I lazily battled with the early evening traffic heading South on the A217 towards all fields and trees and shit. I found my turning onto the B road without problem but then I was suddenly plunged into Hammer Horror lanes and confusing little wooden signs, so archaic that the functioning end depicted little carved pointing hands… I parked up in the middle of a terrifyingly silent black copse and called Jamie. I was still miles away but after some instruction I gladly set off again.
The thing about all just fields is they don’t have street lighting and not being familiar with where I was going the ride became a little unnerving, especially when the road would just drop away and sharply bend without warning. After a good 10 minutes of pitch black scratching I turned down a lane and approached a house with a man hold a torch and waving a giant stick at me. I’d arrived.
Jamie and his missus have just had their second son; she’d taken them off to her mum’s for mother’s day so Jamie and I had the gaff to ourselves. The house, a 15-century cottage, is plonked into a vast landscape of woods, rivers and fields as far as the eye can see, a stark contrast to the spittle-drenched pavements of Tooting. There are a few other houses in the hamlet, a huge gothic church (famed for being featured in Four Weddings and a Funeral) a single lane bridge over a small river and a 16th Century Coach house which is where were we drunk Young’s Special in front of an open fire and chatted the evening away. After a good few we wandered out into the darkness, still clutching our pints and walked into the dark woodland by the river and happened upon a Second World War pillbox that we investigated by the light of my Zippo. The wind whooshed through the tall trees and little creatures scuttled and darted in and out the leaves and boughs, Jamie and I wandered by the still river lit by the moon and we took time and care to pick up vast rotten branches and hurl them into the water. It was like being a child again, the booze had stripped away the oppressive cynicism of adulthood and the huge closely knitted trees released a long forgotten sense of trepidation and barely suppressed joy at just being able to innocently explore.
We arrived back at the cottage all muddy and breathless. Jamie got his old heavy metal singles out and we spent the rest of the night popping back bottles of beer and alternating between his lounge and makeshift studio in the shed in the garden. Jamie is a superlative musician; he’s a knack for achingly gorgeous tunes but with not a jot of ego in his body is happy to confine his gigs to himself and, if I’m lucky, me. I’ve no idea what time we went to bed, I just remember waking up to the sound of church bells and a million different birds singing their tiny hearts out. Even the skin wrinkling hangover couldn’t stop me taking time to relish the idyll, despite a long held atheism, I love the sound of church bells, me.
The bike back home was terrific, it was sunny and bright and the roads clear and fast, I roared out of the country and wound my way back into the city. I had a late lunch and changed into my leathers in order to make a dash for my parents. Most of the journey is on the A3, three lanes of very quick biking, it’s easy to cruise at 120+ so long as the traffic allows it. If I’m not physically shaking by the time I arrive at my destination I’ve not worked hard enough.
My mum was gifted up with flowers and what have you and my siblings arrived with their respective other halves. My niece made an appearance too, she’s teething, on the brink of crawling and being all fractious and giggly at any given moment. When she’s in the room, the whole family just sit and watch her going about her baby business. After a few hours of merriment I had to go. I’d made an appointment to suck back a farewell weekend pint with Frank and shot back with my engagement driving me ever onwards. I parked up and walked into my flat. To my disgust Cunt was stood in the hallway looking past me, he won’t look me in the eye these days so I deliberately stare intently at his mug with as much volume as possible. Some words fell out of his vacuous gob, I sneered back, all the while wishing his tiny black heart would pop so I could watch his face gurn in abject agony and observe in silence as he crumpled yelping to the carpet… No such luck of course.
The weekend closed as it had started, pub, then home to Myfwt and supper, sensational seafood and spinach bake with puff pastry, and a little glass of wine, naturally.
It’s metal Monday… they do and so do I