The usual late Saturday afternoon hell in Sainsbury took on an extraordinary dimension. Apart from being more crowded than I’ve even seen in previous visits, there weren’t enough trolleys and I had to race an inactive middle age slattern for the last available one, well I say ‘race’ I simply walked faster than she did, she sped up of course but, dead casual like, I was even pretending to find something in my nose, I walked as fast as I could (though making it seem as if I wasn’t) and grabbed the trolley at the last second prior to her Cumberland sausage fingers closing over the bar, and made my way into food utopia, smirking.
Of course, I got my comeuppance. Having secured a trolley and being used to the lay out of the store I made adequate progress through all the track suited fuckwits and gold hooped jizz guzzlers to reach my goal, the alcohol isle, before paying one of the worn out cashiers and getting out of it. But I’d forgotten Marmite. Marmite is one of the hardest fucking things to find in a supermarket because it defies category, making it more confusing is the little jams, marmalades, peanut butter section (essentially ‘spreads’) near ‘cakes and bread’, doesn’t feature Marmite… After wandering about for ages picking up little bits of stuff along the way, I found Marmite-land at the END of an isle. I angrily grabbed a jar and went back to my trolley, which was… where?
I have this habit of occasionally parking my trolley; it’s quicker to move around without it, and coming back to it with goods. Due to all of the exasperation in locating Marmite and being distracted by the throngs of prols I’d utterly forgotten where the punctured Christ I’d left it… With an armful of Marmite, tinned tomatoes, peppercorns and shoe polish of all things, Saturday shoppers were privy to a red faced man on the verge of a full on fucking freak out darting from isle to isle with his eyeballs out on stalks. I caught the eye of a 6-year-old boy, who’d been griping about crisps; in seconds he was clutching his mothers leg with a look of mortal terror on his face, the little shit. After 20 fucking minutes, 20, I found it in the dog and cat food section, parked by my caring subconscious, as that was the place least likely to cause an obstruction to the wankers in the store. I was close to tears, not just from frustration but because of the milk of my human kindness.
Friday evening began at 4pm when my bro called to tell me that he was indeed about for a few beers. I’d resigned myself to a night in so the change in fortune was welcome. I was in the boozer in Clapham before 6, remarkably tables were still available and within 10 minutes there were 3 of us, the third person being a mate of my bro, Andy, who like me has a penchant for screaming men singing about the glories of Satan. It was a top night, 3 men, beers, talking about metal, pop-ups and birds, yes, birds with tits and things. I was home rocking out by 12 and later joined by Myfwt at 1 who’d been out with one of her pals.
After the awful shopping trip I expected to spend the night with a bottle of wine, TV and headphones but my plans were delightfully thwarted by a call from James with an offer of the pub. Fifteen minutes before he and I were due to meet I got a call from a very distressed Mytfwt who was on her way to a party. Last year following some expensive (and painful) root canal work she’d had a crown fitted on her second premolar. To her utter horror the fucking thing had decided to fall out. She was forced to cancel her engagement and I urged her to return home at once for some soothing wines, James was diverted to my place and before I knew it, a little impromptu party was underway. By 1am we were all thoroughly giggling pissed, Blonde on Blonde in the background, candles blazing with all the woes of the day left miles behind to sob on the side of the kerb.
Subsequently Sunday morning was written off, most of the afternoon was spent in bed watching Jamie at Home until Myfwt and I decided we should go into town for a spot of book shopping. We came back and I made roast pork with all the expected trimmings, Top Gear, Ewan and Charlie then bed followed. Then Cunt started making a fucking noise at midnight which was suppressed by me kicking the floor. The fucking snivelling little oh why wasn’t he aborted woke me up at 3.30 forcing me to boot the floor again and make an appointment to give him a bollocking when I get back this evening.
James knows all about Cunt so when I told him I was going to go to the Council to make an official complaint he flagged up a warning. Theoretically Cunt is devaluing my property by being a ‘noisy neighbour’, having this officially noted could be bad news when it comes to selling… I wish him testicular cancer.
Play close attention to following.