I think my freckle needs realigning. Something along the lines of what I can achieve by adjusting the rotor pitch on my mini-helicopter. My default seating position when I’ve the donkey’s tongue is right on the money, I’m dead central. I’m Simon Hughes of the Lib Dems slap bang on the fence, yet when I’ve achieved evacuation I notice that I’ve transformed from Simon into that complete shit (pun intended) Nick Griffin resulting in one side of the chod bin compromised by having bits of cack all up it.
Just like last week I had a viewing on Saturday, this time I was notified and ensured I wasn’t in when the agent came to call, and just like last week the only lasting memory my potential purchasers had after viewing the flat would’ve been last nights tea pebble dashed over white porcelain. It was only when I got in following a trip to B&Q to get a new showerhead and a picture frame that the ‘don’t forget to clean the fucking bog before you leave’ mantra I’d been chanting most of the afternoon was recalled. Blast.
Work on Thursday was as awful as expected and I left feeling mildly ravaged. Luckily a few pints in the pub with Frank straightened me out followed by a fantastic film with Sean Penn (bloody underrated if you ask me, finest actor in Hollywood? Maybe) Called ‘The Assassination of Richard Nixon’ which I recommend without hesitation, and I awoke on Good Friday a little under the weather. I had to get out the flat as soon as I awoke to meet up with my mortgage broker to sign some paperwork which means I’m now foolishly mortgaged up to the hilt. He wasn’t very impressed when, after really badgering me to sign up for critical illness cover (for which he’d have received commission) I finally informed him that ‘I didn’t fucking want it’ and went he all stroppy for a couple of minutes like a scolded child while I sat there mentally punching the air, and his face for good measure.
Shortly after Myfwt picked me up and we went to Putney to look for some suitable accessory and what have you for her birthday next week. I’ve learned that unless advised I’m bloody useless at buying gifts for the opposite sex, besides, I rather enjoy shopping with her believe it or not. After a travelling most of West London I was dropped off home in time for a pint with Frank, the weather was turning for the worst, Myfwt and I had already experienced hale and now temperatures plummeted like we lived up t’North or somewhere where men walk about in subzero temperatures with shaved heads and no shirts to speak of.
Frank and I drank a few in our local toasting the passing of Jebus, the place was half dead but from our pint of view, ideal, as we could get to the bar without any obstruction or hindrance from competing punters. By the time I got home I was little tipsy, I watched a very disappointing French film (called 36, it misses the mark and has an air of misogyny about it that only the French can pass off as ‘romance’) whose subtitles I wound up watching by squinting through one inebriated eye before going to bed late.
Subsequently Saturday was somewhat painful, this malaise caused me to spend most of the day sat in front of my PC trying in vain to download fucking Flash Player (which has mysteriously vanished from my PC) in order to view some Strutter on Youtube, over and above this I was also trying to make some Slayer happen on my fucking MP3/mobile thing via said PC.
Fucking technology, it’s all well and dandy when it works but when things don’t happen as they should it’s enough to result in innocent shoppers in Bluewater being randomly picked off by lone-gunmen after they’ve failed to post a Youtube soliloquy as to why they wouldn’t trot through Bluewater picking off innocent shoppers listening to South of Heaven by Slayer on their LG Viewty which, supposedly has an MP3 feature…
If this wasn’t bad enough, following the B&Q shopping trip (which was a waste of time incidentally, the showerhead is shit and the frame too small) I picked up Saturdays Guardian which features a fucking interview with that cunt Jordan. For fucks sake, what the FUCK is going on here? This harridan, this prostitute for post Orwellian society, this role-model of laziness and self-harm has maintained a presence thanks to gutter journalism and the not entirely commendable ability to remain in the public eye by exploiting herself, her disabled child and the arseholes that chose to suffer her tonesless ill-informed drone in order to drop their stinking extensions into her over active fundament. We’re supposed to think she’s some sort of business woman as she’s accrued zillions of squids by not letting a single day of our lives pass without some sort ‘news’ grabbing drivel about her tits being reduced/enlarged, her husband being great/a twat, her children being disables/not disabled, her joys/fears, her knickers/her lack-of, her, books, her perfume, her business, her bloody FUCKING FACE 24 FUCKING SEVEN AND NOW, MY BROADSHEET FEATURES HER LIPLESS FIZZOG IN ALL HER PROLETARIAT GLORY BY DAVID FUCKING BAILEY IF YOU PLEASE…GAH, IF I COULD DOWN LOAD FUCKING FLASH I WOULDN’T BE TYPING LIKE THIS, FOR THE LOVE OF THE CHILDREN OF THE WORLD SOMEONE HELP ME.
So, Saturday. Rubbish frankly… (though saved somewhat by a stunning roast in the evening in which I succeeded how to make drop-dead fresh gravy AND ensure the potatoes were crisper than Robinson Crusoe’s sock, actually, after that I watched Das Boot, a wonderful, Lord it was good and went to bed feeling, well, okay)
Sunday conversely was wonderful. I’d taped the Grand Prix which I watched after 9am, very disappointing, dull and not the result I’d hoped for, whilst eating Hot Cross buns at speed. I left to pick up my bro and his missus, freshly back from Kerala and all tanned up, and we travelled to my folks whilst I was regaled with hilarious diarrhoea-based tales located on boats made of coconut or something. The afternoon was wasted beautifully on lunch and niece-watching and much laughter did emanate from family Piqued, then farting. My niece can now crawl and stand which is splendid for her… though I somewhat took the joyous edge of the equation as this new found movement has resulted in archaic forms of entertainment being made redundant, for example, the ‘swinging robot’ (a quite violent combination of airborn staccato movements requiring sound and not insubstantial arm control) which used to illicit squeals of delight now causes unbound fear.
I met Myfwt at the flat later on and she essentially said ‘hello, I’m tired’ and fell asleep as I watched read, this resulted in her being awake far sooner that I on Bank Holiday Monday and I was forced to suffer second hand TV noises whilst I groaned in my pit. After breakfast we took ourselves off to rectify the shopping situation caused by Good Friday’s wilful consumerism which resulted in more money being spent much to my chagrin. Can’t complain though, it was all rather jolly and we ate sushi wrap in the car and everything.
The weekend ended quietly with Risotto and Cava, on a final note I don’t remember seeing snow at Easter before, what the bloody hell is going on with the weather? Global warming my botty.