A group of us spent the day at the King’s Lynn Heritage Day this month, for those of you who are unaware of this event, and that’s everybody who does not live in, or around, King’s Lynn, this is a Sunday in September when all the buildings that have used Heritage money to renovate their property, have to open their doors for the day so the general public can wander around touching things.
Our plan was to have a couple of drinks, some food, and walk around looking in old buildings and going ‘Oh’ and ‘Ah’, however, this plan had a small flaw in it – Marc!
Marc’s idea of a Heritage Day was to go from pub to pub, and peer out the windows at the surrounding buildings and go ‘That’s nice, now pass me another cider and a shot.’ Last year, we fitted in the vintage car show and about 10 buildings/museums, this year we got in the vintage car show and two museums. That’s it – Two!
Julie did her usual thing in the museums of reading and then analysing the labels/descriptions on every single exhibit, this meant that the rest of us had gone around, twice, and could have easily packed in a third time before she had finished a single circuit of any museum.
While Pat played the part of dutiful husband and stayed with her, Marc and I got bored, and legged it to a newly reopened pub called the Wenns. We got our drinks and then joined a group of friends, and then I farted. The trio we were speaking to got one whiff, dumped their drinks, and legged it rather than be poisoned.
The group of 3-4 behind us thought there was either a gas leak or the drains were clogged up and were complaining. When they realised it was me, they too abandoned the pub, and on the way out one of the women who was holding her breath, angrily said to me in a strained voice ‘you should be in hospital!’ I’m not proud, but the truth must out!
I have owned and used a Dyson vacuum cleaner for several years since Craig used his Curry’s discount to get me one. Although, overall, it’s a cracking vacuum cleaner, my main complaint has been that it’s useless on wooden floors – great on carpets, shit on hard surfaces. Since all of my downstairs is tiles or wooden flooring, it’s been a bit of a pain in the arse.
The issue is that when I use it on hard floors, more often than not, the rotating brushes will throw the debris out the back, and I end up using the hose and wand (or whatever you call the stick type bit that picks up rubbish) to finish the job.
A couple of weeks ago, Pat and I moved one of my sofas and exposed the issue of single men living on their own – several years’ worth of pubic hairs, sweet wrappers, beer bottle tops, corks from wine and whisky bottles, and hair clips. The hair clips are not mine and remain a mystery!
I set up the vacuum cleaner, and as I did so, I moaned to Pat about how Dyson had missed a trick on not having a cleaner that cleaned hard floors. His answer was look me in the eyes, lean over and press a button on the body of the Dyson and say, ‘You do know that this button turns off the brushes so you can use it on hard floors?’
Maxine’s given me her front room furniture as she’s moving to a new house and wants all new stuff. So, I went to the local recycling centre and was told that I couldn’t bring in my old sofas/couches. Uncle Pat said, ‘Bollocks to that, of course you can!’
I then went and paid thirty quid to have the council come to my house and collect one of my old three seaters. Pat, on the other hand is remodelling his house, and simply took his old ones to the same recycling centre that I had been to, and got them to feed them through a big machine that ate them up. Que one pissed off Jim who’s wasted thirty nicker!
Marc and I took my other three-seater to one of his step sons, who according to Marc lives on the 7th floor. He didn’t, he lives on the 5th floor. Again, que one pissed off Jim, who stormed off and took the lift downstairs, and left Marc to manhandle a chair down two flights of stairs. With lots of useful advice from Chris and Jackie, we finally got all three seats in to the flat and assembled them in to a 3-seater couch.
This meant we had to get rid of his step son’s old three-seater – guess where we took it? The recycling centre were only too happy to show us their machine that chewed up old sofas and the like. It was really relaxing hearing the motors whine, the sofa crunch and splinter. It made me wish there were certain people who I could put in there.
On the subject of me paying to have the sofa collected, when I was in the RAF I deployed in some really different places and I noted the following:
Iraq – shithole, rubbish and excrement everywhere (but partly our fault for illegally bombing the shit out of the infrastructure)
Afghanistan – shithole (mainly as a result of lack of education for general population, particularly the females)
Kuwait – not a complete shithole, but only kept clean by the thousands of migrant workers. If it wasn’t for them, the country would be waste deep in litter/rubbish.
Turkey – not a complete shithole, but too be fair, I only saw East/Southeast of the country. Way too much litter. (Sorry Ferdi and Murat)
Scotland – as beautiful as England
Wales – as beautiful as England
Western Europe – overall, nicer than England (includes Poland)
USA – varies. Los Angeles and Las Vegas were dirty; San Francisco was lovely as was Santa Barbara.
Anyway, since I started taking Charlie out for walks I have noticed something. I live in one of the most beautiful countries in the world. It is lush and green, with good roads and paths, and it slowly being ruined by litter! Everywhere I look, there is either litter, or dogshit. The council have teams who regularly carry out sweeps and pick up everything, and if they didn’t do so, we would be, genuinely, chest deep in the rubbish these selfish fuckers dump.
On my estate, there is a massive amount of fly tipping, and I have to ask, what kind of people fly tip? What scummy message are they sending to their children – ‘Kids, you live in a lovely country, but tonight we’re going to sneak out like a couple of syphilitic ridden chavs visiting a pox clinic, and spread our rubbish all over the country or streets because we don’t care.’
Great way to ensure that your own children grow up respecting the country. Notice I said ‘the country’, not ‘our country’. There is also a large amount of what I term casual littering – discarded empty cans of pop, cider beer, glass bottles of vodka, gin, and Tesco’s hot deli counter packets and crisp and sweet wrappers.
A lot of the beer and glass bottles are from Eastern Europe and pinpoint the origin of the litterer. The Baltic States have been quite well represented recently, as has Poland. The culprits could be British, but since the DGAF* pissheads have to walk past the 24-hr Tescos to get back to the estate, I find it hard to believe that they would divert to one of the eastern European shops to stock up for their journey, when they could easily go in to the 24-hr Tescos and get Carling Black Label**.
Rant over. Moving on. I went to buy a pair of jeans for an outdoor wedding. The only place I could find a pair, size 44 waist, was Debenhams. Did You know that shops put the bigger sizes on the bottom shelf? When I asked why, I was told that the sizes were in size order – smallest at the top, fattest (sorry, I mean biggest) at the bottom.
I personally think it’s to weed out the tubbies by making them have a stroke when they bend over to reach down. It would more logical from a health point of view to put the big sizes at the top, and the smallest sizes at the bottom; after all, midgets have less far to bend!
The weather has turned, so I’m wearing a fleece when we go to the gym. When we get there, I take it off before training or I get too sweaty, and we all know how disgusting it is when a fat person sweats.
The fleece is a green hoody type thing that has a wide front pocket and therefore no zipper, and so the only way to get it off is to pull it over the head. I have noticed that when the women who also frequent the gym pull theirs off, they do it smoothly and both maintain their dignity, and their t-shirts stay in place.
When I pull mine off over my head, my t-shirt rides up and allows my belly to flop out and then it gets stuck on the upper part of my chest, so showing my tits off to all who have the bad taste to be staring at a fat man stripping.
The women pull theirs off with what seems to be one move, me, I have to fight mine off and usually have a slight panic attack halfway through when the fucking thing gets caught on my face like a fluffy alien trying to dry hump Sigourney Weaver.
This week’s car boot had a man walking around carrying a 3-foot Stormtrooper and a 3-foot Wookie from Star Wars. I’ll be honest, I would have bought them if I’d seen them first. Marc’s party trick this week whilst at the car boot was to put the money box back in to the van with the lid unsecured and then go off for a walk. Did you know his favourite film is Hamburger Hill?
A few minutes later I had to give a woman some change and reached in to the van, picked up the box expecting it to be, you know, in one bloody piece, as in the lid fixed on. But no Marc doesn’t do securing lids. My thumb dislodged the lid, which flipped the box and all the money all over the grass.
Do you know how far approx. 30 quid of loose change flies when boosted by a man who realises what’s happening as it happens and panics, makes a grab at the falling box and spreads it even further?
So, there I was bent over at the waist going red in the face as I couldn’t breathe properly because my stomach was trying to occupy the same space as my lungs, trying to pick up about a thousand fucking pieces of silver, when a woman who had been looking at one of the coats that was clearly way too small for her wanted a price check.
Her method of a requesting a price check was to constantly tug at my t-shirt (just above my arse crack) as I was bent over and clearly engaged on something more important than her, and say constantly ‘How much? You, how much this? How much? You, how much this? How much? You, how much this?’
I straightened up to get a lung full of air and yelled at her to F*ck Off, and then taking a deep breath, bent down again and continued picking up a million fucking coins (or so it seemed). She got the hump and stormed off muttering something under her breath, and then came back half an hour later, acted as if nothing had happened and spent about 5 quid on various other bits and pieces.
As this (to me) drama occurred an old lady had come up to look at some of the tat on the stall, saw what had happened, and came around the stall and using her wheeled Zimmer frame to prop herself up, helped me to pick up the coins and notes.
When she decided to buy a couple of things from the stall, I offered a discount for helping me, but she declined and paid full price, but did have a few words about the other woman, and like most other pensioners, she was quite direct.
The car boot we display our wares at is actually only about two hundred yards from our houses. This month, Chris, Marc’s wife walked over from the house with a cafeteria and two mugs, so fresh coffee all round.
We made a decent amount of money and decided to invest in our own trestle/pasting tables in order that we didn’t have to rely on the community centre supplying them. We went to Argos, The Range, and B&Q to see what they had.
We had a choice of one super Gucci table at 25 quid each, or three normal tables at 9.99 each. Marc who was in charge of the buying, is of the school that it is better to buy a super-duper Apple product at many hundreds or thousands of pounds, rather than an adequate Microsoft or Android product at a third of the price. Guess which we bought, and have now wiped out all our profits? Still, we’ll look good!
The other week as I walked in to the Tesco car park I noticed an Incredibly large woman park in a mother and toddler slot, and I couldn’t help but think that the only reason she felt entitled to park there is that perhaps she had eaten several small children, and to be honest she made me look like an athlete.
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2017/02/13 at 12:35 am
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2017/02/11 at 9:39 pm
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UPDATE – Maxine’s no longer moving to a new house, but she’s not having her furniture back!
That’s it for this month.
*DGAF – Don’t Give A F*ck
**Only joking – who would drink Carling Black Label when there’s urine freely available.
Maxine’s moving to a new house, and has offered me her front room furniture, and since hers is quite expensive (as she reminded me several times) and I have a tradition of accepting second-hand furniture, I took her up on the offer, and so sourced a Luton van (box van for you yanks). The first website I went to, Thrifty’s, kept defaulting the date back to 1936, and I couldn’t be arsed to scroll forward 81 years, I had to wonder if their website is so crap, what are the vans like, so gave up.
I looked at Enterprise, but they only allow you to book for two days minimum and it costs 238 quid; Deeping Car & Van Hire was 87 quid for one day, and they had a tail-lift van available, so no contest really. I bribed Marc into getting up at 0600 on his day off with the promise of MacDonald’s and we drove to Deeping, collected the van.
We then drove to Maxine’s and collected my new furniture, and then back to King’s Lynn, where we unloaded the furniture and I let Marc go home. I then drove back to P/Boro to help Maxine for another hour or so. When I got back there she laid a surprise on me. She had three bookcases upstairs that needed bringing down, and could I just help her?
Yes of course, but when I asked her why she didn’t mention this when Marc was there, she said she didn’t want to inconvenience him. Balls to that, I bought him two MacDonald’s, I could have worked him to the bone!
Moving on, I have a new lodger, his names Ben, and already we have a problem; he likes single malt, I like single malt; he likes red wine, I like red wine; he likes cooking, I like cooking. All I can say at this moment is that things are not going to end well.
A few weeks ago I was on a downer and sat at home and got drunk. As in really drunk! The next day myself, Matt, Rachel, Jane and BJ* went to Sandringham Food Fair. Because I was thoughtless, I didn’t think through the drinking in the evening part, and regretted it the next day. The hangover was tolerable, but there was a dozen or so booze stalls giving away free samples of the most incredible whiskys, gins, vodkas and beers, and I couldn’t touch any in case it made me sick, but Matthew and Jane more than compensated for me.
Most of the food stalls gave away free samples of their produce. There was so much free bacon and cheese, I really didn’t need dinner that evening. All the samples were self-help via the medium of toothpicks, and even I was surprised at how much some of those people could fit on one tiny piece of wood. Everywhere you walked, there were toothpicks littering the ground, if they had collected them all together, there was probably enough wood to warm a small town.
I quickly realised that there are two types of people when it comes to free shit; those who had some manners and queued for the free sample, and those ignorant pricks who pushed to the front. Interestingly, not all the ignorant pricks wore a tracksuit ensemble, many of them wore polo shirts and chinos. There was also a lot of large women wearing flowered clothing, with lots of make up on, who it seemed hadn’t eaten in days judging by their behaviour.
Any event at Sandringham is always posher than any others, this was borne out by the fact that one of the stalls was playing radio 4.
A couple of weeks later, Matt, Rachel, Jane, BJ, Marc and myself went to the South Wootton Beer Festival. It was a glorious day, and a good time was had by all, especially Marc, who decided to try all the ciders, twice! He then cycled home, and we took bets as to whether he would make it alive.
There were a number of non-beer stalls there, including a Bucking Bull. Marc by this time was tanked up and wanted a go. While we were waiting, a fat kid aged 12-14** was pressured in to having a go by his father. He clearly didn’t want to go on, but, and I mean this, he got heaved on to the bull by his father who seemed to have some misplaced belief that the chunky monkey would at least try to stay in the saddle. The second it was turned on, the little chubster threw himself off on to the mats, and daddy had wasted a couple of quid humiliating his child.
Next in line was a small thin and very energetic kid who took a run at it, and bounced up and on. When the bull was turned on, he held on for dear life and did really well, and got a round of applause. The lessons I took away from those couple of minutes was that one child clearly likes pizza, and the other likes exercise; and one has a father who doesn’t know his kid as well as he should. Easy to see who will do really well in life!
A quick statement:
Toast is one of the greatest inventions ever, but:
- White toast – Average
- Brown toast – Ok
- Wholemeal or multi-seeded – Awesome
- Unsalted butter – Only soulless people or White Walkers use Unsalted
- Marmite – fan-fucking-tastic
Marc and I did another car boot sale the other week, and because the weather was nice, and I had got bitten last time, I covered myself with Aldi insect repellent, and seemingly as a result, got bastardly bitten to buggery***. My arms and legs were covered in a spiteful red scaly rash, and my whole body kept itching, and I spent the next week and a half scratching until I bled.
It turns out that Aldi insect repellent, doesn’t! It was as useful at repelling insects as an Armani suit is in repelling sluts in a cheap nightclub. Turns out that the active ingredient is citronella, which is apparently slang for ‘Let’s fuck the fat man over.’
Marc was also bitten, but having a modicum of intelligence he took antihistamines and went straight to the doctors for antibiotics, and was okay within a day or so. After a fortnight of pain and disfigurement, I gave in, and followed Marc’s example, and went to the doctors and got some antibiotics, and it cleared up like magic.
At the car boot we were visited by a number of, let’s call them, larger ladies. They held up some of the dresses and tops that belonged to my ex-wife, Ruth, and modelled them. Now if I had to describe Ruth’s build, I would use words such as; slim, tall, athletic, graceful. I would not use words such as, cake eater, MacDonald’s lover, width-challenged, hippo hips, which these women were (and me).
They actually bought some of the clothes, perhaps they were just modelling them for a slimmer friend/relative who was unable to attend, but since they were Eastern European, I couldn’t understand what they were saying; however, if they were buying the clothes for themselves, then in the words of Samuel Johnson¹ – ‘The Triumph Of Hope Over Experience’, as I suspect that not even lycra can stretch that much.
One of the highlights of the car boot was an elderly man wandering around carrying a three to four-foot-long realistic cow under his arm. The question is – did he bring it with him for company, or did he buy it, I mean, who would be selling that, and more to the point, why buy It?
Marc’s discovered black pudding on the BBQ, and whenever we have a BBQ, there are three things that happen; Jim cooks, Marc has as many cocktails as possible, and we get drunk. On a slightly creepy note, Marc is constantly trying to get me in his hot tub, but due to water displacement, getting the both of us in there at the same time, would not bode well for the rest of the estate.
An unrelated subject to my life, what’s the deal with vegetarians? Are they just lazy vegans? Do they lack the commitment to go full herbivore, in other words, I don’t mind the animal suffering for me, but I don’t want it to die for me?
Do they think, that, you know, I like cheese, so I don’t mind your calf being dragged away and butchered for one of those horrible omnivores, in order that you keep producing milk. Or I like egg mayo sarnies, but I don’t mind someone stealing your unborn child (egg).
Back to my life. I was asked if I would look after Jane’s dog, Charlie, while she and her other daughter went on holiday for a week, and I said yes. After all, how hard could it be, after all, I had Indie for nearly fifteen years.
Long story short – Charlie’s easily the most stupid, inbred and untrained dog in the country. Matt warned me that he would only shit in the bushes, and he was right, the stupid little git keeps backing up to big, tall clumps of nettles and crapping in them, this means I have in the first time in over twenty years, been stung by those little bastards while I try that very British game of ‘Retrieve your dog’s shit.’
Yesterday, the little retard cocked his leg for a pee to mark his territory, and shit himself at the same time, he then walked forward shot gunning it along the path. Ahh, the joys of having a half-wit dog!
For the first couple of days, every time I used the words; Sit, Stay, Heel, With Me, Lie Down, he cocked his head slightly, and then disappeared off across the field to roll around where another dog had taken a dump, or went and stuck his nose up the arse of any other dog in the vicinity.
He and I have reached an accord of sorts, he will now sit and stay, but is still not entirely sure of the principles, and in return I don’t use PAL². When Matt and I used to take Indie for walks, he very rarely ever went on the lead, and had a great time exploring other dogs piss spots, but Charlie has to be kept on the lead for most of the time because he still hasn’t worked out what a road is or what his boundaries are.
- ‘I knew a bloke in the army once, he worked on submarines.’
- Or as the rest of the world calls them, sailors!
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I can’t help but think – tempting and all that, but I’ll give them a miss this time.
That’s all for this month.
* His name’s Freddie, but I wanted him to be called James, so I call him BJ, which stands for Baby James. When he starts walking, I’ll call him TJ (Toddler James). I can also carry TJ on for when he’s older and a teenager. I always wanted the nickname MAP for Matthew, but decided not to, because if challenged I would have to confess that it stands for ‘Matthew’s an Annoying Prick’, and since Ruth would have kicked off if social services took him away, I kept my mouth shut.
**I’m like a catholic priest – not too good with the ages of children.
***‘bitten to buggery’ does not imply that the bugs were gay, it’s just an expression.
¹Samuel Johnson – some American dude.
²PAL – Pain Assisted Learning.
One of the things I have noticed from the car boot sales, is that those amongst us from Eastern Europe have a particular style. They all wear various types of drab tracksuits. Some women also wear them with heels. I have to wonder if when they arrive at the border of Ukraine, Latvia, Romania, etc. are they are pulled to one side and have their regular Street clothing taken off them and are then issued tracksuits.
When they prevaricate, they are told it’s the height of fashion in the UK; perhaps they are also a survival aid as some of the seem very fleecy and could probably keep you warm in the arctic.
There are very few times when it’s appropriate to wear a track suit, or its bastard cousin, the shell suit. There should be some kind of etiquette guide of do’s and don’ts for trackie wearers, perhaps when they are issued it, or buy it from Primark, there could be some kind of handbook, and it should only have one page:
Where to wear a tracksuit – At a gym or sporting event.
Where not to wear a tracksuit – Every-fucking-where else.
Grey seems to be a popular colour, as does the fact that the bigger you are, the tighter the trackie bottom needs to be; the manufacturers of lycra must be proud at how strong their product is. Perhaps the company that sells lycra could come up with a new motto ‘Constraining camel toes since 1962.’
A quick story about shell suits:
Ruth and got married in December 1991, and moved in to a quarter in March ’92, whilst she was heavily pregnant with the light of our life*
It was cold, wet, windy, and miserable whilst we were humping and dumping all our possessions (mainly hers, I had very little to my name), and Ruth had to take it easy and was a little hormonal. As we were carrying the boxes through the mud and damp, a RAF wife walked past us, she was wearing a purple shell suit, her hair was done up on her head, she was layered in make-up, wearing pink high heels, and smoking a cigarette.
Ruth stopped dead and watched her go by and then started crying a little, and said those immortal words “I can’t be a RAF wife, I can’t dress like that!” A cup of tea later and she was back to normal, but it did signal to me two things; shell suits are never suitable clothing for anywhere, except a shell suit sex party which is inhabited by chavs, and two; we really needed to buy our own house, preferably in a tracksuit-free area.
Now confession time – I have (only once) worn a black tracksuit to go out one evening. It was because I’d put on so much weight that I had no other clothes, so the moral of the story is – I’m a hypocrite! Perhaps I should go in to politics!
Back to the present and the continuing theme of car boot sales; I have noted that there are two types of women:
Those who look at the clothes, and then re-fold and replace.
Those snotty cows who look, sneer, and drop them back on the table in a mess.
What’s the difference between a postman and a leafleteer?
One closes the gate after them. The other delivers mail, and then like a cunt, leaves the gate to bang in the wind, forcing you to pull on some shorts and flip flops and venture out in to the driving rain to secure it. You would think that with the sheer number of houses, a postman might have some actual idea of how a fuckin’ gate works, but no!
After, in this case, he had put the mail through the mail slot, and wandered off to piss off the next householder, I had to go out and risk influenza, or face the sound of my gate pretending to be the door to a knocking shop on a particularly good payday.
I finished work last May, and my last official day in the RAF was the 30 Sep 16, and a couple of weeks ago, in other words, eight and a half months later, I finally received my testimonial through the post. For someone who had been in 25-26 years, it wasn’t as impressive as I thought it could be.
It also had three (by my count) spelling mistakes – how good is that! I have knocked up a letter and sent it, and a copy of the testimonial to Honington, let’s see how long it takes for them to respond and hopefully send a corrected copy.
Up until recently, I have been stalked by various telemarketing firms for:
My recent accident. Never had one.
My problems with my broadband. Never had any.
My problems with my bank account. Never had any.
So, I’ve bought a BT cordless phone system that has Caller Blocker. It works, I’ve not had a single call since installation, which also means I’ve not had a single telephone call since, which has demonstrated just how few friends I actually have.
Now I know that if I miss a message, the Play button flashes blue to get you to press it to listen to your missed message, and then it offers you various options. Every day as I walk past the machine, although I know I have no missed messages, I have taken to pressing the Ansaphone button to listen to the recording ‘You have no messages.’ I swear the voice on there is getting more and more pissed off that I keep checking for something I know doesn’t exist.
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2017/03/06 at 3:50 pm
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I have now stopped looking for jobs for the moment, as I’m really getting pissed off, I have applied for over thirty-five jobs, and had two replies, one of which hinted that I was too fat.
Turns out that Stagecoach (a bus/coach company, not an actual stagecoach from the wild west – that would be stupid in King’s Lynn) have a weight limit of eighteen stone for the drivers’ seats, I now weigh a lot more than that, and according to their reply, there are better qualified people out there. What they really mean is lose some weight, you fat bastard!
I’ve received my HGV/LGV provisional through the post. I’m going to book myself on the theory/hazard perception and then hopefully use my Enhanced Learning Credits to do the training and test. I think I’ll make a good trucker – I’ve got the belly for it!
My book, Relative Ties, is finished, and has gone out to several friends for comments and proofreading, so once I’ve looked at the suggestions and made any necessary changes, I’ll look at seeing if I can get it published in August.
*Only joking – neither of us can stand him.
More wittering on from King’s Lynn by a lonely fat man. Marc came round for a coffee the morning after the election, looked sadly in to my eyes and said, “Be gentle, I’ve got a political hangover.”
Because I’m weak and unmilitary, I sometimes use wet wipes to finish off on my bottom, and recently after I’d ran out of the ones I normally use, I decided to try some new ones*. I bought a couple of packets of Luxury Soft Coconut Oil wipes to see what they would be like.
They’re fine, in terms of cleaning, no different than the normal ones. The only side issue, and it’s not an unattractive one, is that my arse smells like a stale Pina Colada. It takes an effort not to whiff my finger down there for a cheap smell sensation.
Every Friday after the gym, as a treat, we try somewhere different for brekkie, and our morning is full of debate such as which is best breakfast: MacDonald’s, Greggs or Subway.
- MacDonald’s – Breakfast wrap and coffee. As far as mass produced go, these are still the best. No1
- Subway – breakfast sub and coffee. Filling, and coffees ok, nothing special. No2
- Greggs – Bacon and sausage roll and coffee. Tasteless and roll is tough, coffee ok. No3
However, Archer’s still wins hands down for their breakfast burrito. Also, the best-looking staff (both male and female). No1 (with gold star)
An article on Pinterest that caught my attention was labelled ‘8 Life-Changing Ways to Use a Spiralizer’, and listed the following:
- Zucchini (courgette)
- Bell Peppers
- Sweet Potatoes
- Red Onions
- Yellow Squash
She was wrong! Having read the article through. there is no way on earth I bounced into the kitchen re-invigorated, and thought ‘I know what will make my day and change my life – a vegetable that has been cut to look like a fucking shoelace.
If a spiraliser has changed her life, wait until she tries a potato masher, she’ll have an orgasm (I did!). Quite possibly the woman who wrote the article was told to do so, either that, or she’s lonely and out of touch.
I had Pat and Julie round for dinner the other day and decided that as the main course I was going to do savoury mince and pasta. So in went the Onions, cream of mushroom soup (at a quid a tin – Tescos, what a rip-off), and a little water and some mild spices (Julie doesn’t do exotic or chillies).
I had bought the cheapy mince from Aldi (which as you may know, is my new temple of worship) and fried it off, and added half a pint of water when it was reasonably browned (this is called de-fatting). After then straining it in to a bowl, I put the now cooked mince, and the separate bowl of decanted fat in to the fridge overnight.
The next morning, I had about an inch of solid fat in the bowl, which a few years ago I would have used to make roast potatoes, but it went straight in to the dustbin. However, I forgot that it’s not necessary to use as much liquid as normal when using a slow cooker, and basically we had mincemeat soup and pasta, and the mince was so well cooked, that it was no longer meat – in other words, we had baby mush and pasta instead.
My point here is threefold; look at how healthy I’ve become; and, look at how the poor in our great nation are being killed off; and finally, god, I’m getting old caring about this shit.
Pat, Marc and I are on a sabbatical from alcohol to see if we can lose some weight. We agreed no drinking for a month, and we have each tackled it in our own special way. Marc’s taken it as a challenge and is going balls-to-the-wall to win a non-existent competition in which he’s the only contestant.
Pat gave it two or three days, and said ‘Fuck it, I need a glass of red wine.’ and went to the cafe to be corrupted. I however, just wander through the evenings moaning ‘This is dog shit.’
There is a bright side to the whole abstinence thing for me, I’ve virtually stopped snoring and so no longer snore or snort myself awake every night. This means I’m getting a decent night’s sleep, and coupled with the lack of alcohol, means the days are really bloody long.
Marc, Pat and I agreed to do another car boot the other Sunday. The evening before, I got a text from Pat saying he wasn’t going to make it, his dog was ill. In the pantheon of shit excuses, that one’s right up there with ‘I’ve got to wash my hair’, and ‘I haven’t got an ironed shirt’. So Marc and I went alone.
We got there at 0700 and started to set up. We actually had some people pawing through our black plastic bin bags as we dumped them on the table as a prelude to unpacking them. About half of the clothes belonged to Ruth, who was going to throw them away or give them to charity.
We set up two trestle tables and I said to Marc, “Keep the stuff separate so we can each make our own profit.” He agreed, and after laying the stuff out, I started to tout for customers. An hour or so later, Chris, (Marc’s wife) turned up and asked why we had mixed each other’s clothing up together? The moral of the story is, watch Marc when he’s unpacking bags – he’s got more enthusiasm than common sense.
One of the tops was sleeveless and totally covered in sequins and I held it up and said “Ruth must have looked like a whore wearing this!” Anyway, a few minutes later, Chris holds up the top, and announces to us both proudly “This was mine!” Marc turns to me and said “Go on tell her, I dare you!” So I did!
Just behind we had a bloke selling refurbished petrol lawnmowers and strimmers, his method of testing everything for his punters, was to turn them on and then rev the bollocks out of them for about 10 seconds or so. He was quickly voted ‘Annoying Prick of the day’
The only weirdo we saw this time was an elder gentleman, not slim, who was topless and yet had a pair of red braces holding up his grubby jeans and protecting his nipples.**
I enjoy looking at recipes online, and have found that bloggers tend to have some of the nicest and most imaginative food, but they have one annoying trait – they love photographing their bloody food.
An example; the other day I made halloumi and red pepper burger for lunch for myself and Lisa. I typed it in to google and clicked on a link which took me to a blog. The first photo looked nice and I went with it.
However, five fucking photographs later, I finally got to the actual recipe. I can understand their pride in their food, but I really believe they can sum it up in one or two photos.
Moving on – The thing about dating websites such as ‘Plenty Of Fish’, and ‘Eharmony’, is that I can justify women not contacting me because I don’t pay a subscription fee. With Tinder, it’s free and they can see me in all my glory, and all they have to do is swipe right to like.
I’ve been on Tinder for about two months, and have only had a couple of women like me; however, since I have rule that says if a woman takes a photo from above, she’s concealing her body, and more than likely weighs as much as me. Now, I’m not being fattest here, it’s just that my bed is made from pine, which we all know is a softwood, and with two chubbies on it doing the horizontal mamba, it won’t last long. So, it’s more of a Health & Safety thing.
I can’t make excuses as to why virtually no one has contacted me. But I still maintain that there must be market out there somewhere, for badly shaven obese men, but I’m just not finding it. I would put a new photo on there, but my phone doesn’t do wide angle, and to use a normal lens, I have to stand so far away I look like one of those poor-quality police CCTV pictures of Britain’s creepiest old men hanging around outside a all-girls school.
One woman on Tinder has only put a close-up of her feet on there . She’s got black painted toe nails and a black tattoo of some kind of flower, again – why? Is she looking for a man with a foot fetish?
Matt came around the other day to use the printer, and whilst he was visiting I had to pop out for ten minutes. When I got home I discovered I couldn’t get on to the wifi, here’s why:
Matt and Rachel’s son, Frederick, is starting to become less of a sand-bag, and more interesting. I finally plucked up the courage to hold him for the first time the other day, he’s now nearly three month’s old, and I still worry that when I hold him, I’ll break him or something. I can’t remember being this worried or gentle about Matt when he was a baby.
Julie’s introduced me to a new word which has particular relevance to a man of my age:
- Shart – halfway between shit and a fart. You know the kind of thing, it’s where you blow-off, but then have to pause, and check for that feeling of shit running down your legs.
Marc, who runs his own computer business went round a lady’s the other day to sort out her computer. It was bollox’ed, so he told her she needed a new hard drive, and recommended retro-fitting a SSD, or Solid State Drive. She then told her son, who sorts these things out for her that she needed an STD, or Sexually Transmitted Disease. However, they soon sorted things out, and she didn’t need a visit to the Genital Clinic, but ended up with a superfast computer.
As I write this rubbish, it’s Saturday the first of July, and it’s the day Marc and I have our first beer in a month. We are having a BBQ to celebrate a month of abstinence and I suspect I’m going to regret things tomorrow. I have eight bottles of bitter, two bottles of whisky, one bottle of whiskey, and one bottle of 12yo rum. As I read this, I’m also aware that this could be the last blog ever!
That’s it for now folks.
*Remember – there is no such thing as a flushable wipe. No matter what shit they print on the box, none of them can safely go down the toilet. When I say safely, I mean they’ll block the bog or clog up the drains, not that they carry knives and mug the turds or whatever.
**Yanks – Braces are called suspenders in USA.