Evening Strumpets,
As is the normality these days, here's a post I wrote about a year ago.
It was whilst I was sat in my office on Mid-summers day watching the hail fall from the sky bouncing six inches off the ground eviscerating the kindly old age pensioners through their plastic headscarves, that I thought, is this as good as it gets to be British? The middle of our Summer, a time when tradition dictates we get the Sprouts on for Christmas dinner; sat in an office with the heating on. My Mother was born in Blackpool, and they have a phrase there, “The tides not coming in, it`s coming down” which pattern matching back to many a childhood holiday walking along the Golden Mile in my Lord Anthony cagoule, the drizzle and fret making it nigh on impossible to make out the gaudy and deliberate neon signs promising untold wealth and a night`s entertainment with Les Dawson, is bang on the money for that Lancashire haven of Hen and Stag Do`s.
The group of drink driving, (alleged) racists, shooters of apprentices, and general nasty pieces of work which we choose to call the England Football Team, were about to be knocked out again of a major Tournament, without even trying. Apparently they play too much throughout the year, and need a break in the winter. Yeah, I can imagine two games of football a week, must wear you right down. I`ll remember that as I`m completing my thirteenth hour of a 27 hour “sleepover” shift
Separate to our footballing role models, the two boxing thugs who in a public press conference had been involved in an assault involving a beer bottle, and a threat that one would “fucking shoot” the other were about to be handsomely rewarded for a “grudge” boxing match, which the public lapped up like thirsty dogs licking piss from a portaloo floor.
Let`s get one thing straight. These over indulged, pampered, downright lucky (if I`m being absolutely honest), sports personalities do not earn their wages. Nurses, labourers, teachers, bin men (or whatever they`re called these days) etc, earn their wages. These loudmouth meatheads are given a lot of money. At best they make their wages.
Sorry if I’m sounding a little more grumpy this month than normal, it`s just that I`m going on holiday tomorrow (and any burglars out there, I’ll be back by the time this is published, so you`ve missed the chance of pilfering at my address). Yeah I know I can hear that dripping sound as your heart is bleeding. But here`s the thing. I have to go on an aeroplane. I don`t like that. I don`t like that one little bit. The aeroplane, to me makes no sense. You can`t lift one up with your little finger, so how can they stay up in the air. To be honest, and I try to be, I really do, the flying bit is not too bad, it`s the taking off and the landing that fills me with a dread the colour of dishwater after a squid risotto. I have to put a brave face on as the kids love it, and like Alsatian dogs in the Seventies can smell fear from a distance of sixteen feet, but inside I`m quivering like Shaking Stevens on a rollercoaster watching insidious after forgetting to take his anti-cholinergic tablets.
Occasionally I`ll order some food, and it never fails to surprise me when people complain about airline food. You`re in an aluminium tube five miles in the sky travelling at twelve Gillian, Lillian miles an hour (that`s how fast these things go, I swear, they leave numbers and head for girls names), and your complaining about your mash. I once mentioned this to a chap who was sat next to me, and he said, “yeah, but the mash is lumpy”. Not as lumpy as my farts, I thought.
That`s your lot for now, I`m off to buy a cardigan for the remaining “Summer” months.
Till the next one, learn something new,
GNS.
