Ok, I had better start planning. As much as I’m enjoying a rare three-day weekend (somehow they’ve given me Bank Holiday Monday off), there’s no getting away from the fact that, come Friday, I’m gonna be unemployed…er, I mean freelance. Things have gotta change, and they’ve gotta change fast. The Incumbent is busy going through the house and sticking half of it up for sale on eBay, and I’ve started cutting down on essential items.
I reckon if I cut down on luxuries, such as food, I can still afford beer and cable tv. There is, after all, a World Cup and a couple of Test series to watch this summer. The veg and herb patch is coming along nicely, but it’ll be a few weeks off before I can start harvesting the beetroot, onions, and chillies, so I’ll have to make do with what’s already in the cupboards.
When we went to the supermarket yesterday for what could be the last monthly shop for a long time, try as I might, I couldn’t bring myself to put in the trolley ‘value mince’ or ‘economy sausages’. Lord alone knows what goes into such products, but I’d rather starve than find myself sucking on the toenails and nostrils or some generic beast the next time I make a chilli. I have a crown which has come loose in the back of my mouth. I’ve been holding out in the hope that it gets..er..better.. but you can bet your life that chewing on an economy banger is a one-way ticket to the dentist, at best. At worst it’ll end up in me sitting in trap one waiting for nature to take it’s course. I’ll then, of course, have to go through the motions.
The booze cupboard has been subject to more scrutiny than usual. There are bottles of stuff in there which I’ve been given or picked up over the years and which, in normal circumstances, I wouldn’t touch with yours. However, with a month of footy upcoming, and funds bound to be a bit squeaky, that bottle of Ouzo is looking quite appetising, as is the Bols. Have asked The Incumbent to remove the litre of Absynth lest I get a taste and start imagining England can actually win the competition.
As I write this, our fine boys are struggling to beat the titans of Japan. We’ve seen it all before. The billionaires of the English league, being shown how to play by men a lot poorer than they , and a good deal shorter to boot. Ferdinand suffering from occasional bouts of consciousness, John Terry looking like his mind’s elsewhere (probably wondering where he left his underpants) and Wayne’s getting a bit niggly with the oppo. Again.
Even Fabio is picking a fight with the Japanese manager, though in which language I know not. Young Frank has missed a penalty, and the Japanese have gifted us two own goals, one of them a brilliant header by the defender who flew in like a Zero pilot with a death wish. The crowd is comatose and I don’t blame them. I can’t watch this bag of shite for a month. It’s like pulling teeth — even loose false ones.
Oh god, now he’s brought on Heskey.
Rooney looks like he’s got in to a bit of bother helping James Herriot at the wrong end of a cow there.
See Nellie Hawkins at Shugsblog btw. I’ve not linked to it yet– without your approval.
Oh dear. Well it’s my own fault I suppose. Beware of scotchmen and camera phones
Just back from Djerba…yes spelled correctly…amazing the places the french had in their portfolio and kept in touch with for tourism purposes…
Anyway having caught up with your world I think the Absinthe would do well to help you through forthcoming dentistry expenditure alongside the cricket/world cup pains.
Good luck with your last ‘week’ ,will endeavour to find out what’s on the cards when your sofa has moulded itself irretrieviably to your least favoured viewing position.
Keep up with the blogging,the hallucinogens may add a whole new dimension…
The contents of “value mince” is essentially the same of that of American hot dogs–hence the reason why I have, since my tender youth, referred to yankish bangers as “cow vaginas”. True, they’ve probably got your daily recommended allowance of pork anus and goat nob in them, too, but “cow vagina” really is the predominant flavor, so I’m sticking with that. My guess is you will, too, as June pushes on, and you’ll like the culinary consistency of that particular female anatomy jibbing with what you’re calling your boys on the pitch. Over here, with Raymond’s Special Olympians, we’re going less with pork anus, and more with what those produce.
Speaking of pork bunger, I hope you at least showed Rupert yours when handing his job back.