Oh yes! - It’s the Slob Olympics again…..
Superb! Another 4 years gone and another 2 weeks of total horizontality in front of the box coming up.
I’ve been doing a lot of training – building up gradually, starting off on just a few cans per night, building to my maximum capacity. I’ve got to be responsible – it’s a marathon not a sprint after all.
Yeah, 2 weeks of cheating, crying, whinging, tantrums …….. and ‘sport’ (obviously). 2 weeks of peanuts, pizza, beer, raw cabbage …. And more beer (obviously). And all from the comfort of my own arm chair. Brillo.
Even though I’m just watching, I’m living it. Every jump, every dip, every last gasp effort from our plucky British team of losers is played as if by ‘synchronisation’ in the great hall of OK Towers. For instance, in Sydney during the 2000 Olympics, I was watching Jonathan Edwards, ace triple-jumper to some - ‘hop, skip and jumpy guy’ to most, preparing for his first effort.
There he is, at the end of the runway, preparing, psyching, wobbling thighs, flexing fingers, loosening up, imagining his jump, imaging he’s going to jump right out of the stadium.
There I am, at the end of the couch, preparing, psynking beer, wobbling gut, flexing fat fingers around another piece of pizza, imagining I’m going to have to go to the toilet if he doesn’t hurry up an get a move on!!
EDWARDS – HURRY UP AND BLEEDING JUMP, YOU GEORDIE DRAMA QUEEN!!!!
As if mentally prodded by a million overfull bladders, Jonathan starts, he gathers pace, pumping sinews, eyes bulging, he’s really motoring now. He hits the board….. HOP, SKIP a n d JUMP. Jonathan lands in an explosion of silica. His very short, very baggy shorts bite into the sand. Grains enter every lower body orifice of the Edwards torso. I bet it really chaffs.
Bloody hell, never mind the state of Jonathan’s undies – I’ve got my own problems to sort out. For as he was pounding, I was twitching, as he was ‘hopping’ so was I. Unfortunately, one of us was hopping with a beer and pizza in hand – and it wasn’t Jonathan. By the time Edwards splashed down, I’m covered in runny pizza and beer. I look like some drunk’s puke up on me….
During the 2000 Olympics, I decided to do a bit of TV surfing to find out about other sports. "Sailing looks interesting…. And hey, guess what? Team GB are pretty bloody good at it as well!"
Ben Ainsley, apparently a nailed on favourite for the Gold in the ‘Park Lake Little Boaty Class’ is having a real tussle with his arch rival and nemesis from Brazil - Robert Scheidt. (How is that pronounced?)
Ben won – and Robert didn’t. Ben was about to be awarded his Gold medal and the BBC was there to record the ceremony in all its patriotic glory…..
The Olympic diatribe crackled out of the loud speaker system with as much gravitas as could be mustered. First in French (obviously) then into English….. "And in first place and winner of the Gold medal, from Great Britain - Ben Ainsley. In second place, from Brazil, Robert Shite…"
The kids laughed and revelled in this legitimate excuse to say "Shite, Shite, Shite" a lot.
"Well", observed Alfreda, "I know he didn’t win but I wouldn’t call him ‘Shite’ – ‘Crap’ would have been descriptive enough"….
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
If that’s who I think it is, I’m not in….
I’m expecting a phone call any day now.
A grovelling, snivelling conniving phone call from a suitably low-life, slime-ball jobsworth.
He won’t be selling double glazing.
He won’t be asking me to participate in a survey "that’ll only take 35 minutes of my time".
He won’t be asking me to invest in the U.S stock market, or to change my electricity supplier.
No, this phone call, this phone call will be an awful lot worse than that.
And when Mr Snivelling-Conniverer does ring me, the answer will be the same as last year.
"No, the Blairs’ cannot – repeat cannot stay at our house for a few days at the end of August. They are a bunch of freeloading cretins dedicated to bumming around the villas of Europe and the Caribbean, pushing themselves onto unsuspecting hosts, eating them out of house and home, using up all their bog paper, then moving on.
"Just because Tony ’the weasel’ is Prime Minister and ‘mad as a mad March mare’ Cherie is scary, doesn’t give them carte blanche to squat wherever they feel like.
"Sorry, ‘worm-tongue’ – chez Alfie is absolutely out of bounds to the Glorious Leader……. Not for any price, not even if they offer me The Lord Chancellorship, with a £2.5 million pension and free access to posh wallpaper. Not even if they offer me The Commissioner of Europe (Gravy Train Ministry) and give me Peter Mandelson as my ‘goffer’……
"Alfie cannot be bought – and anyway, I’ve already got Michael Howard in the attic, Charles Kennedy in the airing cupboard, John Major is doubling as a water feature and Robin Cook’s fraternising with the gnomes by the pond"……
I’m expecting a phone call any day now.
A grovelling, snivelling conniving phone call from a suitably low-life, slime-ball jobsworth.
He won’t be selling double glazing.
He won’t be asking me to participate in a survey "that’ll only take 35 minutes of my time".
He won’t be asking me to invest in the U.S stock market, or to change my electricity supplier.
No, this phone call, this phone call will be an awful lot worse than that.
And when Mr Snivelling-Conniverer does ring me, the answer will be the same as last year.
"No, the Blairs’ cannot – repeat cannot stay at our house for a few days at the end of August. They are a bunch of freeloading cretins dedicated to bumming around the villas of Europe and the Caribbean, pushing themselves onto unsuspecting hosts, eating them out of house and home, using up all their bog paper, then moving on.
"Just because Tony ’the weasel’ is Prime Minister and ‘mad as a mad March mare’ Cherie is scary, doesn’t give them carte blanche to squat wherever they feel like.
"Sorry, ‘worm-tongue’ – chez Alfie is absolutely out of bounds to the Glorious Leader……. Not for any price, not even if they offer me The Lord Chancellorship, with a £2.5 million pension and free access to posh wallpaper. Not even if they offer me The Commissioner of Europe (Gravy Train Ministry) and give me Peter Mandelson as my ‘goffer’……
"Alfie cannot be bought – and anyway, I’ve already got Michael Howard in the attic, Charles Kennedy in the airing cupboard, John Major is doubling as a water feature and Robin Cook’s fraternising with the gnomes by the pond"……
Monday, August 09, 2004
The day after tomorrow – today……
Weird weather or what?
Thursday saw one hell of a storm and the entire contents of the Northern Atlantic being dumped on our little area of Lancashire. Alfie had not dressed for the occasion. Seeing that it was the second day of our Summer, (the first day was in early June), Alfie forgot to prepare for the inevitable thunder storm that marks the beginning of Autumn.
Alfie, looking rather sharp in his baggy shorts, summer shirt, open toed Jesus boots and shades a go-go, cuts a fine figure in a rotundly roundabout sort of way, as he sachets and saunters down the high street.
Unfortunately, Alfie was doing his sauntering with his back to the impending Tempest fast advancing from the west.
Hot ‘n sunny became wet ‘n wetter as ‘Hurricane WTFDTCF’ did its worst. Pretty soon, the street became the Amazon. Hot hatches became stationary, steaming, hulking wrecks – as suicidal boy racers flooded their engines as they cut pretty arcs of H2O to give soggy pedestrians a sewer shower.
I’m so wet, my man tits are showing through my sodden shirt. I’m so wet, hermit crabs are setting up home in between my toes and I’m growing gills. Water cascades up through the overwhelmed grids. Some saddo starts plonking sandbags outside his front door – where did he get them from? He’s probably got a nuclear bunker in his back garden – just behind the rockery, just in case. I hate those ‘prepared guys’ don’t you?
Was the world coming to an end or what?
Fortunately not – for Friday dawned hot, humid & humid some more with added humidity just for good measure – and guess what, I’ve got to visit a chocolate factory.
Alfie, ably assisted by his work pal Phil, arrives at the chocolate factory for an important job. It’s as hot as hell in there.
We are inducted into ‘choccy world’ – this means donning an overall made for someone a bit short in the arms department and a crotch about a foot from the floor. A rather voluminously natty hairnet is plonked on the OK barnet - plus a ‘beard net’ – It’s like a little dolly hammock and fits around your ears – it’s an elegance bypass. The look is complete – if I wanted to look a complete and utter arse. Phil has a digital camera with him. He takes note of the threat to his sphincteral cavity and the final resting place of the camera if he takes a picture of me. We limp round, crotch-crippled and crusty, with the smell of chocolate oozing out of our pores.
Saturday – fan-bloody-tastic day.
Sun, light, brilliance… just brilliant.
The sort of day that’s so bloody good you just wish you’d actually built that Eazzy-build Bar-B-Q kit that’s been kicking around the shed for God knows how long….
"Awwww Dad, can we have a Bar-B-Q today?"
"No"
"Why not – after all, you’ve got that ‘Eazzy-build Bar-B-Q kit?"
"Coz it’s not that easy"…..
Sunday – Windy.
As windy (but not as smelly) as the aftermath of a baked bean eating contest. But it’s still hot. That wind feels like its come straight out of an oven. Seeing that Alfred Towers has just invested in a rather stylish outdoor table and chairs set, Alfie thought it would be a chic and cosmopolitan idea to partake his toast and tea in the garden. He also took out The Sunday Times to complete the picture of urbane sophistication.
The Sunday Times, being a broadsheet does in fact catch the wind as well as any kite. I’m sure it was a very interesting read, I wonder where it is now?
Weird weather or what?
Thursday saw one hell of a storm and the entire contents of the Northern Atlantic being dumped on our little area of Lancashire. Alfie had not dressed for the occasion. Seeing that it was the second day of our Summer, (the first day was in early June), Alfie forgot to prepare for the inevitable thunder storm that marks the beginning of Autumn.
Alfie, looking rather sharp in his baggy shorts, summer shirt, open toed Jesus boots and shades a go-go, cuts a fine figure in a rotundly roundabout sort of way, as he sachets and saunters down the high street.
Unfortunately, Alfie was doing his sauntering with his back to the impending Tempest fast advancing from the west.
Hot ‘n sunny became wet ‘n wetter as ‘Hurricane WTFDTCF’ did its worst. Pretty soon, the street became the Amazon. Hot hatches became stationary, steaming, hulking wrecks – as suicidal boy racers flooded their engines as they cut pretty arcs of H2O to give soggy pedestrians a sewer shower.
I’m so wet, my man tits are showing through my sodden shirt. I’m so wet, hermit crabs are setting up home in between my toes and I’m growing gills. Water cascades up through the overwhelmed grids. Some saddo starts plonking sandbags outside his front door – where did he get them from? He’s probably got a nuclear bunker in his back garden – just behind the rockery, just in case. I hate those ‘prepared guys’ don’t you?
Was the world coming to an end or what?
Fortunately not – for Friday dawned hot, humid & humid some more with added humidity just for good measure – and guess what, I’ve got to visit a chocolate factory.
Alfie, ably assisted by his work pal Phil, arrives at the chocolate factory for an important job. It’s as hot as hell in there.
We are inducted into ‘choccy world’ – this means donning an overall made for someone a bit short in the arms department and a crotch about a foot from the floor. A rather voluminously natty hairnet is plonked on the OK barnet - plus a ‘beard net’ – It’s like a little dolly hammock and fits around your ears – it’s an elegance bypass. The look is complete – if I wanted to look a complete and utter arse. Phil has a digital camera with him. He takes note of the threat to his sphincteral cavity and the final resting place of the camera if he takes a picture of me. We limp round, crotch-crippled and crusty, with the smell of chocolate oozing out of our pores.
Saturday – fan-bloody-tastic day.
Sun, light, brilliance… just brilliant.
The sort of day that’s so bloody good you just wish you’d actually built that Eazzy-build Bar-B-Q kit that’s been kicking around the shed for God knows how long….
"Awwww Dad, can we have a Bar-B-Q today?"
"No"
"Why not – after all, you’ve got that ‘Eazzy-build Bar-B-Q kit?"
"Coz it’s not that easy"…..
Sunday – Windy.
As windy (but not as smelly) as the aftermath of a baked bean eating contest. But it’s still hot. That wind feels like its come straight out of an oven. Seeing that Alfred Towers has just invested in a rather stylish outdoor table and chairs set, Alfie thought it would be a chic and cosmopolitan idea to partake his toast and tea in the garden. He also took out The Sunday Times to complete the picture of urbane sophistication.
The Sunday Times, being a broadsheet does in fact catch the wind as well as any kite. I’m sure it was a very interesting read, I wonder where it is now?
