Footballers' Wives – utter crud…..

Last night, I watched my first ever episode of ‘Footballers' Wives’. It was a monster-long 90 minute episode - an everyday story of lust, more lust, sex, rape, debauchery, drugs, money, bribery, baby swapping, dodgy hair-dos, spray-on tan, big jewellery and really poor fashion sense. I viewed in vain for some good, clean footy action - liniment, jock straps, diving in the box, strained calf muscles and disputed offside decisions….. But all to no avail.

I think the main message emerging from last night’s show was that money doesn’t buy you happiness - or taste - or acting ability …. Or even a plausible story line.

I mean, for a start, the actors playing the actual footballers, quite often managed to string more than 3 words together at any one time.

And as for the ‘Wives’……. They didn’t seem to do much shopping at all. Not one of them expressed a desire to have a pop career…… and the weirdest kids name in last night’s show was ‘Troy’….

No ‘Cruz’, ‘Romeo’, ‘Brooklyn’, ‘Calligula’, ‘Stallion’ or ‘Colin’ was to be found in any of the dysfunctional footy households on show… I mean, where’s the reality in that?

It’s a little known fact that Alfreda could have been a ‘Footballer’s Sister in Law’. She was once engaged to the brother of former Spurs and England defensive stalwart, Graham Roberts. But she met me, love blossomed, she said a ‘sick as a parrot au revoir’ to the potential ‘Footballer’s Sister in Law lifestyle’ and embraced inadequacy and suburbia. She is now a ‘FatarsedBlogger’s Wife’…..

(I don’t think she has any regrets)….

Anyone know where I can find a groin massage nurse?…..

Or maybe where I could buy a pair of those rupture trousers – the ones that used to be advertised next to the x-ray specs and army surplus parachutes in the Saturday Papers of yesteryear…..

I’m suffering. Really, really suffering.

I can hardly sit down – and when I am sat down, I can’t get up. Whilst all you lot were enjoying the Easter break – I was shovelling up 12 ton of stone chippings in my Brother in Law’s drive……. 12 bloody ton!

Shovelling them up, placing them in old plastic builder’s bags – lifting them into the boot of my car, driving to our house and spreading the stone back on our drive.

And isn’t it amazing, when you’re working as hard as God on the very first day, huffin’ and a puffin’, sweating bricks and dribbling from most orifices, isn’t it so bloody amazing just how many people stand there and gawp. Stand there and say "What yer doin’?"….. Stand there and don’t say, "D’ya want any help then mate?"…..

A crowd gathered – jeez don’t they have anything else to do on an Easter Bank Holiday than watch to see if a grumpy old sod will collapse into a blizzard of stone chippings from a massive coronary? Maybe they’re taking bets – a sort of ‘heart attack sweep’ And if I did collapse – not with a packed in ticker, but the far more likely ‘acute groinal failure’, would someone in the crowd shout…. Is there a ‘Rupture Trouser Tailor’ or ‘Groin Massage Nurse’ in the drive?

Easter egg count……
After much ado – and several recounts, Alfie’s total Easter Egg Cornucopia stands at bugger all.

That’s right, absolutely none, nil, zippo, zilcherooney, nuffin….. a totally ‘choccy and interesting board game on the back for hours of fun’ free zone. Looks like I’ll have to beat the kids up for theirs again then….


Oh God….

Down in the smoke tomorrow – at the Lloyds Building to be precise…… I’m already feeling fairly depressed about it.