I had this great idea for a present-tense description of the past few weeks, taking you with me through the highs and lows, but I am absolutely exhausted – again – and have neither the time nor the energy to be creative or funny. Not that I ever am, etc, yeah, the door’s that way, don’t let it hit yer arse on the way out, and all that.
So here’s what happened:
Several unmitigated DIY disasters, including putting in waste pipe, re-laying floor, stink comes from waste pipe, pull up floor to find problem, discover problem lies elsewhere and is completely unrelated to the work I’d been doing, re-lay floor AGAIN – two weeks wasted.
Ancient stop cock = burst water main and no way to turn it off. Had to hammer the pipe in half to stop the mains-pressure cascade through the house. No access from the road to turn it off, had to buy a pipe freezing kit to help replace the stopcock. Pipe freezing kit promised 45 minutes of hold, lasted ten. Result: More high-pressure hilarity, and I no longer have a mobile phone. Here’s a learning I made: unlike the many hundreds of women I have slept with, mobile phones don’t like to get wet. Now I have to buy a new one.
Several disasters, none of which I claim responsibility for. I used to enjoy doing this stuff, you know. Knowing how my house is put together, there’s a comfort in it. This shit from the last few weeks though, it’s put me off for life.
It was Jack’s first birthday, that’s why I was under pressure to get the job done. Each evening I’d get home from work then do kitchen stuff until after midnight. Up again at seven and repeat the process. Zombification.
In the end it didn’t matter. We had no sink on the day of the party, and we survived. Water’s overrated anyway. You become very frugal when you don’t have running water. There was a day or two of whore’s bathing going on in our house – we went through some amount of Johnson’s baby wipes.
Jack’s birthday meant family visiting, which butted up against Linzi’s friends from Ireland visiting, and today her sister arrived up, because she’s looking after the kids for us when we go back to Ireland on Thursday for this wedding. You can see now why the blogging side of things has been a bit slack lately.
After we get back from Ireland, we have another wedding, followed by a christening, before the end of August. You’d swear we had a social life, the way we’ve been carrying on lately. I can’t wait for it all to be over. All this shite is only about half of it, but I’ll only want to hang myself if I go over everything. The main thing is, Linzi and I are still friends in spite of all the muck that we’ve churned up over the last month. Better still, we’re friends who have sex with each other, which is good news for me, and even better news for her.
I’ve been swimming too. I’m up to 30 lengths now. Not bad considering that a month ago it took me half an hour to swim six lengths and I was the closest to death I’ve been since ‘Nam. (Not that ‘Nam. I’m talking about Cornamona, that time with my dad and the fishing rod and the grease. It’s a long story, but you’ve probably already read about it in the papers.) I’m still shit though. If you can imagine tying Stephen Hawking to Christy Brown‘s left leg with a stout length of rope, then firing them both into a pool and saying off with ye lads, a pint if ye can make it to the other side, that’s the kind of flailing you get from me most days.
This wedding next Saturday: did I mention that I’m best man? Well listen: I’m best man at this wedding next Saturday. 300 guests or something mental like that. I’ve never done anything on this scale before, so I’m kind of shitting it. No – I’m fucking petrified. I haven’t even started on the speech (see above, no explanation required), and it’s only now that you’ve read this far that you realise I had an ulterior motive for updating the blog: I need help.
Give me your humour, people. I need to be hilarious without being offensive, risqué without being crude. I sometimes struggle with subtlety, as you’ll know just by reading this. You cunt.
Seriously, any wise words, good lines, or advice of any sort as I hurriedly prepare this speech would be an absolute godsend.
In other news, thank you all for your “what the fuck are you up to?” emails, and I apologise for not replying individually, but…you know. All that stuff. Some of you got Facebook stuff from me too – no, I haven’t abandoned blogging in favour of it, I just had a fit of adding shit to it, like I did with Bebo a few months back. I’ve been on Facebook since Christ was a cub scout, but I never did anything with my profile. Over the last couple of months, a few people asked me to be their friends, so I had a fit of activity the other night and put a bit on my profile. Nowt sinister, like. Sin é. It’s always there if I need it, but I won’t be making much more use of it at the moment, I don’t think.
Like the theoretical person (who is not me) from yesterday’s post, today I must forego blogging in favour of catching up with some work. However, I refer you to a new bit of the site, which has a little something for everyone*. It’s just a pity that that little something happens to be a pint glass full of horse-spunk and dog-vomit. Anyway, if you are terribly bored, it may keep you entertained.
As for the horse-spunk and dog-vomit, you don’t have to drink it until it settles.
*except humourless cunts
Last week, the day I went home from work sick, I had noodles for lunch. I tried to have noodles for lunch today, but every time I looked at them my stomach made a peculiar whining sound, like a stray cat being compressed in a vice. I took a couple of mouthfuls and retched, so strong was the taste/smell reminder. The thought of noodles is now inextricably interlinked with the memory of spraying scuttery shit all over the bathroom porcelain while simultaneous spewing my ring into an overflowing basin balanced precariously on wobbly knees.
No more noodles for me, despite their excellent value.
Occasional visitors may recall me posting a while back about being approached by a BIG COMPANY who wanted to feast on my lad. I had a shitey HR interview with them on 6th December, filled with the inane bullshit typical of HR interviews and hilariously satirised by Sweary recently, and they told me they’d get back to me in a week.
They got back to me today; six weeks’ delay isn’t bad for a HR Department, I suppose. Anyway, I’ve got a second interview with them on Monday. This one is an hour-long phone interview followed by an hour-long…thing, where they email me some documents and I have to analyse them and write a report and send it back to them. Pretty fucking odd way to assess it, but seems to be fairly standard practice, so who am I to argue?
I despise cunts who say “Thanking you”. It’s “thank you”. Why do some people insist on saying it in the present tense? It sounds as though, rather than actually thanking me, you are letting me know you are thanking me, which is good of you and all, but I could probably tell that you were thanking me if you just said “thank you” and dropped the redundant fuck”ing” suffix.
Yes, I am a petulant arsehole. A petulant arsehole with a new banner though. Not bad for MS Paint*, eh?
Non-sequitor is the order of the day around here lately. I hope I’m not turning into Knudsen, the crazy old fucker. Anyway, I’d promise something coherent in the near future, but it seems unlikely, so you’ll just have to put up with me.
*well, everything was MS Pain except the blue-ifying filter, which was done using magic and a spoon.